I just returned a few moments ago from the movie that I should have seen yesterday with my relatives. Valerian. Directed by “Fifth Element” French director Luc Bession, it may be the answer why the French were excluded from the other current Hollywood Blockbuster, “Dunkirk.” Where the later is critically acclaimed and a total downer, Valerian promises the key element to pleasing and audience and leaving them hop, skip and jumping back intuit he light of day with a happy, hopeful chord. The journalistic critics who tried to say that it was incoherent were either listening to their parent marketing liaison’s who said push “Dunkirk” and pan “Valerian“. The irony being of course that both in their way push the idea of Globalism. One in the sense of future events to come full of horrific conflict, the other in a resolution of the most treasured of all human emotions, the love of a man and a woman. Albeit a bit adolescent at face value. But in fairness recounting in everyone that point in time when loving someone else is first consummated by the vow of a lifetime of commitment to them. It’s central characters embody the best genetic parts of the high European beauty from the high fashion runways of Paris infused into the graceful frames of Western Africa’s Masai somewhat stealing the thunder from the latest most preeminent Hollywood money-grosser “Avatar” living is the perfect sort of Utopia that only rich Southern Californian’s could only dream of.
The picture perfect lost Eden portrayed in what quickly becomes a paradise lost is more than made up for by the petulant innocence of its two main protagonists. Even my own scarred and stony heart seemed almost ready to revive at in many ways was much of the same old cliche trials and tribulations of male and female that have been handled in a similar manner in so many previous films over the history of Hollywood. The dialogue is smart and the asides clever enough to break a smile without being forced. The empathy building for finding out the meandering path of the heroes’ journey that the two embark upon keeping ones interest throughout its one hundred and thirty-seven minutes. The guest appearances employ the talents of invited star performers in particular being the best parts of Rihanna. A cult figure that in other venues only seems to produce great doubts in terms of clammy cultural context. Where “Avatar” as an experience has many wishing for impossible existence as part of another species, the conclusion of “Valerian” plays upon the retro of what in some ways was a kinder gentler less complex time when space travel was characterized by hopeful spirit enriching encounters with the unknown. Not, face hugging predatory monsters bent upon species extinction.
Sure this is the kinder part of the Illuminati’s wet dream of a genetically enhanced Kalergi approved ‘milk shake‘ world society. But it’s soldiering in the war for the quest of perfect Social Justice is made palatable. Not shoved done your throat at gunpoint. Maybe you are too old to bathe in the cleansing ‘pearls’ of youth culture shit out the behinds of Disneyesque cuddle toys but grounded in the hope that love does indeed conquer all! Fuck the critics! Go see this film!
There are a lot of questions that one is likely to ask in the course of their own lifetime. Most seem like they might expect a reasonable answer to point you in a reasonable direction. One’s that the answer to which will help you to avoid a few more questions that you are not ready or willing to be asked. Lonely questions that one would not think of volunteering save for the middle of the night when one is alone and cannot sleep. Tough questions like why did you decide you should count someone out. Someone that you thought you loved. That is until you realized that you didn’t. Maybe it took an off moment to realize it. And maybe it took several decades and a lifetime until it dawned upon you? You never loved her because you never find a way to love yourself to believe her. That made her a liar in your eyes. Someone who wanted something that you couldn’t afford to lose. That longstanding smokescreen that you were used to referring to as your own self-respect.
But now things were different. You stared at the light dancing occasionally upon the ceiling hour after hour. And now you fantasied that things were different. That they always had been different. But no one had bothered to tell you. If only someone would have just said the right word. Then things would have worked out the way they should have. That goddamn parking lot staggering home half blind toked out and inebriated feeling the full moon above the two of you weighing you down. She in a huff angry. Spooked more like at the mess you had gotten her into. Involved her in like it was simply nothing more than a wrong turn that meant nothing to you. But obviously, everything to her. And so you walked on in that empty parking lot miles apart with the distance between you ever widening. And when you finally reached your floor you knew that you were truly alone. And would never be with another that same way ever again.
So now you are an old man laying on the flat of his back no longer making any plans for a future. That empty blank ceiling above you like the lid of your coffin. And you just staring there forward seeing nothing but some other poor fool’s headlight reaching out in the lonely night as he or she travels past along a mostly deserted highway probably heading to that place that they called home. Something that you had always dreamed of but never seemed to find a way to. Too hard to make a life with another who could only be second best. You heard it said so many times over the intervening years that your first is alway the one that sticks in your mind. The one that you ran across that other parking lot at first as the sun died that fatal afternoon. The long lonely weekend when you returned format he news that someone that you had known had died young. Too young. And it hit you like a piano dropped from the second floor. The keys striking a minor tone as it hit the pavement with you under it. Things like that were not supposed to happen. They were too real for the young to have to know. But you knew!
