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Woody, Dylan Farrow

6 Feb

I named my first cat after Woody Allen. Cat’s name was Woody. Yes, this post is about pussy. Pleasure. Psychoanalysis. Problems.

I say often, “I come from a family straight out of a Woody Allen movie.” And note to self, might want to switch that up moving forward.  But it’s true: neurosis in the blood, spirals of self obsession, and Joan Didion nailed it in her 1979 Letter from Manhattan when she writes about Woody.

And then, this too:

“Woody Allen often tells interviewers that his original title for Annie Hall was “Anhedonia,” which is a psychoanalytic term meaning the inability to experience pleasure. “

Everybody’s talking about An Open Letter From Dylan Farrow.

Pleasure. Psychoanalysis. Problems.

Girls.

Of course Lena Dunham and Ann Friedman believe Dylan.

Girl’s girls. Women. Men. Men can believe Woody is wrought with sickness. This can be a gender neutral support of Dylan. I don’t need to spool through a litany of legal. Hashtag Woody Allen on twitter is trending, whatever.

He married his daughter. Moved from father to lover. It’s in his blood, the addict, the narcissist. It’s all about him. For him to insert himself into. His movies, his children.

Wikipedia says:

Narcissism is a term that originated with Narcissus in Greek mythology who fell in love with his own image reflected in a pool of water. Currently it is used to describe the pursuit of gratification from vanity, or egotistic admiration of one’s own physical or mental attributes, that derive from arrogant pride. 

I read her words, and for days after, and I could not get the images out of my head. Heartbreaking transgression. So descriptive, so interior, do the nay-sayers think she got with a strategic marketing group to brainstorm the following:

“I didn’t like it when he would stick his thumb in my mouth. I didn’t like it when I had to get in bed with him under the sheets when he was in his underwear. I didn’t like it when he would place his head in my naked lap and breathe in and breathe out. ”

When I think about Dylan I think about Clinton saying, That woman. 

Monica Lewinski had an affair with the President. She chose to have a cigar stuck inside her and she got off and he got off and then everyone got off. Monica chose. And then, was splayed. And ever since, she vanished. She was silenced. She is silent. And somehow, during all of this, people hated Hillary.  Somehow, public sentiment towards the Hilz and Monica was so negative, while for Bill, not so much.

It’s different here. Sort of.

Dylan did not have an affair with her Dad. Dylan was a child in an unsafe home, and it just so happens her father has power in Hollywood, almost like a President.

Dylan tells us. She is not going to be silent anymore. I stand by and believe Dylan Farrow.

Not so sorry, Slate . The evidence?

An addict’s tracks. Track record. Sex-addict. If you find and fuck one daughter I wholeheartedly believe that you’ve pointed yourself towards another daughter to Play it Again Sam.

Underbelly, Ananda: Bliss is Another, and Another – Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters’ Transgressions

2 Jul

Ford Theatre, Los Angeles. June 24, 2012

Gorgeous Day, Gorgeous Friend.

We sat in the sun and spoke of manifestation as businesswomen, as spiritual seekers, of men and of dating.

Anticipation. We’re gonna hear something awesome.

 

A fierce Marianne Williamson came on stage and she had leopard print heels on. She had a tight-fitting black skirt, and was wearing a tailored white blazer, wearing a tailored white blazer the way only Angelenos do right.

She for sure came East from the Westside, thinking she made a turn on Cahuenga, a Return to Love towards this amphitheatre, to announce Swami Kriyananda AKA  J. Donald Walters- but I find it concerning, after I googled his name after the event.

There was reason to. The second thing I see is that this bad ass spiritual woman with so much truth, she was here for product endorsement, AKA J. Donald Walters.

Then a bunch of popsicle people came on stage. In the program it stated that they were here to perform a song called Memories, their name: The Joy Singers. They were dressed in gowns in popsicle color, folks  super pasty-faced and earnest, in golden-yellow, purple, teal gowns, making a half circle, a rainbow brite boomerang of song.

There was a very large image on a very large placard on stage – not of the highly revered book Autobiography of a Yogi – 

an autobiography written by Paramahansa Yogananda in 1946 but of  Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters’ new book, Paramhansa Yogananda: A Biography by Swami Kriyananda, where he chronicles living with and studying with Paramahansa Yogananda.  

