I have looked for other things to talk about. What, Palin? Talk about what might happen with Palin, maybe? Why she resigned, what she might do? Or the economy? All sorts of opinions about how bad things will continue to be, and what might happen? Or Honduras? Or Iran or the Uighurs? Or Michael Jackson, how he's not really dead -- it's LaToya who died, and Michael has taken her place, finally realizing his dream of becoming a sort of hot-skank middle aged white chick?
Yes, some of these things are important. But like the weather, there's nothing to do about them. We can't warm the globe, we can only get ourselves all hot and bothered. None of it moves me now. I am imploding, becoming my own black hole, uncommunicative with the rest of the universe save through an obscure and erratic radiation, meantime consuming substance with a sucking need, or would if I could get close enough for my gravity to catch.
I don't know what I'm waiting for. Not so much biding my time as pressing my luck. You think I'm pretty smart. Well, there's a sort of smart, here. But I have to step back and try to catch my breath, taken as it is by the profound dysfunction that disrupts my mental processes. It's why I keep coming back to how important it is to be patient with kids. Because impatience ruins them.
I looked at Michael Jackson's magnum opus, Childhood. What a pathetic freakshow. There's a soulful little white boy who's cantilevered up at the end into a magic flying boat, summoned by the hand of an older boy. What went through my head was that the little boy was in for a thorough sodomizing. It must have been the context. And anyway, I'm not much for trusting. Meantime, Jackson slumps moaning on his toadstool, trying to excuse the fact that he likes to suck on pubescent boys' weeners. Before you judge me, try hard to love me. Yeah, sure thing, Grace, but can't we do both? I mean, you molest kids. Now why the hell am I back on Jackson again.
I knew someone who wanted to enter a script into that Damon/Afleck movie contest a few years ago. Deadline next day, and he was nowhere near finished. Well, I do favors, so I took this big pile of incoherent unrelated scenes and literally cut and pasted them together, rewrites, transitions, replotting, all overnight. Truly, truly horrible. A sort of scifi virtual reality computer program out of control thing. It wasn't good, but it was finished. It ended in the virtual world with the bad guy being tortured eternally by a dragon while the heroes flew merrily about in gay abandon in the rainbow skies above. I looked at this fellow, and it was like an insight into madness -- this is what he thought was a happy, satisfying, appropriate ending. It was a frisson of creepiness.
Yes, Hell is a good thing, and we are satisfied when movie villains end up there. But normal people recognize the profound solemnity and tragedy of it. They don't flit about in the playground of the sky.
I looked at the comments posted on Jackson's Childhood vid. To say emotional is needless. Likewise, illiterate. But I was tempted to leave my own comment, along the lines of what I've said here, dripping my own dragon's venom, albeit truthful, over the corpse. Of course I didn't. Let them have their place, a safe place, a community of fellow-feeling, where their delusions and poor judgment may find expression. Their idolization of a pitiful spiritual dwarf is bewildering, but it's harmless, mostly. "We love you Michael." "Bulgarians for Michael's innocence!" The Roman Empire was riven by the factions of the Blue and the Green -- chariot teams. Riots, gangs, assassinations, mass murders. A little irrationality over Michael is understandable.
Ah well. Here's the point. I'm reluctant to let anyone know I love them, because it's a commitment, not just a feeling, a temporary feeling. I see it as almost the same thing as friendship. And family, the theory of family. I know I must be wrong, and there are degrees and distinctions. It's not all just one jumble of commitments. But on the other hand, what is love, but the taking of someone into your heart? Can you cut out a piece of your heart? Avoiding foolish surgical quibbles, no.
What, you didn't see that coming? You didn't think what went before led up to that point, of love? You must have opened this book to the end. Love, and its cost, and its absence, and its need. If there's any other point, let me know. I'd consider it a release.
J
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