So you went back down the road back to school to find the one that you knew you wanted. All the shyness and reserve now gone. Washed away by the silent river of tears that were shed upon the steering wheel of that car speeding back at dusk doing a hundred down the two-lane. You jumping out of the seat making a beeline for her room and catching that look on her face as she turned to see that your eyes were staring back only for her and her alone. A magnificent moment that one only dreams of in the movies but not in the perfidy of real life. That was the first and last time that you really gave yourself to someone else. Hook, line, body and soul! But now it is a vague impression that you tell yourself was real. It must have been! There couldn’t be all that broken glass back from this moment all the way back to that time when the two of you walked away from each other in the moonlight on that cold hard asphalt lit night. It would have taken so very little to have walked a little faster instead of playing the fool. Selfish man!
Which is better? To be universally recognized or remain completely anonymous? The new form of triumphal surrender as therapy to your impossibilities. It is all too easy to fall into the stereotype, or embody it from the start. Playing card parliamentary rules when you plot to ask someone a pointed question. Sometimes it would be wise to have prepared your own answer lest you be found wanting when the same question is turned around on you. All the old war heroes can be lined up before the cameras like trophies. They just have to show up to collect. In the best sense of same, women are there to be admired. What is fairness after all but simply a fabricated mental impression, yet not a truth, and never an inflexible standard?
Long ago the will to love was lost. Why? How much dirt on a grave does there need to be to make one think it has never been anywhere to begin with? A lack of empathy in daily life, just a simple form anesthesia. When you walk alone you can never have a peaceful moment again. You can describe the action and let your mental audience comment. You can describe the setting and provide the tone of the atmosphere to let other consciousnesses construct a narrative. You can recite the primary character’s inner thoughts verbatim and then allow the impression to come to the most likely conclusion, come what may. Some people just want another to sit silently there beside them so as to get a physical sense of security. Some people don’t what to change a single aspect of their own existences and are constantly plotting on how to resist the same. Other cling to their sanity by swimming upstream in the swift current of other people’s emotions as they overwhelm their own.
A dim bleary eyed besotted face rises from the drool pond of the table, “It’s Hickey!” “He’s arrived!” “Finally!”, “The Iceman Cometh!”
The popular media’s job is to dispel human loneliness with the daily illusion of an engaging conversation. Any victim is always eventually condemned for the fact of their disease or miscalculation leading to their eventual failure. Especially if they have risen too high and done too well. Two guys get waylaid on a schooner then share their adventures high in the rigging drunk as skunks. Most men have heroes generally in professional sports. Careers that they follow through the entire course of their own lives. The wilderness of night was thus consumed with such abstract mental wanderings.
It had been a bad night of constant drifting off and sudden waking. His left arm ached and he had to constantly jockey his position to suit the restlessness that its relentless discomfort demanded. Those sudden sharp shooting pains beneath the ribs. It seemed that a sinkhole had appeared in the middle of his chest. The waters of life did not seem to penetrate it. But the beer and the tequila did like a sharp arrow. He was too old now for frivolous bar stool adventures. The sunlight of morning seemed extra bright and demanding that he open his eyes to it. The sweat stained bed sheets clung tightly like stucco upon him. He rose checking the stagger to the bathroom marking if its source was the previous night’s drink or the inefficiency of his heart’s pumping. The steamy shower seemed to wash away much wreckage. The mirror being all too honest confirming yet again that not much was left of his sense of male vanity. The descent into old age had not been kind. All to the disappointment of youthful desires that refused to be quenched. His head slowly nodded in sympathetic agreement that there was nothing extraordinary or unfair in this. But extremely disappointing as he had disappointed himself by not taking better care having too quickly given in to well-worn self destructive habits. His mind refused to leave its endless wanderings in the flowery fields of youth.
