Turnstile Passes

"It may even be worse for you, in the end."-- Robert Shaw

Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."

Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.

Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity. 

More is the pity.