Cumulus Babylon

"Now I know, that rose trees never grow in New York City."-- Elton John

And now, of a sudden, I’ve found my way back into Captain Fantastic, the greatest English speaking musical album of all the world, which might not have come into existence if the dowager had been the enforcer of Britain’s anti-homosexual laws. They would have had been enforced. Reginald Dwight might have received an ad hoc rupture of the Vas Deferens from the testicles in the necessary imperial need for order, not that this would have cured where his desires led, nor it is as false a dichotomy as you might believe, in my willingness not to fear locking horns over decency and the progressive expansion of artistic force. American rock was a relatively innocent flirtation riding on Elvis Presley’s corn fed hips before the British invasion occurred. The foment of my youth, however, can no longer rise to the sheer delphinic epiphany of “Curtains,” and lesbians in Lancaster, those whom I used to know, might be in danger of my ire in less than a hyperbolic fashion if their circumference shrinks to within striking distance. Last week, a brief wildfire erupted, but even then I knew, as old a conflict as Mann’s Death In Venice, an ironic, if well studied choice, that one cannot defy biology, unless, as in The Ambassadors, where queer genius is obfuscated into the concealed repression of an illicit, if straight, extramarital affair, or The Tempest, which is Shakespeare’s mastery proclaiming the aged wisdom to be paramount, that mature partnerships can only reinvigorate up to a point.

This is not to say conservative reactionaries do not have needs. We’re not monks, but my New Mobility feature, in 04, exposed and attacked this very thicket within attendant care, in which I am now both, conquered by, then turned conqueror of, a sexual attraction inside of it, depending on how I wish to interpret the matter, resolved to turn off the tap as I was, truly believing he was being kind out of pity. He today assures me this isn’t the case, and the lioness in my gonads has stopped lashing about like a wildcat, and remains merely alert in her den, observant, tender, and yes, mildly happy, but it doesn’t change me, nor the way I might see the possible fruition in a father's eyes. 

If I want to go deeper into Elton’s supremacy, however—for me, a specialized supremacy—meaning he is the best among British talents of my era, I will only go deep enough to say that his gifts wouldn’t exist had his homosexuality been accepted as a mainstream biological imperative, as opposed to tolerated, in the late 60’s, and I in turn wouldn’t have been corrupted by his preeminent subversiveness, joined to Taupin’s scathing lyrical narratives. “Alice,” from Yellow Brick Road, still pierces with hypocritical poignancy when it comes to sexual secrets, but that doesn’t mean Bernie’s progressive sympathies have been victorious, nor that I’m the bad guy. I know we can’t put the genie back in the bottle, but there are limits, even things Shawn and I couldn’t share down the road. We’ve already lived a half century in different worlds. My mention of Loving made no dent in our conversations, and since I'm barren, I would not be able to wed, should it come to that, in my faith, but I have to look into that.

2.1a Babylon

Having defended Manchester by the Sea from prosecutorial castigation such as those pontificated by DA Joseph McBride, I admittedly come close to doing the same thing to Bernie Taupin, Elton's master mechanic, and I am dissatisfied with myself, but in the essential elements, Bernie's flirtation with violence and homo-erotica during  jowly Reginald's peak output, in my amateur connoisseur mode, let's say that's from 72 to 81, as after that Elton falls into diluted self-imitation, lends itself to the extremes of punk, heavy metal, and hip hop, genres into which the dowager rarely treads, and so yes, I am posing a scenario where my hypothetical authority to restrain or even prevent Elton's lifestyle merits the loss of great emotive artistry to prevent this, among other things, and that I actually don't find irrelevant. Reginald's most powerful output may, emphasis on may, have prevented spastic from ending her life as a distraught disabled teenager, but he also fueled my rage, cynicism, and nearly superlative need for heroic passion. The only reason I wasn't a zealot stalking him concert to concert came down to poverty and the regimented life of rehabilitation. The industry now lays laurels at his feet, papering over the price he paid through drugs and a high risk lifestyle, but does it always have to be this way, in order to grasp the brass ring, to paraphrase Eastwood? Why should libertarian acceptance of self-destructive behavior merit concern over such admittedly moral issues?

General's Patience

"I like girls too."-- Elton John with Kiki Dee appeasing heterosexual conventions when he was a seventies concern

I was once a fanatic for the work of Elton John, and yet, for all that, could never get close, five minutes away from speaking to Taupin on live radio, the producer had a leg crossing discomfort with my question, would not let me through, and then I heard it reiterated in the disc jockey's interview. Fans let things like that go. I've come to regret it, the fanaticism, touched on it previously, and could not follow the seasoned artist's twitter account. The scathing subversive underbite of Elton at his best warped the way I looked at the world, and I had an infantile dismay with his sexuality. Exactly why mystifies me, amid his dichromatic flamboyance, more fascination with it than attraction to it, his weakness was maudlin pathos.

