Nobody's Visible Legend

Is it too much to infer that the blind man Tommy Lee Jones and his captive come across before crossing into Mexico, in the 2005 The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, is emblematic of a Tiresias-like prophet, with all the turbulence of Grecian tragedy? Jones is not much for southern comfort in his later films; Estrada is no exception, and its opening structure has a satisfying sense of ridicule about man’s capacity for destruction with the 19^th century technology of projectile weapons. Shooting wild dogs like coyotes, whether for legitimate purposes or simple sport, has unintended consequences, unraveling puzzles for quixotic figures like Penkins to piece together in his stark landscapes, one in which challenging questions about identity and marginalization are posed, since Estrada himself has very little identity, other than a dream of paradise, and his bond with his buddy, whose subsequent tunnel vision might be driven by guilt, just as Norton’s reactionary bile is driven by fear, and whether or not as the antagonist, this border agent truly sees the humanity of the “chicano” by the close of the film, I’d argue this is open ended, despite guilt shredding his psyche to pieces. Unlike the dowager, Jones is a morally decent conservative, one who posits a true form of liberality. It is admirable, and partly why we might stand against the border wall with Mexico.

Who ever made this meme is as whimsical & inspirational as the old Dr. himself. pic.twitter.com/xWi2c0Z0tv

— Deplorable Eva (@EvaSofii) September 30, 2017

But this 13 year old vehicle is an unforgiving parable. No figure like Clint Eastwood’s trainer stands ready to take the consequences upon himself to alleviate the suffering of a sterile, ailing life. The old man apparently forgives Penkins, since he lies to the posse of agents on the trail of our rather dubious hero. Penkins achieves resolution, but what he took to get there has a gut wincing cost. Although we can assume that a dummy model was used for the dun pack horse which bucks itself over the escarpment, that was some significantly brutal ecological footage, nearly equivalent to the courage of Melissa Leo’s branded, mildly rancid nakedness. Yet Texan mendacity is still entrancing.

Darren Wilson. Am I?

Hand a baby a grenade and sit riveted by Hollywood's version of Western liberalism meets the Khmer Rouge in the guise of Jolie's sculpted cheek bones in her mission statement with Clive Owen in Beyond Borders, in his giddy up version of egalitarian rage. A saga juxtaposed over the truth doesn't get us any closer to the facts about cellular organisms, because humans exposed to continuous devaluation of our lives grow hard. Even on small scale variations, numbness sets in. Not so much that we disbelieve the NIH, but anyone with a decent education can research viruses, feel uneasy about how closely they mirror independent and autonomous cell structures: Philadelphia has a significant West African contingent. Children with asthma are being stricken by a new endo virus more deadly than a cold. This may not be proverbial writing on the wall, but it might be a gross glob of snot such that inspired Balzac to write his Faustian tale about a man granted all his wishes by an ancient cloth, which, as it shrinks, damns his soul with it, and from there we start writing,  perhaps not on a wall, perhaps on our myriad pixels and code, reconsidering the solicitude we place in technology and lab cultures. Closing off the West African border may not be a very good idea. Ebola doesn't need a border.

A non academic member of the James list was confused about my private reasons for my departure from my longest, if sometimes, fractious e-list association. What did my virtual abandon of a younger woman with osteogenesis imperfecta have to do with the Jamesians? Valid question, one which I did not answer succinctly. Louise lurked on the list. I coaxed her out of her shell and then bucked, as I've written in other posts. I did not buck hard, did not engage in a tirade, but none the less, I bucked and it was a selfish act, aside from the fact, as I iterated a day or so ago, that the community is, by and large, no longer serving my hope of independent scholarship while I am busy digging my grave in the best of the projects. Certain things stay with you though. Baby pulling the pin of a grenade. The Borg are humane by virtue of comparison. Perhaps I am over-dramatizing. The managers of Riverside, the managers of Diamond Park, have been threatening me with dire consequences for 28 years. The difference, within the past year, is that I've threatened them, in writing, the baby with the grenade, liquefying my own internal organs. They call this the white butterfly in triage.