Sylphs, fairies and ghostly mental images of all the women that he had once been attracted to in those bygone rituals of mating. Ceremonies that were no longer possible for him save to idly ponder in private. He closed the towel and then turned to the shapeless pile of his raiment’s discarded in a rumple just outside the bathroom door. A worn second skin of threadbare futilities. The renewal and replacement of each garment noted on a mental list to one day renew. A second skin to be renewed by in some small but significant way. His attentions diverted back to a longstanding mystery cloaking his mind’s eye to the constant sight of others. The incomprehensible experience of his arms encircling a young maiden as he had in decades past. A young woman’s body unwrapped and fully revealed in all its wonder a sight perpetually eternal in his thoughts. How many like it had he held in close embrace in eons past? Tried to understand, not with his mind, but with the antenna of his soul? Failed miserably with each to learn its secrets as to the reason for its being. His hands upon the small of a back delicately bowing it like a cello with restless fingertips. Each attempt to capture it defeated by the flash of an eye. Something ethereal int he descent of fingertips incrementally tracing the flatness of a hip declining inevitably into the curve of an inner thigh. Taut strings rubbed and plucked.
Life since had become laundered of such thoughts. He had his pile of well spent rags that served as snake skin remnants of his former self. The pursuit of youthful passions lost and now impossible. Absurd to consider! The waking dreams of old movies affording a slip from current dignity in the propriety observed in the conduct of one’s self. The world of now was filled with old compromises. Quick bargains made forgoing something considered so regular long ago but now cemented tightly shut and impenetrable. Pacts made in silence with unspecified entities that asked for nothing in specific but one knew were keeping a grim vigil. The inevitability of one’s genes as demonstrated by now long lost forebears offering only the conclusion of mortality. Perhaps sooner and not later? There in the street by a table in the imminence of the sun strung out like a line of beetles. Slow careful promenades of ancient brittle bones and arthritic joints supporting wrinkled skin and sagging bellies. all melting slowing and inevitably like candle wax left unattended in the wee hours of sleep. One awakening in the morning with a start to the spectacle of it’s decay. That moribund procession dirge-like slowly into the oblivion of the grave.
The last thing that I can do is to say that I am a failure. I can acknowledge my mistakes and misdeeds. But I cannot allow myself to not believe that tomorrow I can turn it all around. If I do I am dead. I am my families final chapter. They live within me. I am their history. Their entire lifetime all within me. Does it matter to the world? It matters not. They meant something, their lives and the dreams they instilled within me. I am their future as well as their past and I have gone fallow, Deep down within under the rubble of a life collapsed is the same little boy that would run to the comfort of his daddy’s arms to feel the love that was too quickly extinguished by the rueful circumstances of unstable life. In the end, I found much to our mutual regret that I had not cared as much for him as he did for me. At least not till he was past caring taken away by the inevitable natural cycle of birth and finally death. To late, my heart poured forth once again what it dare not admit while he was alive. Such was the great degree of my latent fear within. A fear that my sense of being in love would no longer be welcomed as an adult. A fear that I would have to surrender to the crushing mark of being a failed son. The one and only that could not outgrow his father long and ever widening shadow. In that I felt that I had truly failed. How could I not? He was a much greater man than ever I could have imagined. Than I found that I ever could be. Great because despite all the bad hands that he was dealt in life, he continued to persevere despite insurmountable odds. Angry sometimes? Sure! But never despairing always heading forward despite sheltering both my mother and I despite his own meandering inner flaws. No monument in my estimation could ever be built high enough to match his humble stature. A man who lived in the shadow of that larger than life personality that he himself created. Someone that despite how brash and brusque his unrefined manner appeared to me at the time would much later elicit posthumous comments of how that same demeanor would be sorely missed. Someone that many from all walks of life felt that they could call friend. This was the pattern that defines the direction of the weave of the cloth from which I am cut. My father. Someone that I so often regret the loss of and harbor that desire to be beside as I once was before. Just to reach up and find his warm hand holding my own yet again.
The small truck came to a halt three streets over just within the field of vision allowed by the canopy of trees that lined the streets far below some ten stories below. The most notable part of it being the yellow flashing lights that had caught his attention. Most of the horizon having been sequestered in Summer green. This was his day to play the role of exhausted past all reasonable possibility of useful activity. The cushion of gray that seemed to despoil the day before noon was barely a memory now. Hazy blue emptiness surmounted all by the faint hint of an airbrushed horizon. It was a different day completely. He was clueless now how to occupy his time as no occupation seemed fit to engage in. All occupations being essentially worthless to change his essential situation. He was old growing older every minute. The notion of attaining success was a topic clouded over by cynicism. A cynicism that was not without a certain degree of factual support. Three different careers had come and gone. The fourth was merely a hint of several vain hopes wrangled together from experiences long past. A sort of archive of topics checked off on a paper list. One that had not turned yellow enough with age to be illegible. The youth within him refused to be evicted. It lived in the here and there like a squatter ever ready to plan its umpteenth takeover of all things downtrodden and depressed. Yet fortune seemed ever elusive not allowing it to take a a foothold. Where was the world of lurking possibility as he had once known it. Now it was simply a bunch of empties littering the street.