Billy Senese cannot be accused of maudlin pathos. Closer To God alludes and alludes, and yet it is a very crisp film, and rather realistic, however unfortunate this is for the genome project. The tracks of a shrieking baby stay with you. The true climax of the film pierced, and it pierced despite the fact that it was gaming the viewer with Larry Cohen's monster baby. Right before the close of the story, Victor's original child, not meant to survive, goes on a rampage. Jeremy Childs croons to it, Baby Ethan, to lure it in out of necessity, and then Ethan runs to the doctor. flinging his arms around the waist of creator father. The shrieking stops, consolation mitigates its suffering, momentarily, only to be betrayed by a lethal injection, the shrieking starts again, desperate with pain, crescendos into a collapse, overpowered by the chemical overdose. Remove the camp, as Senese does, and discover that a horrified sensibility doesn't know quite which way to turn. The script is not perfectly derivative, but Senese has courage in his daring use of pressure points. I don't envision the science of cloning as a midnight scenario, messy and clinical in parts, as alarming as some transhuman issues. The minute Dolly became cost effective, the fate of manipulating our own bodies was sealed. The only reason a human clone hasn't been done, or revealed, is because geneticists aren't keen on being assassinated, but it is also biologically regressive, like homosexuality itself. Cloning is an inefficient and less viable method of replication. Sexual reproduction was the advance, enabling evolution in its diversity and success: leave it to apes to get excited about stimulating an ovum into carbon copies.

Despite the camp, and its lack of a surgical impricator, the trailer for It's Alive frightened me. I've never been able to shake it off, like one of Warfield's impossible layouts. Patience is not an easy solitaire, but General's Patience is a brain atrocity, a pattern so rigid it's nearly impossible to break. I'd suggest, if you enjoy computer cards, hacking your download to cheat it. You'll live longer.

Raking The Blues

I was going to go to bed early, but recalled I wanted to write before about my history with Elton's work, maybe I'll hold out an hour, as this is something I can start afresh, conflicted as I was about him at thirteen. I know you turn away, but yes, I am very depressed. Everyone has their lives managed, at some point, but I am being closed in too early in my life, only as weak as I am due to bad tools, and everything has failed, from my purse strings to medical rationing, and if I take my life, facile process pushers win, just as they will if I vegetate in a nursing home. All I hoped for was self-sufficiency, some pride in that, and the right man to compensate for those whom I longed, and I let myself be shuttle cocked by a black woman I treated in a friendly manner into 202 housing. I hate you Terri, if you're still out there.

You got out, but Presby treats me like an alien species, and my family puts it on me. I wonder. Many people like you leave these bullshit positions, where a woman named Trudy now lactates at her desk, but I wonder how much guilt, how much corruption you were exposed to, led to to scuttle into Blue Cross.

Hoya Lift Suspension

"Even though we ain't got money," -- a lyric from my era

New Zealand is a strange idyll, for my two cents, although character tests aren't that far removed from meeting the  financial requirements for condominium ownership; the island's exotic sensibility manifests readily in the disappointing genesis story Z for Zachariah. I see what Seitz sees and raise no objection. The pristine cleanliness of both characters and scenery was less troubling than the consequences of Margot Robbie's choice leading to dramatic abruptness. The conclusion lands with an unsatisfactory thud, though private property is still a relevant concern. It is the girl's house, her chapel, her boredom in such a pastoral landscape, while I've been growling like a rabid animal in leg irons since Gretchen and Robert and I were first introduced in Speakeasy. The nurse, whom I shall not identify, said the wrong thing, and I threw a tantrum, with only the child-like Muslim urging me to stay strong; to my mindset, this means telling these socialist bitches to get the fuck out of my life. I can, and I may, if my death dance with Mike leads to a modification I can live with for a year. Yes. A year, which certain segments of the wheelchair community comprehend, a year for a chair I did not pursue strongly enough in 2014, though it may have been 2016, as I did not have issues with the Jazzy until a year after the P-200 expired, and the payment being exacted now is too much. No good choices, only bad to worse, with all those around me drowning in debt, urging me to go join the parade tomorrow, but like Jerry of long ago lecturing on his own triggers, if I was overwhelmed by the only super faggot I over obsessed (not the only semi-exiled fan), how much more so for a Super Bowl parade of an estimated two million. I'm only a casual observer, subsumed by a welfare state which is now punishing me.