I know, that’s  a lot  of info there. Paragraphs with multi-syllable words make me glaze over, too.

Essentially there is a true spiritual teacher Paramahansa Yogananda above,

and then a guy who followed him –  Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters:

a guy who I am positive had his own very true and real spiritual awakening, and then because of who he is, well, some other stuff went down as well.

That other stuff, he did not talk about during this event, which was essentially his book launch ho-down, but that stuff, this is what all that internets research was for and what I’ve pieced together here.

Oh those summer pops, they sang of  beautiful fountains and light of the heavens  in an alienating way that only church-harmony can achieve, and the J. Donald Walters told a story where he wast at a garden party in Beverly Hills where there were many celebrities, and Paramahansa Yogananda broke it down and spoke on Yoga and the Divine.

Yes, we learned were here to see and hear Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters speak to his absolution, when we came seeking our own transcendence, or at least an inspiring day out under the white light of sun LA.

Picture perfect.

And then, it’s a representative who is here from the Office of  Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa’s Office, and the representative is now on stage.

Politics and spirituality, how rad!

And she said, this here is a Certificate for You, (Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters), For All of Your Work, a Framed Letter of Acknowledgement from The Mayor of Los Angeles. For everything  you do. 

I looked at the gorgeous trees behind the rag-tag gang on this collision course  of an outdoor stage and there was pine and brush, unhindered, swaying, wild and natural, full of yes full of unhindered truth of the universal divine, which has or requires no SKU, no certification from the Mayor of Los Angeles, no product endorsement Maryanne W.

Writing this blog is hard sometimes. In terms of the mainstream- I need to get HBO go so I can watch Girls and write about something that sounds interesting and awesome to write about, inspiring. BTW if you have any books or films you’d like me to review, let me know.

Ok, so then all of a sudden,  Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters  announces some guy called Jon Parsons. He looks like Rodney Dangerfield by way of Breaking Bad. The shit’s just a bit rumpled.

And I knew Christopher Guest was just about to come out on set, I mean stage, to re-direct this scene, try some more improv or something to get the arc of the story just right, because all of a sudden, out of the blue,

he’s saying….see, here, see I am Ananda’s lawyer, and see, I’ve been with this group now for ’bout 17 years, and see, even when I didn’t think I’d be able to fight and win against the sex scandal, the sex case, the sex charges, well, I did, and we won, and I’ve now, I’ve now got a book, and it’s for sale there on the table and it’s called, it’s called: A Fight For Religious Freedom.

…um, sex scandal?

Ok.

So in 1920 Paramahansa Yogananda founded the Self-Realization Fellowship and in 1925 he established in LA the international headquarters for SRF. In 1962  J. Donald Walters, was pushed out of the Los Angeles-based fellowship and in 1968, he established a new community, Ananda, in the Sierra Nevada foothills town of Nevada City, Calif.

Ananda – meaning, perfect bliss. 

And according to the LA Times, in 1998, a jury found J. Donald Walters liable for “constructive fraud” and “intentional infliction of emotional distress” in a civil case brought by a former Ananda member.

A few minutes later Swami Kriyananda AKA  J. Donald Walters he was expounding on some kind of spiritual jazz and he straight up told us he got LASIK surgery for his eyes, and so now his vision is 20/20.

Totally, surgery can really fix stuff.

Now. There’s a site, and it’s called Ananda Wareness Network.

And that event back in 1998 – well, verbaitum: a jury found in the civil case brought by a former Ananda member, Anne-Marie Bertolucci, who said that Kriyananda, while claiming to be a celibate swami, had engaged in sexual misconduct. The jury also found Ananda liable for failing to control its leader’s behavior. During the trial, seven other women also testified that Kriyananda had abused them.


