The Celluloid Psychosis/The Destructors: Barbenheimer, Destroyer of Worlds and the Similitude Universal.

 Something for everyone, almost, the hard to digest 3 hour extravaganza of machismo and cigarette smoke, steampunk elegance, the destruction of Japan, eating the world.

And then Barbie, the best of the other lot, decides she has thought about dying, which begins an odyssey of dull philosophical proportions; indeed, the aesthetics are right, all the way around, and the larger questions are right, this time around.

On the opening day, my tarot read had both the Devil and the Star, ugliness in all its elegance, and beauty, and dreams, and all that.  Meanwhile, the woman was in Ireland, in a clover bikini, four petals stretched across each breath.

I was parsing the macros, and manipulating elements in the microcosm.

Cilian has his moment in the sun, and seemingly, Margot, the role she was born for, perhaps, the right woman at the right time, and perhaps she'll die now having given us a particularly right thing, like all the rest of them gracefully depart before becoming tiresome usually, that or they linger on in infamy, doing adds for the DNC political campaigns, the rags-to-riches class, the free money versus the Exceptionalism.

And an explosion that the alien race saw from across the gulf of stars, a markedly bright light, from the nuclear test, that drew their interest in this destructive little collection of ants on this blue and green ball.

Margot was, in the Tarantino film, a Janis Joplin singing for her life, before the audience rushed the stage and brutally devoured her: even the toenails.

The machelaise, the existential flotsam and jetsam of Hollywood, deigning to become relevant, with ideas, ideas, ideas, and not so much comic book fodder to be found, Nolan moved on gracefully in his own wright.  And Margot established, proclaiming her moment: it is something to be envied, where it seems they may have, this once, gotten everything right and provided a little something for everyone.

The pendant I too wear is the commonality of some form of showman ship, some form of aesthetic presentation, trying to "sing for my supper", bring some kind of enjoyment.  In bra and panties, waiting for my smoke break, one leg thrown across the amplifier cabinet, twiddling my toes merrily in idleness, somewhere between, in the that vast desert, between confusion and pure mental emptiness, a man unaware, according to the Tao and Socrates, ignorant of the vast worlds he does not yet know, and may never even sense.

I thought it a universal similitude, the "something for everyone" kind of thing, is a few strokes as possible, artful in its elegance, the least brushings for the most possible meaning, and these too, spoke to me across the gulf between Hollywood, Washington and South Carolina.

I saw to the indifferent art of autistic child, just letting the mind and hand become one, and the world was coming to life on pieces of manilla paper, in ink and pencil, and it beguiled my own 207 that I do more art: that good art propagates good art, or that any old stuff propagates any more stuff, and meanwhile at Oak Island, she was posting things on Facebook about not wanting to have any more children, a used-up mammie, maybe, overburdened, but she had not, in her own walk, seen the good yet, not the best of yet, not the decency and dominion of the empty moment, not the happiness of indolence, the complete Tao of smiling in the sunlight despite so much clap-trap and rigormorale, or things like that.

The silence of a moment that speaks out loudly the autobiography of a life, and meanwhile, Cilian smoking a cigarette, pondering death and destruction, while his conscience slaps at his tonsils, and Barbie herself, the beauty icon, parsing the questions of life and death and the gulf between, the gulf hereafter, and all that, and the girl at Oak Island wanting just to have a cake and drink something with alcohol in it, something that would make her forget what she had known too well.

But there are other worlds than these.

Me, too, face hidden under her shirt, cleaning her belly-button with my tongue, making a kind of Levitical sin offering of all the world, and reflecting in a skewed form across the boards of the porch floor.

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