Another Florida Post
Posted by PD on 12/23/2004, 2:28 pm

In a continuing effort to keep track of life, and to share, and to stimulate explorative conversation, I offer
The Resurrection of Aileen Wuornos

Your writer herein had no precognition of the woman. All I’ve seen so far is the film adaptation of the difficulties Ms. Wuornos encountered caught in the grind of “bringing home the bacon.”

Thanks to Time Warner’s cable offer of media content, we have Monster on Demand. As we near the holidays, what better celebration than the life of one who dreamed of being an icon portrayed in a movie that makes her one; and, Ms. Theron, is that a performance or a resurrection?

Aileen is here now and in us all. Although it was a chore to watch her tortured, her sadist “John” provided the transcendent moment that inflamed her gaze, turning it into a soul scorcher. The incendiary moron who chose to waste his time squashing her smoldering hustle with lighter fluid caused her to blow out.

In Toontown, Daffy Duck kicks and punches the puff-genie back into its lamp.
A second of silence precedes the laser blaze of the genie’s resurrection blast.

After the first murder, no more hustling, at first.

However, most job markets reject volatility in upstart freelancers.

Then the police officer that picked her up for loitering at a temp agency
drove her into a garage and let her off (filled her mouth)
With a license to KILL.

And don’t touch her stomach. It’s filled with ignited lighter fluid. She is in physical pain.
Something alive within her has snapped.

Her friend, Selby, had a cast on her arm.
It’s got to fall off on its own.
Though she may bask blithely in financial windfall,
Her cast is off;
She is free.

One of the later dead fellows, the one with the gun in his car, is a retired police officer.
Remember, perhaps, when Monty Python’s criminal, Dimsdale, set off an atomic bomb. Then, even the police stood up and took notice.

The death penalty achieves its opposite, which is the letter “Z,” which means, she lives on.

I think that the penultimate line in the film, preceding
“Well, you have to say something,”
is
“Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

Consider an alternate adage gleaned from the lesson of
Jesus Christ,
WHERE THERE’S DEATH,
THERE’S RESURRECTION.

And that is not even why I’m against the death penalty.

Upon the making of the motion picture film,
Monster,
Aileen Wournous rose to judge the living and the dead,
Until she was cast into the sea of fire.

I await the sequel, not The Bride of Frankenstein, but
“The Adopted Parent of Aileen Wuornos” (It is Arlene Pralle. She adopted Aileen on death row. Thank you, internet search.)

Most significant is Aileen's relation to the shell-shocked Vietnam vet portrayed by Bruce Dern. Those two knew!

Music note, what better way to distract the viewer with the antecedent to the songs by Velvet Underground than in playing Crimson and Clover over and over under dialogue?
(WRONG… Tommy James and the Shandells released Crimson and Clover in 1969. Velvet Underground’s first album was 1967.)

Quick “John” note: If someone offers sex for money,
And you reach the point where you would actually agree to the transaction,
Give the money and go, savoring the true masturbatory pleasure of getting NOTHING in return.
Further gratuity: If the person offering is engaged in a sting operation, you will be arrested.

Has it been four years? It feels like decades have passed, and while humanity was embracing differences, a single lapse set us back to the dark ages. That it was a SINGLE lapse demonstrates how under our control the world has become. In an effort to take after-the-fact control of that lapse we can suggest that it occurred with our tacit approval, to make our justification for a retaliation that much greater. Let's continue to learn about and understand one another, and grow in our ability to appreciate and shape our world. It remains my firm belief that our world exists apart from our perception of it. For our own sake and for the benefit of all the manifestations of energy of which we're a part, may we bless and not curse...

One of Eugene O'Neill's characters talks about the moment when the veil lifts and our awareness is lucid. Then the veil falls.

I preserve moments when the veil lifts, because, indeed, for most of my life I exist beneath the veil.

and for now
---------------
I am writing to cheer you up on this beautiful day because I need cheering up.

