The Potty Trapeze

Except ourselves, we have no other prayer--Vassar Miller, a cross over sleight of hand

Why I resist the violence necessary for divine grace relates to a failed devotional youth. I do not “praise the Lord” in the fashion of Pentatonix and their aspirational chorus, though their appearance under Steve Harvey’s televised presentation possibly initiated congestive heart failure, whatever Shawn’s concerted efforts on my behalf toward restoration. My armor crumbled against that transcendent lyricism, and yet resistance remains in the shards of equanimity: I cannot restore the faith that Mary, my mother’s sister, never left, not that she expresses her devout sensibilities on the edge, as I would if I tried again. We are quite past the war with God that we would find in the anti-clerical rebellion of Maldoror, and I spent a good portion of my young alienated heart throbs, their wall of separation, being apart from unity with an anthropomorphic creator. The rest of my lifespan is too short, yet this child Kaylee's convinced optimism and passionate invocation is enough to invite the will to perish. I never had that victory in the struggle for or against belief. As far as my circumstances are concerned, I have to work in very small increments until I can create the psychic wall between my necessary intimacy with this care giver, and the isolation a writer needs; and I can’t rebel. He stayed on rather than chancing a better position because I pouted, knowing what I could more easily manipulate to have my own way than not. Yet I do not have the mortal time left to “give it time,” in the common vernacular. You can count the five months as well as I, still in need of file conversion, particularly as I lost my link to Sean. He told me he would help me prior to Victoria’s ill repute gaining ground. Regardless of whether or not I manage to stay out of Inglis—no small miracle—my wick is at low burn. I’m certainly not going to tolerate tubular insertion into my digestive tract, as did my dialectical predecessor, Vassar Miller, who had a normal spastic lifespan.

The light touch I take with poetics is partly due to the vast aesthetics involved. There are too many poets, too many branches, and I am not known for the sterling discipline of a syllabus, but if I had enough access to her output, I'd clear the table for the critical analysis Vassar more than richly deserves. Her own hymnals embedded in her stanzas are as weighty as mine. I may reject the notion that a superhuman being posits humanity as its primary concern, but I take the ecumenical battle with the autonomic materialism of observable phenomena very seriously, as much as did Steven Sontag's mother. Like Jacob, I will not release the angel from my grip. My hip was dislocated long before the wrestling match ensued. That's Catholic atheism, as opposed to an agnostic cop out.

Kidman Arc

I hope that Nicole Kidman is not a Scientologist, like her unfortunate ex-husband, because her artistry is more interesting than Tom's, more sinister and intriguing, offering something for a contemporary woman to chaw, even in watered down vehicles like Birthday Girl, a story line too improbable, though she can be applauded for ambiguity. I myself have closer ties to Jodie Foster's man girl obstinacy, and Foster consumed many of my earlier posts on this project. I am not yet satisfied, but grew up with Foster, as opposed to Kidman. Nicole has had currency, more than a decade of it; my perspective on her is still that of a shiny coin, because I am rapidly aging beyond relevancy, and if I should make it to my 70's, like my dialectical rival, of whom I look nothing like, I will be worse, perchance gone baby gone, a freak show like this curiously ugly and gritty little Affleck vehicle, minus Harris and Freeman, and that, simply because these veterans are too well branded, this film is one of those that tells the truth about the hard core underside of dealers, perverts, steaming like hot dung, and thus, hard to watch even without an X-rating.

Is my ongoing battle a disease? Who knows? But if I do not wage it, I have only myself to blame, and my first protest missive has hit the postal service, so I cannot turn back. My father's sister raises her voice that I need to let this go, but I cannot, I am sorry. I want some justice for my old age, something, some small victory for a literary artist's autonomy, a cry for freedom, real freedom, yes, and I should have waged this war in the strength of my 30's. I may pay a price still more undeserved, I may be dismissed, and I am a little scared, but between Liberty Resources and PresbyHomes I have been forced to digest rust for 28 years, a vibrant woman of promise, I am now broken, and the system can break me more, I have no illusions about that, but I am not going down in compliant humility to Pennsylvania's social service system. I will not and I cannot. But by the same token, age marginalizes the marginalized more. I will not live much longer than Vassar. She died with a tube in her stomach. No one will do that to me.

Placemarkers For Kevin

I am not quite sure how I digest Kevin Costner as Earl Brooks. His character is as methodical as the world around him is messy, and William Hurt always allows me to see the possibilities of the humanist life I might have had as a second wave beatnik if I had been able to walk and fuck better than I actually can. I am still turning this interesting look at psychopathy around while I am off to bed, full of pain killers, not knowing whether loss has defeated me, finally, or if I will yet scuttle through, like the poet Vassar Miller, my dialectical rival.