While he was amidst his chat the emptiness of the sky just outside his window had birthed some small white clouds that as he caught him with the corner of his eyes were sailing just overhead out of sight. Was his brain boiling up the temperature just above him? It was not an obscure notion that could be discounted that one’s mood was ever the oarsman of one’s fate. No doubt this present tense could not be seen as anything else but being becalmed. The hermitage of this small apartment sequestered format he street a refuge from reality far below. A woman’s nightmare of inflexible orderliness and massing dust balls. The kitchen floor had not received a good scrub in nearly ten years. Carpets stained and worn like the ragged hems of the threadbare black jeans that hung clean upon closet hangers. Smelly old black socks hung out like guest towels.Time had stopped in the last decade. This had become a waiting room for passage to the great beyond. He was just another face keeping busy till his number was called. The previous night after the exhaustion and two refrigerated beers had stopped off the hard shell of his habitual indifference he lay in bed under the cool sheets naked. What did humans really have to look forward to that was not simply a sensation driven experience confused with something vaguely animal. Desire? Love? Companionship? All seemed established and nourished based mainly on the expectation of physical sensations? Desire involved touching or being unexpectedly touched in a manner that one had long repressed. Love was the embodiment of a reliable embrace provided at all costs in any situation. Companionship maybe two hands clasped on into the other? but certainly the calming of anxieties wrought from animal vulnerability to the unknown. Or the paucity of the other two aspects of a closer more intimate relationship. His concept briefly explored his mental focus snapped into itself like the sound of a lady’s compact snapping shut.
The world was to be viewed and the chaos that lurked around its edges respected. Yet no longer indulged in. The sky above him would vary at the whim of fate but there was very little remaining that had not already been charted out long ago. He sat in his easy chair waiting to be proved wrong and confident that behind all the barriers that were long tested that this was not ever going to be a possibility. This was not to say that he had not abandoned the notion of the opposite sex in his mind. The mind is the great builder of proper fantasies that while they may involved drama yet would always end in an expected happy conclusion. Yet this would inevitably evaporate by the next day no matter the positive level of confidence in one’s calming self assurance the night before. This gerbil was firmly locked in a cage of his own design. Such mechanisms ever proving to be impenetrable. Even if one knows where the keys are hidden.
The last two decades of life have proven to me that I have lost a lot of my own long held naivete about what are now considered foolish notions. I have lost the magical ability to feel any sense of desire for current examples of contemporary women both old or young. Not that it matters to them at all as I know that all women in our time are perfectly happy that the tyrannical yoke of unwanted male interest in them has been lifted from their shoulders and now is permanently erased! Thank god that men can universally embrace their feminine side of demonstrating quiet passivity in public while women may freely strut around exercising their long suppressed aggressive inner nature’s at will without any dominant male society interference or censure. Misguided males have been institutionally exiled to watching dated mental masturbatorial Hollywood epics of women indentured by romance provided by men that only possesses an inherent ‘macho’ male paternal sensibility. The exterior world run be the strict rules of mentally inscribed institutionally governed and workplace enforced principles of dominant feminism.
Of course, this is not the type of world that has any attraction for me! That is totally my own flaw of advancing chronological age. A flaw akin to a previous penchant of being charmed in a way that only women from a long ago bygone detestable era could be. Charmed by the misguided virtues of inherent their care taken in sensual appearance supporting a flirtatious nature equal in overt interest in the other gender. One that inspired the rougher sex to bring flowers or open car doors or show up expecting a frequent unoccasioned kiss might fire up the emotions of that desirable female that fell prey to making him the center of her world. That bygone sense of natural symbiosis when, bereft of lurking LBGT Disney Corporation modern fairy tales, Prince Charming’s courted icy Snow Whites bringing life back to them with a simple passionate heartfelt kiss. Foreign Legion bound Gary Cooper’s could not erase dispossessed French cabaret singers who then might follow them across the burning desert sands in bare feet. All the old poppycock that took away from one’s future haigh paying job or career independence. And saw some men portrayed in the cinema as only wanting the lasting gift of once more wearing a pair of golden earrings to share their remaining lives with smelly unwashed Gypsy maidens as half ‘gadsi’. Foolish notions indeed!