I am scratching your back because my back needs scratching.

I am doing for you what I need done for myself.
---------------
I am grappling with the above sentences' structure because I perceive it as a conundrum.
Are not all sentient being's needs identical? We all need love.

Pass it forward.

THE ILR CHARTS

TH LW HP WI WORLD INDEPENDENT
01 - 01 01 "Don't leave me behind Prisoners of war" - Peter Dizozza
02 - 02 01 "Jungles of Dagenham" - Paola
03 - 03 02 "Maybe I'm a dreamer" - Warren Muzak
04 - 04 01 "Your Enemy" - Citizen Kane
05 - 05 01 "Its hard believing" - The Drive
06 - 06 01 "The Spider Song" - Nutronstars
07 - 07 01 "Generation" - Mahoon
08 03 03 02 "The truth" - Tim Chaplin
09 - 09 01 "Fine Looking Woman" - Jason Chesworth and the Pocket co.
10 - 08 08 "Take your own advice" - Danyluk & card

Our language has the contradictions built in. Holier than thou, or is that Hole-ier? Don't use mistreatment of the people as a reason to invade them and then go in and mistreat them. The latest act of terrorism is to show citizens of the United States engaged in acts of terror. Who's holier now?

I'm enjoying August Kleinzahler's modern day memories of travel.

Takealookatmenow
KONG, KONG, KONG, wellit'sjustan
KONG, KONG, KONG, KONG.

I'm enjoying Mr. Merrill's weejeeboard memories of Ephraim.

Getting into the car this morning I cleared off some of the snow and plowed out, straight to the tunnel where the security guards pulled me over and one of them watched while I cleaned off every snow speck. I feel so invigorated. I knew it was nervy to enter that controlled (and troll toll patrolled) environment, and fun! Last time I was pulled over we were off to our honeymoon flight at the quiet hour of 5AM. Good thing I had my papers in order... So take a look at me now KONG.

Some projects left unfinished I find myself, thanks to technological advancements, capable of completing at present, at home, to the exclusion of all present concerns. I must complete what I began, and I'm actually looking at material created twenty-five years ago, just by chance, because my friend in Maine, Ed Reichert, asked me several months ago to dig up the videos I took of his piano recital rehearsal, his music/theatre Queens College Variety show, and other things I haven't yet found featuring his fantastic involvement, so he can show them to his father.

After his recital video I found a video of the colored pencil drawings on my then attic wall. They were already at least four years old when I videoed them. I and my highschool friends drew them. The curved ceiling wall was cracking, creating the outline for the mountains and valleys containing them. And after seeing them, do you still want to be my friend?

There's a recent reference to that cottage attic wall in the golf wars cd, the "make your own" chant leading into the dizozza/espinola Forests of Neurosis. Aha! I have a potential music video, glorifying frustrated immature prolonged orphan boyish adolescence. You call that FUN?? Get on with your life... no no this'll just take a few minutes. please. it's valuable. you don't want to live now. go back to your hole. why is this choice exclusionary? Yes, it's valuable. Encourage me, allow me, or condemn me. It's all about me, getting on with my life's work. This is my promo blurb.

You can sing Sinatra Stuff, Can't you?
Posted by Pete Dizozza on 12/19/2003, 4:13 pm

"You keep saying you got something for me, something you call love but confess..."
Lee Hazelwood.
Both Frank and Tony Bennett began with these almost generically pleasant voices.
Tony Bennett doesn't strike me as psychotically maintaining his career. His smoking just created his now unmistakable voice, and his general pleasantness shines through.
I think the velvet fog describes the also pleasant Mel Torme voice (I like his recording of "Again").
Apparently, Frank hurt his voice singing and he needed to turn to acting, after appearing to great hilarity in MGM musical films. I saw some parts of some of them. Maybe, amazingly, he started in a classic, On the Town with songs mostly by Leonard Bernstein and Comden and Green ("New York New York a helluva wonderful town not to be confused with "Wonderful Town," by Bernstein, Comden and Green with, currently, Donna Murphy, live, which is probably very wonderful indeed.)

