Nubile Antecedents

When she looked in the glass and saw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty, she thought, possibly she might have managed things better--her husband; money; his books.-- Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse, p.14

Michael Apted engages cinematic allusions as well as the dramaturgical in his direction of Nell, and perhaps even some narrative traditions. According to the lucky theater critic, Handley was aware of this in the production of his play, but the film superimposes a diachronic continuum with the history of Grizzly Adams, the short lived Lucan, or Truffaut's rigorous battle as an auteur. What about on set romances that seem to be requisite to belong to the screen actors guild, or Foster's characterization of Nell's rape phobia as a mythological echo, even older than the taunts of demonic possession in The Exorcist?

What I am driving at is my willingness to equivocate on Jodie Foster's public projection of her sexual ambiguity, despite my betrayed disdain and contempt for my fuck wit neighbor. It involves more than her life long navigation from child actor celebrity to contemporaneous diva. As an artist, Ms. Foster seems wary of binary definitions of otherness. Certainly not present in all her roles, it is still an important subtext in many of them, a willingness to evade certain aspects of identity that I can respect.

I could push this post a little further, but we shall return to it, my health permitting. Lithium batteries are an untrustworthy crutch, and my frustration with their flimsy durability is of the sort that makes the ambulatory frightened of me. Tomorrow is an event day. Rare thing.

Bard Access

Reality check: For those individuals who have to medicalize my pain along standard fault lines, Amazon sent me this deal for Philadelphia Shakespearean Theatre, and I was mildly enthralled about the prospect of seeing Titus Andronicus, more interested in the flaws of problem plays than the dramaturgical signification of classical tragedy,  I  even made a mental note to pitch a review to City Paper, but their box office doesn't offer power chair access. I am not placing blame, it is a small company, but you might be more cautious in the future about putting labels on me.

In the absence of presence, I am not claiming to be a picturesque version of emotional stability. I am certainly not that, but do not engage in the major symptoms traditionally associated with mania. My only self-medicating includes nicotine, caffeine as a stimulant, needed against the symptomology of indolence, and salmon oil, which I've taken regularly for nearly a year. I don't drink, and though I can cry, those tears are associated with stressors, like loss of salary, my bank constantly offering me a line of credit and turning me down.

My half brother got ugly with me for this reason: I asked him repeatedly if he contacted the independent living center near his house, and had to raise my voice just to get him to respond, and then all of the sudden I am as sick as our mother was because I need a change of environment. Between my family, public housing, and disability culture, I will no doubt be joining Whitney Houston on her ferry ride of dependence eventually. [rolls eyes]