Nowhere gal.

I can no longer access my personal website (ascarborough.topcities.com). My login won't work, and my repeated messages to the "contact us" page go unheeded. There's no number I can call, no recourse--as it's a free site. So, now my life is trapped in some sort of weird virtual bubble that floated off on May 12th, 2011.

Perhaps that means the May 12th version of Alexandra died and my parallel self is currently typing this. Even if so--and I suppose that would be sort of cool, in a Source Code-y kind of way--it's still frustrating. My parallel self is still aware of the old self, and I desperately want to sync us up. Hell, just to have a conversation, if nothing else.

This is so frustrating. I can't delete the account, I can't update it. It just sits there, hanging in the ether; trapped like a bug, writhing upside down in a pool of water.

Damn it.

Fallen idol.

I followed the recovery of Mike Starr on Celebrity Rehab, a show I initially thought exploitative, but came to appreciate for its purpose. Sure, much associated with reality TV is exploitative, but I do believe Dr. Drew and company honestly want to heal people. If they're accomplishing such things, why not show it to a mass audience? It might actually push someone into action; to realize his/her own problems with substance abuse. The folks at the Pasadena Recovery Center understand addiction. Many of them are past addicts themselves and they want to guide people into positive change. They hope to facilitate the patients' journey into some sort of normalcy.

On both shows--Celebrity Rehab and Sober House--Mike showed himself to be a complex yet caring man who sincerely wanted to heal. He went through some very rough times (ever see anyone throw up mountains of barf on-screen, folks?) but he always stayed for the next step. He wanted to live, to feel worthy again. Unfortunately, the death of Layne Staley haunted him; it was something he mentioned time and time again during the series. He felt so much guilt for leaving Staley that night--after an argument--never to see him again. When Mike saw Staley's mother for the first time after Layne's death, I really thought that could provide the crux--a turning point for pushing through to sobriety. I was wrong.

Starr showed up on the penultimate episode of Celebrity Rehab 4--along with success stories Mackenzie Phillips and Tom Sizemore--to give support and encouragement to the new group. I was so proud to see him with bright eyes and hope; somehow, he felt like a brother.

For whatever reason, Mike chose to return to drugs. While not ingesting something as harsh as his previous addiction, heroin--I can imagine him reasoning "it's just to help me sleep," or "this is nowhere near the level of smack"--those mind-altering/numbing substances helping him deal with his ongoing existential pain still killed him. I'm not judging him at all; I understand crippling guilt. I just wish he could have held in there--by trying to keep up with his Sober House peers, if nothing else. But the ghosts that had haunted him since 2002 (hell, years before that) wouldn't let go of his psyche.

Truly...rest in peace, Michael Starr. I have no doubt your struggle inspired thousands of people. And although you may have succumbed to the raging and demanding demons of guilt/addiction, you illuminated my own experience. Thank you.

I think the afterlife probably doesn't exist, but if it does, I genuinely hope Mike and Layne are reacquainting themselves and laughing over the inconsequence of this mortal coil.

Unfinished business.

Everything we build up, achieve, hope for will eventually degrade, stop, slip away from us. Once we admit and accept this sobering fact, we might be liberated. We might even begin to enjoy our journey rather than worrying about where it may lead.

Then again, maybe not.

Image copyright 2007, Alexandra Scarborough.

Awesome vid.

I know Em says this album sucks, but I love this song and video. Dark and brilliant and a commentary on his struggle.

3 A.M.

More writing

I've been writing a column for the Independent Collegian, the University of Toledo's student paper, for several weeks now. You can access my other columns here, but there is one in particular I'd like to post. It concerns a young UT student who was killed in July. I received a letter of thanks for it this week; it meant so much that something I wrote might have given his family and friends some comfort.

On Roads Not Taken

Anamnesis

Descrip

Def

Delve

Now that all the smoke has cleared...

...and most everyone's had their say...I figure this article/eulogy is appropriate:

Heath Ledger (1979-2008)
I read this in a hard copy of Rolling Stone, and I think the edited version presented there has more impact. However, the online version is still affecting, and just like when I saw Brokeback Mountain, I was absolutely wrecked by the final line.

