Search prevents the least among us from being the dunce in our virtual public spaces, and as such, after Meloni left SVU, whatever his brash liberalism amounts to in social media, the overly long running spin off seemed to become a hollow allegory of itself. Followed so intermittently, Noah’s appearance was a disconcerting element, even if it was designed to give Mariska Hargitay a counterbalance; it is not that outlandish that a daughter of an alcoholic rape victim adopts the son of a pimp, but the series no longer works. It has a hollow knell to it with so much of its core ensemble now absent from the set, and the writers seem to acknowledge this with the season opener. Olivia Benson is slipping once again, but unless there were hints from last season that the equally over stressed dowager missed, the child abuse allegation is just this short of ludicrous, straining credulity, like Gary Webb's suicide after his CIA story collapsed under scrutiny. She became distracted, the child ran into the street, and the inexorable grind of the state against the individual begins again, as with OJ, or the Angleton murder and gambling scene in Houston’s upper crust.
While
under no circumstances is the brutal killing of Mrs. Angleton anything worth
condoning, her surviving spouse kept beating the system, and no government
allows that, none, whether by purportedly unbiased legal processes or not. We’re
all at the mercy of mass tolerance, whether Zuckerberg’s or Jack’s, not that
either of these uber liberals are involved in day to day postings. I’m rapidly
wearying, even if I understand why my long term writing associates utilize
Facebook as they do, just as I keep blogging with dismal skepticism, in varying
shade overs to cynicism. I have overkilled with tweets, so I am not one to
judge the frequency with which my few Facebook connections describe too much
too often, but if Gretchen had posted about her medical travail with fibromyalgia
ten years ago, or five, I might have taken heart, and persevered. I replied to
her weariness with her pain in more detail than some of her relatives, and my
muted positives on her behalf were genuine. She married well, to all
appearances has produced happy children with a loving husband, but I am about
ready to roll out the door of Riverside Presbyterian, despite the tally of what
justice, in its pithy abstraction, owes me, despite the condition of my power
chair, despite the chasm that will open before me, I am probably going to run,
abandoning very nearly everything, even my contributor copies reorganized in
the nexus of Karina’s well meaning disruption to my order. Then I’ll be off the
radar, soiling myself in the next county. Presbyterian Homes is doing
everything in its power to force my compliance with Philadelphia’s welfare
system, or set me up for a forced intake to a wheelchair community like Inglis
House, and I am not going to allow it. It is that simple.
Unlike
Webb, my professional reputation wasn’t destroyed through the pressure of
overreach, just bad luck, and my willingness to be scathing, ruining the rudiments
of my small crescent of bylines. I can’t take the bullshit that goes on in
public housing anymore, and if I cannot take the ignorant vindictiveness of
urban poverty with its relentless cruelty destroying my spirit, how much less
the relentless human offal of a home for cripples, merciless, huge, the stench
of disease permeating its halls. Regardless of my sympathies for a fiery, hard
Roman Catholic faith, there is absolutely no dignity in this existence of such
vulnerability, and I’ll need a week or so, but I either leave, or fight my way
into a convulsive conflict with African Americans and hypocritical white Protestants
whom I literally despise with their horrified proprieties. They are the ones
abusing me, constantly breaking me down, and it’s just more of the same. If
Olivia Benson was an actuality, there is very little probability that she could
have aged so well adjusted into her leadership role. Eighteen years is it? Her
life of being assaulted and abducted, while more dramatic than my mostly sordid
degradation at the hands of violence, would have never left her so well
adjusted to take over from her captain, however well intimated these slight
hints are at her newly acquired destructive armor, after a fashion. Yeah, it is
serial fiction, akin to a comic book, and audience loyalty needs lines of resilient
moral constancy, but if I am to recover anything of the woman I once was,
described as full of life, I have got to get the fuck out of here, with
virtually nothing, even my published work locked away. Nothing more than the
blood curdling my veins says I either leave or die, regardless of how Wolf has
an actress so solidly typecast put in her papers.
No comments:
Post a Comment