Most contemporary women are unburdened by the lost art of attracting men, of course. Thank god it only now involves dressing up like once was referred to as a slut to ply easy drinks from the exemplary broad shouldered tight abbed man of their choice at the local bar. Ones from recent generations having been properly schooled in the preparatory scholastic environments of childhoods spent in daycare environments with ever commanding Politically Correct female ‘minders’ provided as surrogate ‘mothers’. The fathers far removed living distant from the singular parented household by some pivotal point in time as a lasting lesson that male female relationships were never meant to be permanent only convenient. All this while their saintly mothers enrapture daily existence with the fact of the burden of them them making the unimaginable sacrifice in somehow maintaining both career and motherhood. Young boys growing up properly mannered to understand that they are not important as their own female siblings in a world that values only the promotion of a form of diversity that does not include them or any of their ‘amle’ aspirations. Young men being so much happier now that any impediment to sexual gratification need not be burdened by anything more than demonstrating being handy to a desirable woman or readily available when it is time to pay the check. And of course, when the whim for intimacy strikes their female companion being amenable to the guidelines of sexual satisfaction that favor her. Things are so much better now than in those dark times of before when both sexes never were sure of where they stood in the thoughts of another! When they had to take the risk of exposing their true feelings in hope of some mutuality of life purpose that was not so easily reckoned or accountable to future security. Charles Dickens might have cast his darker tales like Oliver Twist or Great Expectations in a more favorable light if those times had been as equally enlightened as things are today. How far we have all come!
Nothing. No motivation to speak of. The day was nearing the expected transition. Perhaps the hundred millionth one that he had failed to notice? So much much that was new to him as his eyes traced the fleeting direct illumination of the Sun. The clouds passing slowly like derelict prison hulks spewing fractals of cotton candy. The light streaming now like a puncture wound through rays of evening mist. Magnificence blocking the shadows deepening quickly bringing on drama to the otherwise mundane. He held out his hand extending a forefinger to trace the path of the rapidly departing Sun, its chariot galloping West. Struck like an aging toddler reborn back to the previous wonders of childhood yet again.
A solitary soul in a land of vague familiarity. So many hostile stares of young strangers taken aback. “Am I still here?“, he silently choked out in awe of their sour expressions. “Why haven’t you hurried up and got down to the business of dying?“, their malicious glares all seemed to say in an impatient unison. Same places remaining. But not how they had formerly had been. The narrative an accurate voice of family re-pagination. Inner peace disturbed by an unwarranted intrusion of the same old crowd of the impatient. “The world is no longer mine?” Something no longer of my own creation. Something no longer my fault. At least I am not living still in the bloom of accomplishments of a faraway long ago precocious youth. The crack int he world of their self-ascribed fantasy is what angers these self-important immortals. Nothing is more motivating than the fiction of eternal perfection remodeled to reveal a reality of unstoppable chaos! When abandoned by electricity the facts of one’s lack to compensate are too overwhelming to bear.
Soap opera bitches proclaiming, “The third successive decade of endless self-empowerment!” Resonating freely upon all the misplaced holiday’s TV network’s across the land. Is it possible to imagine a real friendship with a female in the current era? Better she run off with my assets as is now the custom. The current era won’t tolerate it. No overt fraternization! Their message running out of accompanying ‘bread and circuses’ to sell it before the impending collapse of society becomes too painfully imminent. All that is planned to be left for the male of the species is to joust imaginary dragons on his X-Box. And for all the women to have all the cartoon men of their dreams to mercilessly berate but still find all of them magically submitting themselves to even more abuse. The parental duty of organized defecation. Essentially the scripted version of the genocide of the modern European. Once the most favored demographic holding the most popularized products un-sellable. Now fools with beanies, the brims turned backwards. All the once great heroes now gone waiting for their few admirers to die off.
Were everything replaced with something absolutely brand new, the absence of the old equivalents still weigh one down. Museums spouting ‘heritage’ now simply categorical homages to older forms of consumerism and consumption. Whenever suddenly ‘over-exposed‘, women grabbing the own breasts not out of propriety but in embarrassment of fostering disappointment. Modern imagery no longer prone to accidents. And the possibility of being privy to creativity because of same gone forever. The most perfect of women incapable of procreation like any other damned long extinct species. There should be a billboard on every street corner, “FUCK UTOPIA!” The last thing in this universe a man needs is a, “Strong Independent Woman!” No more than his opposite needs those same dubious qualities from him. Those kings and queens of long lost empires that never existed outside the fancy of a terminally perverted mind. “Nice guys No Longer Wanted!” Just an inexhaustible universe of lamentable evil pricks that no ones care one way or another if they die.