Spielberg's A.I. is also an allegorical indictment of liberalism, whether the limpid blockbuster director intended it as such, or not. The denouement of the film was a failure, and Haley Joel Osment's rise as a child star marked my own denouement as a movie viewer on the traditional big screen, as The Sixth Sense and A.I. bookend the last gasp of any positive outlook I attempted to cling to as I entered my fortieth decade. I had previously bookmarked the film in my head as one relevant for my purposes, but it is on my local UHL this afternoon, as it happens, so I might as well refresh myself on the poignancy of human loss which Spielberg highlights, even as humanity faces cessation.
I decided to put in my adoption papers for kimmy, after a lengthy and weary self-argument; in the balance, my despair juxtaposed against economic rationalism. I fear not keeping pets more than my need to reduce expenses, whether or not this means I have purchased my social ostracization as valid because I am, ipso facto, unbalanced; it is more and less than this, however, in that I have losses too, and my only real defense against this, is Jerry's old maxim, via Heidegger, to "focus on the things themselves," and so now I will study Joan of Arc. I used this poor woman of Lorraine as a faulty symbol in my quite desperate poem I wrote about Linda and the ideology, called "My Patron Saint".
(I understood why I wrote the poem; it was a desperate lunge against my impending financial ruin, and in the back of my mind, even then, my subconscious was warning me that I trusted this former supervisor at my peril. I should have never shown her my work, ever, among other things).
I toy with the idea of revising it, savagely. Right now I need coffee, and breakfast.
No comments:
Post a Comment