SUPERIOR COURT OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA IN AND FOR THE COUNTY OF SAN MATEO
ANNE-MARIE BERTOLUCCI, Plaintiff, vs.
ANANDA CHURCH OF SELF REALIZATION, a California not-for-profit corporation; CRYSTAL CLARITY PUBLISHING, a California corporation; DANNY LEVIN, individually and ) as an employee of CRYSTAL CLARITY PUBLISHING and/or ANANDA CHURCH OF SELF REALIZATION; DONALD J. WALTERS, individually, and an employee of ANANDA CHURCH OF SELF REALIZATION and CRYSTAL CLARITY PUBLISHING; DOES 1 to 50; 

Woman 1:

13. After several months of giving “Swami” massages, including full body massages, he requested that both I and XXXXX give him a massage at the same time. Until this point, I had given him ordinary massages with no sexual nuances whatsoever. This time, however, it changed. The “Swami” was downstairs in the bedroom on the floor. As I massaged the “Swami’s” neck, to my great surprise. XXXXX began to sexually stimulate his penis, from erection to ejaculation. 

Woman 2: 

12. He offered me a ride from the farm to Ayodhya. I gladly took it, viewing personal time with him as a positive to the spiritual regeneration of my soul. During the ride, he asked me to come down to his house. I went, he asked me to give him a back rub,  in his upper room in the dome part of his house. I did gladly, although I felt very shy, and uneasy, never having been so physically close to him before. He asked me to straddle his back in order to access his shoulders properly. In a few moments he asked me to take off my clothes, as they were irritating his skin, while I gave him the backrub. I was extremely surprised, but, he said some things which assure me, making me feel that he was a pure channel of God and that I had no cause for uneasiness. I took off my clothes, and he then had me resume the back rub.

I didn’t read through the other 5 accounts, no reason to.

I told a friend about the event, and it’s true, he’s right, this is nothing new. From here we can swing on over to the Catholic Church, and then make a pit stop at Penn State.

The verdict of the case:  Walters was judged to have misrepresented himself as a monk, and to have caused Bertolucci emotional trauma, and was ordered to pay $285,000 in compensatory damages, and another $1 million in punitive damages. (On appeal, the punitive damages were reduced to $400,000.) A sexual harassment claim was dismissed before the case went to the jury.

People gather. They come to pray, they come to play. Seeking in a group, a group seeking. A sneak peeking.

Leaders and followers. Number one. Popsicles for everyone.

We didn’t know what we were getting into by going to the event. Expressions: A wounded man, a wounded organization. Before, after.

People they want to connect.  And then there is that lumbering. The lumbering that comes, when people are needing healing, healing from being so open.

So open to something other than themselves, themselves, looking outward, and up, up to those who have failed in every way to be trustworthy, worthy of that hand over of power, hands all over by those who have succeeded in getting their own base needs met.

The expense of quest: spiritual, sport.

Honestly, it has taken me a while to write this blog because I found the whole event really heartbreaking.

The un-oblique PR stunt energy of it all, the Mayor of LA’s presence (How is it approproate for a award from the mayor to be there? How was that arrangement made?), the questions now I have about  Maryanne Willaimson now and her relationship to the Ananda organization, and dollars – the dollars that are always assumed as the antidote.

From J. Donald Walters’ to Dr. Emmett L. ‘Doc’ Brown in Back to the Future,

Flux Capacitor, Williamson, Villaraigosa turning that clock back now with a Hollywood reference.

Hollywood pastiche, pastiche what a word, pistachio, what a nut, and God, God bless you.

It’s that open window of belief–

how it gets so heavily taxed.

It’s that open window of belief–

how it gets so heavily taxed.

Un-innocuous money -like it has any bearing,
restorative powers

a return of the innocence, back

trying and

everything here just another SoCal cliché.

The Bachelorette – Episode 1 – Pink – It’s Off Color, The Whole Bit – horses included.

22 May

Whatcha doing middle America, in the OC, in Cherrycreek, Colorado? ABC’s all up in it, gonna neigh out an old tail, I mean tale.

Cul de sac, leaf blowers, Forever 21. Tomorrow,

it’s Satori, I mean Sephora:

I’ll be  a diamand in the rough mirrored by the mirror,

gonna be taught by the masters -give me a smokey eye just like Kim K.

At the gym I”m in, sweet Juicy sweats. And under
Victoria’s Secret undies. And if I”m a young girl there’s a Victoria’s Secret line just for me- it’s called Pink.

Pink, yeah, just like me, in more ways than one if you know what I mean.