The mgm film of Jerome Kern songs, Til The Clouds Roll By, features his rendition of "Old Man River." So funny... "lands in jaillllll --- no breath --- I gets weary ...." that is a funny event.

stupider was anchors aweigh, the one with gene kelly dancing with one of those terrytoons.

So without a heartthrob voice, frank needed a film career without singing and the getting of the role is the robert evans godfather movie horror scene of the producer with the horse's head. (Another italian descent singer plays the frank role in the film. They say he knocked up who, Ava Gardner?)

The book, From Here to Eternity, was followed by a book about an author who had just written a big hit novel, From Here to Eternity, and was trying to write another. It's called SOME CAME RUNNING, and its film has a wild Shirley MacLane cameo, and Dean Martin as the sidekick to the author, portrayed by the actor who was formerly the skinny obnoxious victim killed by marty Borgnine in the prior acadamy award winner of the downtrodden bored militia stationed at pearl harbor.
It's like Norman Mailer following Naked and Dead with Deer Park... the film is the return of debonair Sinatra (directed by Vincent Minelli). James Jones wrote those books..

Frank pulled Manchurian Candidate after Kennedy's murder, yet he actually played the oswald role in Suddenly.

Sinatra recorded mostly great songs. In fact, that's his phenomenon.

He slowed down songs while increasing the speed of the beat beneath them.

Also, the slidy gruff vocal quality, under his obsessive control, became innovative, microtonal....

Finally, at that low point in his treasured career when Nelson Riddle's orchestra announced his new voice like a sunrise and he declaims,
"I've got the world on a string, sitting on a rainbow," the only good thing, the one reason to lift him (and us) out of the depths of despair is that song.

As for that once ubiquitous song of songs, New York New York, remember: Frank Sinatra is a singer who chose to highlight the most important of ampersands... Aaaaaaaaaannnnnnd.

Do you hear the song of a music box? It sounds the hope of ice cream.
There isn't a melody I have heard as many times as this one.
It plays through once then plays again. It blurs my sense of reason.
It's up to me to concentrate but still I blame that ice cream truck.

And even the blackout could not deter the call of Mr. Softy.
The silence around it helped isolate its musical invasion.
That's why I'm glad when this ice cream truck leaves.


-- as for turning out the lights every now and again. Yes!

An unfair loss.

My wife was saying just the other day how expletives often pepper the speech of comics because the expletive "butches up" the joke.

News flash. In keeping with the karaoke mood, Diana and I were singing, My Eyes Adored You (So Close and Yet So Far), and there, in front of us, another tragedy, the event of which was substantially over, its after-effects reverberating into mere everyday occurrence, UNLESS YOU TELL ME OTHERWISE. WHAT HAPPENED HERE?

We were experiencing the transitory stillness of 5PM Saturday becoming sunny and warmer, walking along Irving Place to the car to go to Connecticut again, this time to Greenwich to attend a piano concert of children, ages 8-10, the students of one particular piano teacher, one particular student being Diana’s nephew.

The last time, last summer, (June 6, 2002) we were going to Liam’s wedding, a similarly radical separation from our day-to-day existence. Driving along route 54 we came upon a doe, its side smashed by the front of a car zipping round the bend. At first stunned, it popped into life to run wild, frothing, bleeding, red innards escaping from it rump, bashing walls and fences, finding its way down the valley to the shade and the water, Diana ready to take in the entirety of the deer’s internal disruptions. We prolonged our experience of the agony, basically until the deer disappeared down the hill never to be seen again. The other car drivers assured us they would call the ambulance. We were late for the wedding. With much difficulty, we I extricated ourselves.

Diana entered the mind of the deer.

