Sydney Aiello, in her moderately glamourized obituary photo, (possibly for a
yearbook?) looks like a Jane Austin heroine, or at the very least one of the
heroine’s relations, waiting in the wings to teach us lessons about wise
marital choices, but cultivated garden flowers, such as azaleas, are fragile
things, clichés that stick to the wall, in the mouth of the Canadian actor who
played Ellen Muth’s father in Dead Like
Me. One of my favorite scenes from Fuller’s playful spin on afterlife
culture is when this father in the Waffle House reminiscences about his baby
girl, unaware that his recital was to his daughter’s vessel. Tender televised
parenting ready and waiting for the emotionally starved. Perhaps the
emotionally sheltered aren’t so fortunate after all, as the dowager trampled on
the shellac of social media’s eulogy for Sydney.
And I am a former mental health advocate who worked for Irv Rutnan at the Matrix Institute he founded and know the difference between a feral homeless man with fungus on his balls and families who coddle their children.— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) March 23, 2019
It fosters a pervasive
lassitude, an impediment to good moral character, to accept and discuss these
suicides, and then dissect them in a therapeutic valise, flashing suicide
hotline numbers. Yes, I called one of these hotlines shortly before the Jazzy
model I could use to maintain myself would fail, because I knew voltage
homelessness was perhaps true despair once removed. The crisis counselor disconnected.
I wasn’t a crisis, and now? I am aging too rapidly to do more than literally
refuse treatment due to pulmonary obstruction, but may still rebel, fire JEVS,
and run as far as I can. Another flight, impulsive, to unknown destinations, mucous
oozing regardless.
I deserve
better than to inflict that kind of painful liberty on myself, but I also deserve
to be understood when indicators point to defeat. I cannot really work while my
care giver is on the clock, the little jamboree man. He tires me, his
television fatiguing. I do not watch Phil McGraw or The Talk, or daytime news.
I can tell him this, send him off, but the man changes my underwear. He isn’t
white, I don’t really like him, resigned as I’m becoming, but if I enforce my
preferred coolness, I’m not sure if I’d hasten the inevitable, and this is my
reward, after all I’ve lived through, masticating cluster suicides and mourning
sentimentality, go with the angels.
As I write this, a second Parkland survivor has rippled the contagion outward,
following on the heels of Obama’s economic advisor, a 29 year old cyclist, an
Olympian in his early 30’s, and I believe a recording artist, or YouTube
performer. All suicides. I spent a short time scrolling, trying to find the
obituaries which have riled the ides of March, in order to illustrate my
currency, but we’ll allow that to simmer. There are traumatic events which
create a life long tunnel vision:
1.
Incest
2.
Perforation
3.
Rape
4.
Attempted Murder
5.
Abduction
6.
Birth Defect
7.
Mass Murder
Seven, just like Fincher’s Clinton era morality
play, Se7ven, with Kevin Spacey’s role as “Doe” cleverly uncredited. Arguably,
Spacey was up and coming as of yet in terms of bankability in 1995, but in
light of the serial pattern of allegations
against him, his sadistically inclined inquisitor no longer seems so
subversive and sardonic against Pitt and Freeman. One sits and ponders whether
his literal symbolic creation of “Sloth” is even humanly possible. It certainly
passes any boundary in the dowager’s imagination. The care giver, home now,
tired, and still sorting out his automotive woes (few blacks do things the
white way) says Spacey doesn’t matter. Michael Jackson does. Reverse the
parameters within your intellect. Michael Jackson did change the music
industry, another jamboree man, but for the worse. Motown had to present those high
falsetto voices that way, doing far more than the civil rights act to break
down barriers; all Michael and his handlers did was synthesize more challenging
black musical genres into an edible Hollandaise dressing. Spacey achieved more
artistically. I am a little in love with him. Angry about it, but he had the
ability to bring my emotional investment where he was taking me, with those wry
enigmatic expressions suggesting we knew whichever side his character was on,
only to finally have it revealed he was a psychotic faggot. Does it take one to
know one? His spasmatic gestures catered easily to the conviction that here we
had one of our own. Sydney was young enough to be worth fighting for, young
enough that her mother should have involuntarily committed her, strapping her
wrists much as it is done in Prince of
Tides. Nolte and Streisand (now Jackson’s legacy advocate) become lovers as
a consolation against unbearable secrets we all bury to be unearthed, even if
we know this was also her need for validation. She has to be seen as beautiful,
defending Michael because she remembers the power of Billboard. Given her
recent statements, she knows the same things with which I’d serenade you
through the hardships of endurance. The generations behind us, pressing our
bones, have grown too soft. I always thought we were better than lemmings,
progressing right off a cliff.
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