Wonder what the conversation was like up in Victoria’s Secret Corporate on that one.

It’s off color, pink, in that context, no?

Off color, it’s a haze, haze of the 7 deadly sins, ABC7 oh those dwarfs, and glass slippage.

Cinder-elle, I wish you well, yo. Gots to huff and puff and blow dat old house down, ABC.

Southern belle Emily Maynard is the new Bachelorette, and I like her well enough. She has a very tragic story, and she has a lovely young daughter. Kudos to the show to have a single mom on the show. That’s about it.

Daughter in the glare now, mom. Problematic. Concern.

The opening was quite sinister, hysterical, and that’s where I stopped watching. Tried to find a YT video to grab but this for now:  http://abc.go.com/watch/the-bachelorette/SH5556990/VD55201748/week-1

The opening sequence in a house in the Carolinas. We’re voyers through the door, and we see mom and daughter: copies, duplicate. And they’re gonna go nite nite now. Amazingly sexually charged, but not in a good way. Gonna tuck you in now, gonna tuck me in too.

Watching, we’re all watching: bed, bed sheets, and blankets. Barren (house) with a book. The girls gonna get their sleep on. Just turn the….page.

So, we read her, and we’re watching. All alone in a big big house.

Jump cut to momma in the mirror, she says do I look like a princess, yes yes mommy you do. And…scene.

Then it, the horse, it was riding my Hulu,

and inside the screen momma’s she’s a riding, TV producers said yes Emily ride that horse, and it way sent me, way over the arch, the church bells were ringing, I knew it was all going to be ok, it better be ok, because the sunset it’s close, so close,

so close at hand, ring finger is the point her,

the point here, ring finger to be exact.

Hand. The manufacture is almost not worth a note. But how many watch not being a witness?

It bleeds in, the story, the wish, wish fulfillment, tiny hearts, all across the Americas and her export,

wishing to ride it blonde, bareback and that horse; so pretty in pink, isn’t she, TV.

Off color, the whole bit,

hail to the horse neigh neigh and nite nite. Enough.

Get the Rack on the Racks – Man Made Image- Time Magazine Madly Milks the Mamma

12 May

Time Magazine, oh yes you milked it with your man made image. Get the mother’s rack on the racks, we’re gonna make millions this Mother’s Day!

Here’s the bouquet: a prompting, hard-core; a provocation, jizz.

The question posed is: Are You Mom Enough?

*See painting at bottom of blog for a comparison*

Some folks are up there in a Time Warner building in Rock-A-Feller Center thinking about print.

Thinking about mothers and money and how to make it. Yeah, about how to make it, yes, the money.

Oh, I”m just running to Fed Ex my Mother’s Day card back to Telle-hussie, FL – BRB guys to continue this Mother’s Day Cover convo, and I just got to say, I think we’re headed in the right direction…

Really Love the leading question, Are You Mom Enough…..just like I loved your mother last night.

I sure was dad enough for that, boy, let me tell you. Heh heh.

Yeah- we get it, man, we got your mothered selves splayed.

Great concept, team. Job well done.

Hey – listen, men, it’s all going to be ok. Your wounds can be well heeled I mean healed well in therapy.

This image, this magazine, the cover, the text.

–Is that child really wearing camouflaged army pants? So freaking brilliant. Another great art director lives.We see the text referring to other articles on the upper right hand corner – “God of Cricket”- and then on the upper left hand corner “The French Rejection”….yes, in life there are no accidents.–

‪Voilà.‬

This image, text included, has everything we totter on, up, or against: The Child and his War Pants, The Boy Child’s Gaze and his Intonation: What, you want some of this? Well, of course we do. We want all of it. God, war, and the mother’s body.

Everyone, and it’s all going to be ok. Attachment Parenting Gal, just get back to bed now with your husband and your son and leave the photo studio now, like pronto. Life will never be the same. Promise. It’s digital.

And again, the question posed here is: Are You Mom Enough? Pardon moi, but who is doing the asking?

The Blonde with The Breasts, They Are Lacking, So Small They Are: Are You Mom Enough with your Boy-Chest?