Why aren’t people more careful? It’s a hot afternoon. The deer are coming from the forest, crossing the street to gain access to the lake. The poor deer become so thirsty then, pow, (This reminds me now of the fantastic moment in “my cousin vinny,” when Marisa Tomei relates to the deer encountering the deer hunter.)

In the months that followed, Diana and I acquired and developed various ailments from the physical and emotional strain we assumed from the event. It looked as if we had finally recovered when…

This time, Saturday, May 17th, 2003, eleven and a half months later, as we were walking to the car, we came upon a pretty girl who had just smashed a glass menu frame, a table, some flowerpots, having bent the wrought iron fence enclosing the outdoor dining of the cursedly stupefying Sal Anthony’s. Yes, it’s 55 Irving Place and the unknown girl dropped herself off the fourth floor window ledge of a colonial historic building with floor to ceiling bay windows enclosed by more of that historic wrought iron fencing.

The New York Times reported the very next day about the Street of Irving Place and its history. It’s Samuel Ruggles Place, but he felt like naming it after Washington Irving while he was, in 1830, developing Gramercy Park into the delightful enclave that it remains to this day.

It’s as if her gesture of dropping in on siesta time, as an obscene heap, without a care for her blue underwear, was a non-issue after the fact, and before the fact she was apparently dangling her legs over the ledge, not thereby garnering the dramatic attention associated with people trying to stop her, but to some lucky recipient, perhaps a 75 year old smoker suddenly obscenely rejuvenated with his 24 year old girl heart, she was a harvest.

Bellevue can bring her back to life, and they did, pow, to keep those organs alive, awaiting transplant permission from her parents. Just her brain was dead.

The real monster falls crashing to the floor, gets up and walks away, and is he or she ever mad!

After the piano recital, we went to Cabrini, then to Bellevue in search of her (Saturday evenings at the Emergency Rooms tend to be quiet.).

That night I dreamt that rather than stopping us at the door, the nurse let us in. Ms. Unknown was brain dead, all right, smiling and chatting away, saying hello and, I am NOT a baby, as she slithered off the bed to the floor, her reddened membranes exposed as she shrunk smaller and smaller. The nurse came in, to reattach life support, reminding us again, her brain is dead.

Diana entered the mind of the girl. She was so alone sitting indecisively on the ledge, her legs dangling over, and then, after smashing the table, the plant pots and the wrought iron fence, people came from everywhere to surround her.

The police and ambulance quietly arrived within 10 minutes of our arriving there, blocking traffic and dispersed. A street-fair along Third Avenue was winding down. We rushed through the traditional traffic of I95 to get to Greenwich. The Sal Anthony maitre ‘d suggested we send condolences care of the super at 55 Irving Place, apt 1A.

Nowhere to hide except together. It's about time.

Is this where I assemble the silliest strings of words? I suppose so. This is called, "A Union of In-Laws" and draws from a suggestion I received from another and refers to a wall street journal on-line extra editorial by, well, here goes.

On March 24th, 2003, echoing the title of Leni Reifenstal's 1938 Olympics film, Triumph of the Will, Peggy Noonan announced, with the invasion of Iraq, that we are witnessing the triumph of activism over fatalism (Among the actions not taken, consider: Saddam's sons, George's daughters, we never saw any efforts to bring together these perfect couples, and the possibility of solving with a wedding, in the tradition of the great rulers, any conflicts of interest with a union of in-laws. Can anyone suggest other actions?) Well, don't just stand there. We must do something, but let's
do it for a purpose
'cause to later find a purpose
is a steeper uphill struggle
than the purpose set in place
at the outset.
Hey, what WAS that at the outset? Is there reason behind the action?
We have to do something.
We cannot just stand here.
Fatalaties when activism
triumphs over fatalism
escalate to numbers
we can count in yonder galaxy.
What's at stake, enlightenment?
That comes to all in time.

Burl Ives appeared in a TV musical version of Bluebeard.

