I
am not trying to convey that my fervent appreciation of Elton’s discography was
exceptional. The little big man gave The Who a run for their money, stayed
relevant on the charts longer than he should have, his beats increasingly
trivial by the time I stopped buying his albums, I simply reflect back, and
remain uncertain. Taupin’s lyricism either kept me alive or nourished the root
of my latter day scathing cynicism, merging my moody to his narcissistic,
allegorical depth: tracks like “Meal Ticket,” after all, display a libertarian
send up of the welfare state. It seems to illuminate upon my fundamental flaw,
diving into this British rock melancholia on the basis of a grade school
special education teacher’s recommendation. Neil Montgomery, my first puppy
love, exceedingly masculine to a thirteen year old’s burgeoning sex drive. Much
taken with “Bennie and the Jets,” and responsible for my slavering purchase of
every album Elton ever recorded, this over adhesion remains a cautionary tale,
Neil soon vaporized by other longings, never actualized. He probably grew
florid in old age, reflective blue eyes, wavy brown hair, mustache. He taught
me hockey, and it remains my favorite sport, never enough opportunity to view
and follow the teams, not since Clarke’s Broad Street Bullies. This was the
year they brought the Stanley Cup to the ward, and the dowager then in
pigtails, got to touch the iconic trophy as compensation for orthopedic
butchery soon to follow.
Was
the masochism always there, or ingrained? Analysis cannot always cure the
wounds of destructive implosion. If I felt threatened by my former program
manager Linda Dezenski, my backlash, the cruelty of the vitriol I heaped on her
afterwards was a form of self-cutting without physically engaging in the activity.
Ditto the journey through the attendant care abuse. In spite of this, a lesbian
indulgence would never be satisfactory. Attendant care itself assures me on
this point, as the close physical contact with the Africans, however necessary,
is undesirable, in the seven years winding its way through this account, toward
the collapse of my machines and ensuing frailty, I lived in those elusive
ballads. How is “Ticking” a lazy predicate for the spree shootings which flair
up and recede straight through 2018? It blames Catholicism through flashback
refrains for a mass murderer Bernie probably dredged up through Fleet Street. I
did the same thing as a poet, while remaining not so sanguine about causal
links between theology and violence. I drowned myself in this, music meant for
LSD users of its age, and what did I purchase with all these intense investments?? Nothing but the folly of alienating myself further, condemned to a
life of mostly brutal micro-management, while celebrity glides on double
standards. A recording artist sues his manager, confesses to being strung out
on drugs, like a prodigal son, while run of the mill opioid users constitutes a
crisis. In the transition from actively living towards actively dying, (conservatives, while not wrong in relation to sanctity, seem to forget the hardship which goes in tandem with birth diagnosis) this
woman is not having the easiest of times, but she’ll be glad to go. I am glad for destructors like Cruz, whatever neuroscience does to them. I'm glad, and there will be impaired individuals clever enough, in the future, to strike, evade capture, for the sake of what you do to us, what you do to teach us to pulverize each other.
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