OR is it:

Look At Me With A Direct Address To the Lens, Are You Mom Enough, Because This is How I Talk To All My LadY Friends, With One Boob Sticking Out And Posing A Snotty Question Like This One.

Again,

Great concept, team. Job well done.

Heh heh.

So obviously male, the construction. And it is aged, as in dated. This is not from guys I know. All up in Rock-A Feller Center in a room with a white board and all white men 60+ and attending. Get a mom that’s into this attachment parenting crap, but the “kicker” will be we’ll give her small tits. Yeah, that’s a good one. Gonna tie into the tagline…..real nicely.

***

People, the breast, it is natural. And it is for all three: woman, man, and child.

And the breast milk, it is God given, it is nurturance, liquid form.

And the building of child – it’s a fluid transmission: attraction, union, yes – mount to chasm, sperm to egg, milk to mouth.

It is double bonded, it is about bonding -yes – all of this is about bonding.

***

So repressed, us not the French

so us this cover is, yes

so very, very, American.

So forsaken. Life, the life of us, life of a child, life of women and the man who is absent here. All forsaken. Ripped apart here in this image. Everyone is so solo here, when what we are talking about is: closeness. Indeed, attachment.

And breastfeeding is the closest thing to the healthiest thing. By it’s nature – an uncontroversy.

Irrelevant how long it takes to feed and to ween. Private matters for our little private in his war pants.

***

But, baby, breastfeeding, it is animal, extreme B, they are saying,

And I’ve got to make,

make a living.

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FOOTNOTERANT

Here is an image I found online which represents the idea of attachment parenting much better – in 1630 a painting by Pieter de Grebber…..Mother and Child. See how circular is this feeding, the bodies are really touching. There is a feeling of closeness and peace.

VS.

…. Familial Objects. Camera Ready.

Here we see a young woman who looks like she was in my AP English class in High School, she looks like a “blogger” (guys we’re going for the modern woman here don’t forget), she looks UES, she looks West Side, she looks like she just moved to Williamsburg from Ames and she’s on the L train with her new skinny jeans gonna get off at 14th st + get a burrito at Chipolte, and she’s skinny, and she has looks, and she looks like she’s been set up ?can you be so unawares? yeah no really, and her son he is sucking her very small breast (that’s so sexy) and he’s standing on a baby wooden chair dating back to the 50’s (heh heh yeah I remember when I sat in one of those chairs as a boy myself )(everyone don’t worry -he’s an old guy, gonna die off soon), and the kid—————– man, he’s tall, yeah, tall like a Big Boy, and I get this magazine for the articles, really and on the Today Show Jamie Lynne Grumet, 26, said as her three-year-old son Aaron sat on her lap, that the firestorm around the magazine cover went beyond her expectations.

Hand On My Shoulder, I See Dead People: GIs in Afghanistan Posing with Corpses

20 Apr

“As objects of contemplation, images of the atrocious can answer to several different needs. To steel oneself against weakness. To make oneself more numb. To acknowledge the existence of the incorrigible. ”
Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others

PLAYING WITH DOLLS. Los Angeles – 4/19/2012

I’ll never forget seeing the stacking. The pyramid of people. Man on man, all aces, the sadist’s cards, and we all fall down.

All told, Abu Ghraib is old news.

Then again, what news is new when it comes to war. Variations on a theme.

Some people do the dying, some people do the killing, and some are stuck in between. Stuck in a stack. Stack of parts: of people and their remains, of photos and the roles we play.

Yesterday I read in The New York Times that the LA Times published some photos of GI’s in Afghanistan. The GI’s? They been posing for photos with dead people. And the US officials? They be asking the LA Times not to publish the photographs. So give them a hand for publishing the photos. Yeah, give the LA Times a hand – dead hand on the shoulder. Give them a pat on the back with a dead hand. Give it to them, since they gave it to us.

Oh and the soldiers? Come on man, they just messing around with their newfound dead dolls. Army’s 82nd Airborne Division in the house. Afghanistan. 82nd Airborne’s Fourth Brigade Combat Team from Fort Bragg, N.C. Can’t anyone lighten up around here? Jesus. We’re just playing around.