Pleurisy Lamps

darkness darkness, be my friend

Your favorite dowager never cared much for the British invasion, outside of Elton. I still love the music and lyrics of the pianist and Taupin. That cannot be excised. And I personally believe that Captain Fantastic is a masterpiece equal to any other musical genre, but regrettably, I have to close the valve on EJ's seductive fluidity. It is not so much the politics of culture wars. I knew the entertainer was homosexual when I was 13, on the ward, clinging to my sole pop idol. Today, at 54, I'm psychologically too brittle for the pathos of the duo's best work: "I used to know this old scarecrow," as an obese New Yorker I hung with, intermittently, remarked, is a ballad to determine movement toward cessation as well as catharsis. I can no longer let myself go, for the chords or the falsetto the geek "can no longer do." And I have to keep my distance not to get abusive with old faggy. Just the way it is. But The Stones? People who idolize Mick and Keith are sorry, shriveled souls. Scorsese and I would grimace at each other across our egos, if I had access to  him. We'd quarrel, Martin and I, which I acknowledge is idiosyncratic, given the shared heritage. He is a great artist, Martin, but I'd eviscerate him with pleasure. The Rolling Stones aren't even worth the effort of fending off my narcissism, my terror of losing control of my life. I took a NSAID, to clear some hay fever, and feel easier, avoiding my hard work despite looming deadlines. 
I will not, under any circumstances, go back to a home for cripples. I will use violence, and intense suffering, to avoid it, even if conservatives like Toomey feel that my intelligence will need to accept it, eventually, I will not, and instead force my death, whatever my sin against Catholicism in so doing. or even as a secular breach. Suicide is tough, difficult. Not even depression truly strives for it, within eroding positive love of life, but there are worse things, and institutions like Inglis House are vestiges of fascism we accept as medically necessary. However brutal. I do not truly know if such homes are legitimate forms of capitalism as Adam Smith envisioned the economic system, but it is one area where I reject it, ruthlessly. People are better off dead, whether or not they feel clinging to life under such regimented circumstances is their choice. Euthanasia can be equally as profitable, and though I mock bowl headed junkets like Brian Jones, illustrating my conservative streak against addiction's gleeful destruction, an overdose is a bright and shiny little glory against such suffering I case managed and lived as a little girl. If I have to incite a criminal act against certain cruel minorities lobbing hate crimes with impunity, so be it. I will not go back, and will die on my feet. I don't understand your bipedal rhythm, and cannot convey that lack to you: my dream persona races wind and leaves on wheels, or always looks up at her father, dead grandmother, fat slut of a mother's tortured soul. Intellectually, I get the mechanics, one foot in front of the other, the efficiency of two legs, but even on crutches, walking into class hoping that Jerry would note the distinction, walking is not part of my innate wiring. Perhaps that makes me diabolically clever, clever enough to be stunning, and within this, lies an embedded rationale for eugenics. Another day.

When Summer Burns The Earth, Again

"Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid."-- I'm still standing

I am not trying to convey that my fervent appreciation of Elton’s discography was exceptional. The little big man gave The Who a run for their money, stayed relevant on the charts longer than he should have, his beats increasingly trivial by the time I stopped buying his albums, I simply reflect back, and remain uncertain. Taupin’s lyricism either kept me alive or nourished the root of my latter day scathing cynicism, merging my moody to his narcissistic, allegorical depth: tracks like “Meal Ticket,” after all, display a libertarian send up of the welfare state. It seems to illuminate upon my fundamental flaw, diving into this British rock melancholia on the basis of a grade school special education teacher’s recommendation. Neil Montgomery, my first puppy love, exceedingly masculine to a thirteen year old’s burgeoning sex drive. Much taken with “Bennie and the Jets,” and responsible for my slavering purchase of every album Elton ever recorded, this over adhesion remains a cautionary tale, Neil soon vaporized by other longings, never actualized. He probably grew florid in old age, reflective blue eyes, wavy brown hair, mustache. He taught me hockey, and it remains my favorite sport, never enough opportunity to view and follow the teams, not since Clarke’s Broad Street Bullies. This was the year they brought the Stanley Cup to the ward, and the dowager then in pigtails, got to touch the iconic trophy as compensation for orthopedic butchery soon to follow.

Was the masochism always there, or ingrained? Analysis cannot always cure the wounds of destructive implosion. If I felt threatened by my former program manager Linda Dezenski, my backlash, the cruelty of the vitriol I heaped on her afterwards was a form of self-cutting without physically engaging in the activity. Ditto the journey through the attendant care abuse. In spite of this, a lesbian indulgence would never be satisfactory. Attendant care itself assures me on this point, as the close physical contact with the Africans, however necessary, is undesirable, in the seven years winding its way through this account, toward the collapse of my machines and ensuing frailty, I lived in those elusive ballads. How is “Ticking” a lazy predicate for the spree shootings which flair up and recede straight through 2018? It blames Catholicism through flashback refrains for a mass murderer Bernie probably dredged up through Fleet Street. I did the same thing as a poet, while remaining not so sanguine about causal links between theology and violence. I drowned myself in this, music meant for LSD users of its age, and what did I purchase with all these intense investments?? Nothing but the folly of alienating myself further, condemned to a life of mostly brutal micro-management, while celebrity glides on double standards. A recording artist sues his manager, confesses to being strung out on drugs, like a prodigal son, while run of the mill opioid users constitutes a crisis. In the transition from actively living towards actively dying, (conservatives, while not wrong in relation to sanctity, seem to forget the hardship which goes in tandem with birth diagnosis) this woman is not having the easiest of times, but she’ll be glad to go. I am glad for destructors like Cruz, whatever neuroscience does to them. I'm glad, and there will be impaired individuals clever enough, in the future, to strike, evade capture, for the sake of what you do to us, what you do to teach us to pulverize each other.