The Anvil and The Nail

Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, was an evil genius. She said she hoped to “exterminate blacks like weeds” & so began “educating” us about “choice”. She is the author of voluntary genocide.
18 million black deaths later & liberals still defend her dream.
Sad!

— Candace Owens (@RealCandaceO) May 15, 2019

In the constant sifting through the sand dunes of mediocrity in search of aesthetic kernels, the sort of kernel which can fuel the engine for any contemplative essay, not just the pet peeves of an obstinate blogger, enthusiasm for an Australian actor like John Noble can dull rather quickly. His first ripple on the isometric weather system which hovers over this coastal metropolis was on The Fringe, a series which was an early attempt by JJ Abrams Productions at expiation for not living up to the expectations generated by Lost, and no spinoff or imitator ever quite had the same impact on popular culture as that plane crash, but The Fringe had high hopes of doing so with the offering of an invidious transhumanism which only managed to lampoon itself, which is a great deal for the dowager’s lack of interest to assert, as Noble didn’t leave her captivated as the unstable scientist. One could speculate that Noble is the tin man version of Cate Blanchett, generational descendants of penal colony exports who pay homage to the motherland but “get” America, to paraphrase Blanchett herself, her contextual framework worth some thought against her headier films. In Heaven, an extended metaphor superimposed on an already elaborate medieval structure, Blanchett and Ribisi are penitents, but is it merely coincidental that their shaven scalps evoke Holocaust survivors? Noble is meant to project that degree of enigmatic menace onto his viewers, but only does so with a rather shallow apologia, the dark side of Darius Tanz’es nimble libertarian liquidity in Salvation, and because CBS is a two bit shallow nickel and dime hustler, they hustle Noble over to The Good Wife while Salvation is still taping to get him to do another shadowy figure killed by an indignant defendant probably bedazzled by tortuous action against his harmless barking dog into the stark travesty killing which is Noble’s fate. We might as well embrace Bach.

This is something Brian Sims manages to conveniently obliterate from the latest ignition over Roe v Wade. He behaves, in that self-created video, like a patriarchal male who dares to treat women of faith like the Second Sex. This doesn’t mean that men don’t have the right to speak, but Sims engages in visceral relegation of the feminine mystique, a homosexual male helping women destroy the newborn of the species. It was a fatal miscalculation for a Democrat who has a lock on the 182 district he represents. Pennsylvania Republicans don’t have candidates to run against him or Farnese, my state senator on whom I finally, if briefly, set eyes. His lock down is also a form of cowardice. He isn’t an abortion doctor, Sims, merely a new age autocrat paving the way for humanity’s new edge transformation. We already know the adage, in our collective conscience, about being careful with wishes.

Red Light, Somewhat West of Kathmandu

My religion is complicated. Literature is my true religion. After all, I come from a completely non-religious family.-- One of Orhan's many interviews at the intersection of art and agitprop.

Ellen Burstyn was the singular embodiment of first wave feminism in my youth; if Valerie Harper came into the limelight easing tensions about woman's lib and the now funereal ERA, which the Clinton quest for dominion certainly illustrates to be absurdest theater, Burstyn was the studio panacea for the deflated aspirations of Gloria Steinem. Ms Magazine is dead, and the only semantic relevance of girl power is simply to deconstruct the binary nature of gender roles.

Hence, a signature feature like Resurrection has been avoided out of tacky embarrassment, much like the five minutes given to Deepak Chopra's assurances offered to the anxiety of Christian gnosticism, and yet, no one forgets the end of this film, an old woman, coming to terms with self-reliance and the unexplained, passes her curative touch to a sick little boy, and for those who need God to exist outside of natural law, the pesky business of ontology is resolved as a triumph, which lies at the heart of salvation. Tragedy can be sudden and deep, like the accident which cripples the title character Ellen makes her own, but there are the consolations of grace, mysteries beyond biology, but Petrie doesn't quite rest on his laurels, picking sides. He indicts science for subjecting Edna to cruel objectification, and then takes aim at the theists for utilizing this woman as an agenda she certainly never subscribed to, turning her gift into a scourge, something the X-men franchise picks up later in a one dimensional fashion, in this century.

Resurrection makes no bones about the fact that ordinary people are heroic backbones, that common sense encapsulates eccentricity as a carnivalesque experience, if left to itself, and the absolute determination to have all the answers is sometimes more detrimental than acceptance of things beyond comprehension, and leaves the audience wanting to believe in the greater good. 

I was going to convey, with an embarrassment of my own, that I've temporarily fallen in love with the voice, the vision, of Orhan Pamuk, which is inexplicable. Charlie Rose annoys me most of the time, and it may be I absorbed Orhan's responses because he was equally exotic and pasteurized as an Ottoman Imperial elite, but his resonance on me as the invisible graduate has no rational basis, unless it goes back to my story about my phantom sexual liaison with Jerry McGuire as a figment of my imagination.

The intelligentsia, while observant of my potential, often silently eyes me with consternation for my disruptions in the breach, and if I met Pamuk in whatever setting, he would probably recoil, taken aback, and I'd bristle with insolence, but from this distance, a gulf as wide as an aftershock, his stratagems in his story tellings have pierced the bitter vines which have entangled my internal organs, little salve to whatever such reverberations amount.