A Glimpse Through the Window

"You are not evil!"
--Erik von Schmetterling, six weeks ago when I told him I'd purchase his cigarette brand for the sake of old times...

I should be in bed, as my symptoms possibly invoke wariness, suppositions about typhoid fever; instead, I swallowed a small bowl of paneer, hoping to keep it in, and sent my latest sallow memoir of dead fat bipolar mother out dancing on the ether, a twirling plate on a stick, whoosh, off to a contest of a publication which never impressed me. When I reflect on Marcel, and assert that I am darker than you know, I am not merely hinting at my mafia in Hollywood bloodlust toward the Philadelphia activists of whom you are weary of reading any more about, I mean as well that I have secrets of the type that cost Henry Miller some blood and guts. I am not quite quite willing to be so embarrassed in a blogger account as Miller is in his writing, but as I physically weaken I risk greater severity of my triggers, and must head toward my mattress, nodding off, drinking Pepto; whether with this post lengthened later, or a new one to leap the frog, we will trot on hopefully not in so many hours between then and now. My hungriest wish, if not my greatest, is to get laid by a man like Jeremy Irons, just once, dosing myself with necessary pain killers. Why couldn't I have been more attractive, less plagued by mammary cysts?

It is Jeremy's appearance on Tavis Smiley that I want to enter into, but damn illness snuffed out the appreciation. One is drawn to the man's intelligence, not just the physique. At the moment I need to discover whether or not I can absorb nutrition.

I have bran in there, rumbling as I revise, so hoorah; lets elision back. To listen to Jeremy speak is to learn anew how status can command silence, but I heard a subtext within the promotional chatter for his latest appearance on screen, this review of which does not deter curiosity. I heard, juxtaposed against the grounding that Tavis seems to fluster in, a certain lack of sincerity. Not that Irons was lying. Perhaps at this stage of his life, maybe plagued by ennui, wondering if he should have done something else, been an entrepreneur; there was also the usual plaint of the famous about fame itself, though I think the disadvantaged would trade on this curse in an instant, and not simply on the merits of affluence. Status confers privilege, and an indirect if not actual power. All those with name recognition should be more mindful of this, even if they would like us to understand the flip side of the coin. I may never fully cement my reputation, for instance, but if I surprise myself and wind up in a dilemma similar to Rowling, notoriety would be the least of my worries, regardless of my audience.

Dead Ringers bowed me over with indelible impressions as a Reagan era hit, part of the reason I have remained fixated on Irons in his season, but only part. Now back to the conclusion of The Ring Cycle, after which, I shall swear off opera viewing on a flat screen for the rest of my life. The sensationalism on which the Met banks smells like twilight to me.