-------------------------
I go out for the day. See you tonight,” he told his redeemer, his beloved bride. And he added a warning, “Go in all rooms but one.” His words echo those of our most famous God, you know the one, who said (It’s just the just of it.) to his most God-like creations, “I leave you in paradise; eat from all trees but one.”

What do you expect Bluebeard’s bride to do? What do you and I want and wait for you and I to do?

Remember that his beard repelled most women, but her soul was sensitive, and his eyes gained her trust. She loved him and accepted his love for her. And we know from experience, from those nights by the fire, hers was a premium brand of love, on which they rise to new heights of awareness. Her empathy, surely, matches his toward her,

But she broke trust when she googled him, or rather;
When she entered the forbidden room, she found corpses, and she knew. Her husband is a killer, who insulates himself from the feeling of his prey. He is a coward nourished by the fears of his prey. He is a man who willingly causes what in the end must come to all.

There is only one ending to the story. She escapes to live another day, and Bluebeard, exposed, forthwith, is destroyed.

My variation is to say, feel free to explore all of my rooms, my papers, my website, and then watch me squirm as I try to defend what are clearly rotting corpses with my initials carved into them. I leave myself exposed, not out of honesty, but out of awareness that only truth is easy.

No one cares where no one goes, unless to consider my candidacy.

How could you allow the wolf to lead you down the garden path.

Do the wolf and the granddaughter ever save each other?

Let it be known, Bluebeard’s secret starts with an empty room, which he gradually fills with the corpses of the faithless, the independent minded fighters who refuse to obey him.

That’s his problem and he rots in it.

In our search for self-understanding, we allow ourselves to be misunderstood.
copyright 2003 Peter Dizozza ------------------

Hi, Tightness!
Hi, Taughtness!
Now that you've tightened me, what can you teach me?
Naught have I taught you.
How thoughtless,
Why think so?
'Cause I'm here to hype you.
Then I'm here to haunt you.

hit it.

Blow tropic wind,
Fill the air
With sound vibes, with light vibes, with solids, with liquids.

Thank you, O content provider. You're bill I'll pay monthly.

Stromboli Meets Snagglepuss by Peter Dizozza

All right, so the computer takes time re-establishing itself and its programs fight one other; it can process massive calculations, store them and translate them into familiar colorful sounds and images. It's my responsibility and a welcome one to catelogue and draw from the catelogue, even as I create new material.

'm getting blogged down just turning the computer on and off, loading up programs and shutting them down, moving files rather than using them. I threw away many papers and letters over the weekend and now I will attempt to follow their pathway to mulshland.

I'll take one task at a time, preferrably a new one. This is my journal essay moment, typing into a foreign repository. The doors are caving in, the computer's confiscated. Watch out you with your clicking and typing and seeing what is there to be seen, for the criminial indictment surprise.

Such affirmative action as that taken with Pete Townsend is for purposes of communication only. The punishment, after all, is contained within the crime.

We attended midnight mass at Our Lady Queen of Martyrs Church in Forest Hills, the church I attended as a child, the altar I walked off of when, at the height my holiness, I was relievedly dismissed from being an altar boy, the pews where I shook my eyes and stared and, as all around my pinpoint focus went dark, I would launch into a trance.

During the midnight Christmas service, this church had a tungsten brightness hitherto unavailable during the 20th Century. The priests brought a porcelain child around the pews and landed it in a nest made of hay.

Caesar had called for a census that year, sending everyone back to their hometowns to be counted, during which life went on, children were born, one child even born in a manger, among the calves, there being no room at "the inn." Try counting him in your census. (Only Isaac Assimov's actuarial table would dare factor in such a mule.)

His life would run a spectrum starkly displayed in the church: To our left was a stable dotted with an angel, to the further left, a wood carving of a man hammered to a cross bookended by two kneeling women prayerfully gazing up at him. Relive this individual's human path, from the manger to the crucifix -- a lifespan of 33 years -- from Christmas, Dec. 25, 2002 until Good Friday, April 18, 2003.