H2Omeloncholy: December 2013

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast

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Priv.

Oh, my good peops, how this scribe struggled so to avoid this post. The following was penned last week - of the inkwell's own accord - yet not posted. After all, the Newtown survivors requested such.

Howeva, one continues to find that very need of request the most H2Omeloncholic™-tempting of subject 'matters'. Still, outta respect, one avoided indulgence of her quill. Then, homezgentry? And lo, Dan WHITE's Twinkie defense was bested last week by Affluenza.

One's initial interest in Newtown's plea for privacy found the notion - itself - a double asterisk bookendin' Priv. Lil' causes an authentic absurdist's jaw to slacken in shock. When a teen-age driver multiple murders and paralyzes - behind the 'wheel' - and the 'judicial' sentence is rehabilitation in a veritable country club? One knows not what else to type. Gentlesoulfolk...choose thine own discourse and feel at liberty to insert that discussion here...

One cannot reiterate enuf, her empathy to/for Newtown and more so, appreciation/admiration of their instructional decorum in the enigmatic as unimaginable experience that is hyper public grief.

One had chosen a reverent silence on the anniversary - confident that Priv would live strong to see another sunrise - 'its' star, 'its' sky. This confidence failed to comprehend itself as prophetic. Yet, so it proved to be. The week of Priv for upper-class families of particular descent - some twelve months in mourning and another probating a plural mortal drunk-driving adolescent - occurred as the world bid final farewell to its least privileged prisoner of 27 years. Anti-apartheid icon and South Africa's first black president, Nelson Mandela, was laid to rest as 'Merican lunacy placed Priv on its own alter.

Has there eva been a 'victim'...or 'survivor'...or howe'er they choose to frame their tragedy...of Other-ed Ethnicity...who required not more, mind ye, but less public support - in order to grieve in peace? Attention upon Newtown reached a fevered pitch compared to the whimper - if that - for the daily, fatally wounded 'urban' students, nameless and faceless. And Less.

Much to their credit, Newtown has suggested the country observe 'their' loss thru community involvement closer to home. Nevadaless, such an exercise in keepin' it real equates down-dirty deconstruction of those societal ills that would turn Priv - acutely vulnerable to Affluenza sans a vaccine - on its flaxen head.

When at a loss, Bro' Bard will provide, if not safe, at least sane passage:

Mandela - too - held a close copy of Da Bard whilst incarcerated on Robben Island. Julius Caesar spoke most to his days in conscious confinement. Above, he marked Caesar's words in Act II, Scene 2.

The senseless loss of a six-year-old should not grace the same page as a sixteen-year-old driver perhaps more inebriated by Priv than liquor. One chooses not to print the youth's name. One would prefer a papyrus scroll etched with the unnewsworthy titles of underPriv-ed kindergarten tots taken by gun violence. Their ~~removal~~ dissmissal from national notice? That fact be the Priv affair on acid. Priv done gone run amok, linking - at least the coverage - of offspring of the Have's 'n More's as somehow, perhaps, humanely far Less. Dare any think Priv as some luck of the inherited draw from which our insights, actions, interactions, and ensuing legislation are e'er immune.

12|10 - sentencing of ten years probation for four deaths
12|14 - first anniversary of Sandyhook Elementary School shooting
12|15 - Nelson Mandela buried in childhood village of Qunu.

Off Spring. Today, 12|21, is Winter Solstice.

One begins the season with what one should have found a diplomatic completion - in the week that was. Blogger's "publish" button meets ~~one's~~ my...my rather reticent click (the ease of which presents its own existential tech quandary).

The incessantly invisible accommodation to Priv - the most precarious of all socio constructs - is neon highlighted the same week that the light of the premier anti-Priv activist is dimmed. Then again, dying stars shine brightest in the dust of their cosmic demise. Stars glow - as they go, bursting forth to illuminate their end. Perchance Cassius in Act I, Scene 2 is mo' apropos:

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

a clever as compassionate critique

on the implausibility of

POSTness

Til our next 'post', feast upon produce in season...

CV

Saturday, December 21, 2013

the season of Priving