Ashes in The Sandbox

Vive ru Mort-- graffiti in French Connection 2

Operating on less than six hours of sleep in 48 hours, I sat and watched Gene Hackman's excruciating struggle against drug addiction in his second attempt to bring down Charnier, realizing it's virtually impossible to make films like this anymore, so stark, so complex to unravel, so willing to pit doomed moral principles against cesspools of liberal relativism, never imagining I'd live to see Ireland defying the Catholic Church over abortions on demand, wondering why something so hedonistic as Vampira made me ponder the parasitic elements of vampire lore, in its over-used persistence exploring the transformed human into an innate predator driven to tear flesh and blood. David Slade's 30 Days of Night more aligned to my preferences than canonical variations with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, not that I did not appreciate the revival attempt, putting this all together, we cannot seem to dismantle how we're out-pacing ourselves. My not quite boyfriend paraprofessional may not have noticed the stony numb hatred in my face when I allowed him to sling me into the hoya lift, valiantly repressing my desire to dehumanize him, this African American who puckers his lips like a failed little boy looking for mamma's approval. It ignites my tenderness, and yet I still reduce him, myself, in scurrilous depreciation. Why don't I write it then? I've written it often enough, maybe because I keep hitting the same keynotes, I am afraid, agonized beyond my ability to endure what I am suffering, what I swore never to allow, what I've seen happen to residents here afflicted with cerebral palsy over and over again, for the sake of the fact I am willing to love this loony jamboree fellow, I have become Kafka's metamorphosis, even on the verge of kicking the logs out from under it. And if I kick the logs out, then I must not love him very much, confident if I ceased being his paycheck I'd never see him again, let alone fuck him to death. That phrase is an important concession in our increasingly binding symbiosis. Everything I've despised and fought, my entire 34 years battling and losing in the city of Philadelphia, for him I am a spider bound in a sling, to make his work keeping me here less of an effort, almost ready to terminate every other socialized medical effort around him, the Visiting Nurses Association, Residential Health Services, leeches, blood sucking leeches, while I keep this account active rather than prioritize reassembly of my published work, learn Duotrope, desperately lunge back in as a journalist. My exhaustion is not from any of this. I merely forced myself to stay in the tilt chair, and failed, to await the equipment delivery, texting my equally suffering, steadfast cousin. I need her. My venting was merely she cannot see what she has, and even if one day we transcend his current stability, and become real partners, all Galahad represents is the defiance of desire in the face of death, but unlike Frank, I care about this bumbling lion roaring at me with his nonsense to keep my spirits up, care about him more than any other attendant, as he sucks the fucking life out of me, wearing himself down, unable to afford to do otherwise. Like Josh Hartnett, I will absorb enough of this poverty octopus to burn to ash with the dawn, having slain the virus, its fermenting pestilence, ignoring the pain in my chest. My physiology won't sustain this much longer. Prepare, therefore. Like the morning sun.