LATimes

War has it’s own version of the carnivalesque. All fool’s day. Puppet playing. Here, the actors become directors, the pawns become kings. And here is the snapshot of trauma: A solider looks to the side smiling. In the background is a dead man. Someone ‘s put the dead man’s hand on this soldier’s shoulder. And someone took a photograph.

It’s a pinched smile. Yeah, something’s pinched a nerve.

We’ll take a photo and we’ll post it on FB! We were here. See, this is when we were at war and I stayed alive and my friend, I killed him. But it’s all good, he’s got his hand on my shoulder. Yeah, he’s got my back. Get it?!

That’s not exactly what happened. These guys are paratroopers. They were told to find the remains and get fingerprints of an insurgent suicide bomber. They totally found their Disneyland destination in the middle of hell. And hell, they decided to grab a photo with Mickey, or whatever his fucking name was.

A souvenir of sorts.

The evidence of living, and yes of dying. In a temporal space; interiors. To me, this photograph maps the topography of spirit gone wrong. Spirit done gone. Spirit is dead, man. Nothing’s here but a machine.

The lens: both witness and buffer. This is real, I am here, I am not here, I am here-not-here. And everyone in the room is saying: this is so fucked up, actually, this is hilarious. Dude, get your camera, yeah and grab his arm. War is so fucking Godforsaken, it’s funny. Are you to tell me that anything is holy here, because, look, I don’t feel a thing.

Yes, Sontag: to steel, to make numb. Yes, to essentially mock the system of war and it’s outcome – that being, Death. Yeah, do it like that. Now hold still!

I look at the photograph, I notice the soldier’s smile lines. Smile lines – probably got them back in the day, before all this, being over here, before reality changed. When I look at the photograph, it reminds me of South Park. Something about Kenny. How shamelessness is how you get a reality TV show and millions in the bank. How everything is up for grabs, yeah like a dead man’s hand.

When I look at the photo, the first phrase that came to my mind was: I see Dead People. Wherever that came from, it came. Came from one lexicon or another, but I never even watched that movie in the first place. I go to YouTube to just watch the clip from The Sixth Sense, going over the lines.

Cole Sear: I see dead people.
Malcolm Crowe: In your dreams?
[Cole shakes his head no]
Malcolm Crowe: While you’re awake?
[Cole nods]
Malcolm Crowe: Dead people like, in graves? In coffins?
Cole Sear: Walking around like regular people. They don’t see each other. They only see what they want to see. They don’t know they’re dead.
Malcolm Crowe: How often do you see them?
Cole Sear: All the time. They’re everywhere.

Trauma, it’s an altered reality, where all the players, paratroopers and suicide bombers have death in common, in different stages, yes in the theatre of war. They only see what they want to see. They don’t know they’re dead. The dead man’s dead, he doesn’t know shit. But he might be better off than everyone out of the bunch. Living dead can be the worst.

Sontag writes, “Photographs objectify: they turn an event or a person into something that can be possessed. And photographs are a species of alchemy, for all that they are proved as a transparent account of reality.” This photograph is an overlay, it’s an expression. At face value, it’s an expression of ownership, soldiers dominate the dead and in turn the war, by making light of it. In the dollhouse, bringing light to the dark. To own that shit. The art directed moment – hand on a back- an attempt to express supremacy over circumstances. It’s clear that movement towards dominance is always rooted in fear. We’re all wrecked. Whatev.

War requires shut down, it’s trauma. The spolier is that Bruce Willis has been dead all along. Just a ghost.

The whole thing is real-not-real. Spirit is long gone. We’re past a Memento mori drive-by: “Remember your mortality” “Remember you must die” “Remember you will die.” Death to all, done deal.

And I’d say that everyone’s a victim, and no one’s a victim. This depends on our make up. How we metabolize and respond to events. We make choices to join in- spectator, actor, author. What preceded the photograph? What happened after? Count the cospectators, count the ghouls.

Yes this act is morally wrong, indecent, has trumped the rules of war. Yes. But that is not the first thing I see.

The thing I see in total is a document of trauma. I see a failed attempt at dead soldier and his dead soldier pals using a dead man like a doll for comfort. I see some guys with a camera working to transmute what they all got, the fucking pain of it all. The war churned the pot. The debasement of each soldier’s spirit is intact. A death mashup of varying degrees.

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