Why Gahan Gets It.

I don't know that anyone in entertainment has so fully immersed him or herself in the deepest pits of debauchery and blackness and has emerged as amazingly reflective and implicitly conflicted about it as Dave Gahan. He is strong; he wants to walk the steady path, but his work--lyrically and visually--points to what I believe is a deep longing to get back to those horrible but illuminating moments, and a marveling that even he can't believe sometimes that he lived through it it all. Goddamn, his work only gets more interesting.

I'm not an ex-heroin addict who actually died a number of times--like Gahan did--but so much of what I see in his life resonates.

Great interviews:
Sentimentalist Mag

The Observer
Great videos:

Stealth-times and sad-times.

~~~~

R.I.P. anniversary for Edgar Cayce...a Kentucky boy with amazing gifts...who grew into a man with a heart bigger than the whole, wide world.

To Walk the Night.

This semester, one of our readings in my World Lit class was Virgil's The Aeneid. The character of Dido really got under my skin, so for a final assignment, I chose to continue her narrative a bit:

Dido in her eternal walk of night
Finds no respite in that, her hollow death
Given on the pyre of her marriage bed.

In that moment, an act so just and pure
The sword, a treasured gift of Dardan love
Deeply plunged, to fly on wings of Isis
But leaving no emotion behind her
Her wound bleeds bright in the Underworld.

Sychaeus again by her side, steadfast
Should give some succor to her ravaged soul
Instead, the memory of Aeneas' tears
Blends into one with her eternal flow.

Not that anyone will even want to post this elsewhere, but if you do, please at least link back to me. Thanks.

The End of The Sopranos.

(Spoiler alert--please read only if you don't mind knowing general details of the show; specifically, on the final episode. I don't feel what I say will damage your ultimate enjoyment of the show, but, if you're like me, you'll want to absorb it on your own, first.)

I don't have HBO, so I was unable to watch the final season of The Sopranos in real time--but I finished it last night. I knew there was some question about whether Tony died, but other than that, I managed to successfully stay away from any larger details of the end of the show (with great effort, I might add--I was constantly stopping up my ears or shutting off the radio in the days after the finale).

I came to the show a reluctant viewer. I've never been a big fan of the gangster genre, and hyper-violence has never had an appeal for me, either--with the exception of works like A Clockwork Orange and Natural Born Killers, where said violence was intended to drive a larger point home. After the first season of TS, however, I was so wrapped up in the psychology of the characters and the richness of performances, that I was hooked.

It's true there have been waffly episodes over the entire run, ones that meander a bit--but to me, they have ultimately fit into the larger narrative. People complained about the 5th season, but it was one of my favorites. The storyline that revolved around Tony's decision to kill his cousin revealed his previously unseen capacity for the most intimate kind of evil. There was always something in every episode to drive forward the arc of the series--and the inevitable conclusion of destruction.

Starting with the first part of season 6, we begin to see tangible breakdown of the system--and no more than in Tony, himself. After being shot by Uncle Junior and traveling most of the season through his haunted netherworld of dreams (always containing huge metaphors--I loved the use of this device in the series), Tony returns to his position of power a weakened man. He knows it, and everyone around him knows it. In the second part of season 6, we see him attempting damage control (but always placing it outside himself--Christopher's murder, anyone?). The unattended asbestos that piles up everywhere and ends up getting dumped in plain sight is another beautiful metaphor for the shit that's really not getting dealt with; is becoming insurmountable in Tony's world.

A.J.'s suicide attempt put me in near hysterics. You can say what you want about the actor or character, but he masterfully played his emotional wrestling with living as a sociopath's child. Wouldn't aimlessness and despair be the logical outcome? Tony's rescue of him (and subsequent anger) was clearly a rescue (and subsequent anger) of/at himself. That was one of the most horrible/beautiful moments I've seen in television.

