I
can barely remember H.G. Wells’ The
Invisible Man. Read long ago as a teen not so specious then as to transpose
it with Ellison’s Invisible Man, yet
specious enough now to tell you they interlock, the concrete superficial
suspense tale the film industry cannot resist revising on a continuous basis,
and the powerful novel by Ellison which abrogates racial identity. A recent
rendition written by Henderson attempts to elevate Wells’ science fiction with
some of Ellison’s stark eloquence of erasure, perhaps asking us to reconsider
scientific endeavor and zealous overkill. Henderson manages canonical faith to
the original character in his upgrade, giving Griffith a dead son whom the
doomed scientist believes was butchered by a former student, and we are given
Griffith’s flashback of what he believes occurred with only circumstantial
evidence, as he drinks his formula, acquires Hodgkin’s disease, descends into
madness. I am not sure why the remake was made, as I respect my stepmother’s
caretaker enough to tell her Louise may have purchased her last medical drama,
curious thing, social media. I liked this woman when she disposed of my filthy
mattress, and Facebook has given me hints about her emotional instability. I
like her less, and way way back in archives, before Google dangled a suspension
threat, I drew more than 30 page views in my matter of fact caustic bite. If she
dies things will change. Social intelligence gawked at the circumspect
nature of my developmental mindset. The caretaker doesn’t realize there is
little love lost between me and Louise, with her deadly rheumatoid arthritis
and her caustic mouth, complaining to me about my father’s impotence,
stigmatizing my brother, saying I should be put away. Her son’s willingness to
slash her tires, while an intimidating expression of rage, is an act I
comprehend, but what pisses me off is my father subsumes his life like a dog
for a sick and florid catty woman, always unpleasant and miserable, who should
have been allowed to die three years ago, at least, while I hang like a chad, a
consequence of my own obstinance. I did this to me, moving to bad neighborhoods
in a sterile city, and now my mother’s nursing school colleague sleeps in hospice,
younger sister and I in a truce of purveyed necessities, making a pun only I
understand from one of Jerry’s workshop pieces. Think plague. Stephanie and I
worry about Dad, the toll on poppa, poor poppa, and I have maybe a day or so
left with the Muslim who is wiping my ass. How can I empathize Ellison and
label myself his antithesis? A racist is as much reduced as those she stereotypes.
You can all go fuck yourselves, because I am still well enough to live instead
of urinating Depends, weary of the eschatology dynamic. Yes, death is a part of
life, unless you’re a ghoul like Peter Thiel, pulverizing Nick Denton, British
nigger lover who’d remove my malicious rhetoric.
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