lame duck

It borders on tragedy, it does. This not writing, then making excuses for why I am not writing. Then lamely reflecting on what factors are at play in my non-ability to write. Lame lame lame.

But not as lame as I am feeling now, after spending, oh yes, the entire day, well, at least after 1 on, at the dark heart of capitalism, you guessed right... Disney World. Now, for those of you who know me, all three of you, this comes as no surprise, in fact, you might ask, why Ilana, this isn't the first time in the last several years that you have found yourself there. Why no, it isn't.

Perhaps that explains the bitterness. Ok, who am I kidding? I can't even manage to muster sufficient bitterness. My bank account is in negative numbers, I didn't pay for any of this, mind you, but it makes me cranky when I am in a hole, my entire body aches as if I had actually done something active with my day (which I didn't) and I hate people. Yes. Well, not exactly people. Maybe it isn't that at all.

What I hate about this, more than the crass commercialism, which irks me like fingernails torn from their fingers with no anesthesia, more than the bald, brazen attempts to part people with their money time and time again, shamelessly, and for nothing more than empty spectacle... More than all that, it is this mediation of our space. I don't like being herded, like some lost sheep, through places, as if the journey itself didn't matter. Now the engineers might disagree with me, they might say, no, no, we have it all planned, there are places to rest your eyes, interesting things to keep you occupied while you wait in endless lines...

There were no lines, it is cold in Florida today, but that isn't what I find most troublesome. It is this bizarre need, no, it is this international imperative to partake of some ineffable thing which is DisneyWorld. What could there possibly be that motivates people to move themselves across entire continents to see their culture in a paltry representational form? Nothing! and Everything!

Perhaps Dorfman and Mattelart were right on in their reading of Disney's comics and their imperialist teachings, but what, I wonder, can explain this willful burning of dollars, this relocation of self in order to partake in something beyond oneself, one's nation, all in the name of a stupid stuffed mouse or duck? It can't merely be the American Dream sold hook line and sinker to the international bourgeoisie, can it? I think there is something more. I think that ultimately, no matter who it is, no matter what country they come from, (and here we are speaking in generalities, not particularities), people would rather be told what it is that they should be doing, what concrete actions to take that should be considered "fun", how they can, in essence, arrive... herd mentality at its finest, and I want none of it.

So I try to suck it up and smile, not be irritated by the fact that the main attraction seems to be, in fact, buying useless products made by workers that were paid pittances to inhale fumes or sew until their fingers were bloodied, sold by workers only slightly higher up on the economic ladder who are bound by gag-ordered contracts to never speak of the "magic" to people who, often, go into debt in order to buy such soiled products of transnational flows... Ach. I need to sleep now. I hope that if and when I write here again, it will be under better circumstances.

Semper Fidelis

I was thinking about this today, reading through hundreds of pages of student essays about academic treaties on how the US film industry bullied (in this case) Latin American countries, through coercive economic embargoes. In the case of Argentina, in the early 40's after their refusal to acquiesce to the"Good Neighbor Policy," and manipulative stereotypical representations of Mexico and its people in the big stick Roosevelt era, under the banner of Manifest Destiny: where intervention was cast as just and patriotic even, in a land of people who could purportedly not be trusted to take care of themselves, and whose imagined violence threatened to spill across borders. (Hmmm. sounds familiar)

So today, this day, thinking on the validity of Pan-American sentiment and resistance to the neo-imperial model, and mulling over the images that Fernando Solanas montaged together his the 2004 film Memorias del saqueo, it is quite clear that this so-imagined Latin America is not without its own indigenous problems, that a coherent and viable left is still utopic in many ways, but that much of what is wrong is exacerbated, if not outright caused by, the greed of a few in power who collude, internationally, to control the lives of many.

(Aside, I have no need for celebrity worship, but Pino Solanas, who made the Hour of the Furnaces, and who wrote the Third Cinema Manifesto about revolutionary filmmaking and how to achieve praxis through intellectual work, is one of my heroes, and he'll be here to give a talk in 2 short weeks, I can't wait to meet him!)

And although my feelings about el barbón have always been mildly ambivalent (how can one rule for quite so long and still be of the people?) I am filled with gut-wrenching emotion, I can hear the song broadcast in the radio of my mind: "Hasta siempre, Comandante". And I wonder, what would have happened if Che hadn't died? and what is so threatening in a progressive political view? and then I ponder whether this stepping down of Fidel isn't one more brilliantly strategic move--by one of the world's most brilliant political minds--aiming to position Cuba in such a way as to be able to (God forbid!) self-govern. If he waited to die, the gringo vultures would already be tearing into his still warm flesh, the country picked to pieces in the bloody maw of neo-liberal "free-trade" that benefits only those who can afford to make the bids, not those whose labor will be exploited. This way, a transition can be controlled, and planned, tragedy need not align itself with veiled economic motivation masquerading as concerns for "national security".

And I think for a moment: It is necessary to name names, and to point fingers (like Solanas and others are doing), it is right and just to govern oneself with respect for the work and lives of others, that the Revolution lives on... Hasta la victoria siempre!

A friend in need

I am stumbling through the school week post-film festival madness. I saw more films than I dare enumerate here, the most notable was the antepenultimate, an excellent art film from Belgium: Small Gods. I won't go into details here or now because, well, I feel exhausted and taxed, and overwrought.

I am also on a bit of an honesty bender. I felt like I was about to burst, or simply deflate, so I let a bit of truth slip out. That painful truth that I have a hard time sharing, or hearing. I still have an inordinately difficult time not personally flagellating myself when confronted with other's disappointments in me, but part of this whole ridiculous business about "acting one's age" (I'll be 30 any day now, shit) requires of me some self-responsibility.

So I say, but what I really do, when I begin this downward descent is to collect broken people to fix. The logic is as follows: the more of other people's problems that I can focus on, the more I divest myself of any attention to my own pain. So much so that I can barely feel it. In fact the only reason I know it is there is because I can cry multiple times a day in empathy.

I am not a particularly empathic person (though some might beg to differ) and so, if I can emote for others it is really me just displacing my own sorry ass regrets onto an external source. Self-deception be damned... it still feels better to focus outside.

So I met a woman the other day, and offered her my home. She was sweet and fun, but mostly I think I ushered her under my wing because I could see this trouble in her eyes, and I didn't want her to lose herself to someone that would abuse that. I didn't want some sleazy man taking advantage of her in her weakened state. And she needed feeding. Quite simple. She is not the only one. It seems that several of the women I find near and dear are struggling right now. Winter blues? Not likely in such tropical and sun-drenched places as we live. Although, one can never be sure.

I had my advisor over for dinner this evening. I had made her favorite foods the previous day in preparation. My house feels empty, I won't miss it when I leave it for the eastern shores, I think. Won't miss sleeping in this big bed alone. I can wait to have warm skin pressed up against mine, hands to hold. I am no good with casual encounters. We have established this. We have reiterated this ad nauseum. It is true. And yet, as long as there are friends in need, I will allay my own gnawing emptiness, in lieu of helpfulness. And maybe, just maybe, this feeling will go away.