The final scene--left me, like many others, momentarily puzzled. Did the DVD have a blip at the climactic moment? No, surely not. Then, the quiet 10 seconds of black clued me in. I sat, gaped-mouthed, going..."Wait...did the suspicious guy...no, wait. It's Chase's visual metaphor for..." I did this for at least a good 20 minutes. I had my suspicions, but I decided to weigh in with the online geeks and get their two-cents' worth. They reminded me that in the beginning of the season (and also as a brief memory in the penultimate episode, which no one seemed to comment on), Bobby made a comment to Tony about getting whacked. It was “You probably don’t ever hear it when it happens, right?”

So, my opinion is, whether Tony really died in that moment is irrelevant. The blackness/silence shows what is the inevitable outcome for Tony--he is always (as is clearly shown in the scene) going to be looking over his shoulder, is always going to be one step away from getting killed. He has burned too many bridges, hurt too many people and ingrained himself too deeply into this enterprise not to ultimately wind up someday on the other end of a gun.

Since Chase's writing and direction is so heavily laden with metaphors, I also think the silence/10 seconds of black (which he reputedly wanted to be 30 seconds long, but it was rejected by the network), served as a way to communicate all the unfinished business of the show. Unfinished business in relationships, in reconciling one's past hurts, in feeling guilt over making devastating, immoral choices. This is not a show that could be neatly tied up at the end, with Tony either "going straight" and attempting to make up for ills or getting whacked as some sort of retribution for all his past horrors; no--the whole point of the show was to make someone so reprehensible, so morally bereft, human to us. It's a terrifying idea, something difficult to reconcile when you really pin it down--but nonetheless, you feel something for this guy, for his friends. You understand and allow some of their behaviors. Chase forces you to look at that; not to have some sort of easy fix or finish. And that is to me, is the most important message of the show.

What a fantastic piece of work, from all involved. It will certainly linger with me.

Philosophy can't help me through this.

It's weird to have immersed yourself in a discipline that questions and attempts to clarify the makeup of and reasons for existence, but find yourself on a Friday night, half drunk and half sick, feeling like you're back at square one.

This week, a dear, old friend of mine lost his older brother to suicide. Today, I went to the funeral home to show my support, and it was as if I felt every ounce of sorrow being expressed in every fiber of my being. I recognize I can't even begin to imagine the sort of sadness that the family feels, because, despite the pain, there is still an element of remove for me. But what I'm trying to explain is that watching them cry over the body, hold each other in their sorrow and desperation, was almost more than I could bear. I felt like I was a voyeur on what should have been a private moment, only for them. As we always do in these situations, we relate it to ourselves; put ourselves in their place and wonder how we would act/react if it were a member of our own immediate family who took his or her life. Jesus, it was so horrible. It makes you feel so helpless, so embarrassed, because there's absolutely nothing you can say that doesn't seem trite or meaningless.

Immediately after going to the funeral home, I had to teach a class at the Lexington Arts and Science Center. It was supposed to be fun and happy; it was, quite simply, a class on cats--for the K-3rd grade set--but it seemed every personal story that came up involved some sort of cat death, to the point that one kid even commented on it (quite amusingly, I might add). I guess it helped a little, but keeping 13 hyper children under control is never fun after the emotional tumult of what came before. Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I sit here with a slamming headache, despite taking acetaminophen, despite having a couple of beers--just sort of feeling sorry for myself. And feeling guilty for feeling sorry for myself.

Don't know what I'm going to do with the rest of the night. Probably drink some more. I have a DVD of the film Troy; I'll probably watch that. Nice, uplifting stuff from Homer, no?--but maybe that's just what I need. I need to wallow a bit in the confusing, beautiful horror that makes up our lives. Anger, fear, love, happiness, hate, sorrow, death, destruction. I need to remind myself that in the pursuit of understanding and explaining, we still don't get any further in preventing it from affecting us.

The lessons never stop coming full circle, then they begin again.

Well, the day has not started off well.

I just learned that one of the world's last truly innovative filmmakers and artists has died:

Ingmar Bergman

His work has informed my own art (and so many other artists), for years. What a major, major loss in the world of film, writing and stage drama.

Today will definitely be a sad one for me.