TAXI DRIVER with Woody Allen

One of the best re-cuts I've seen. I've been obsessed with Taxi Driver for years, and can never rip myself away from it when it comes on TV. It's that musical score, I think, and DeNiro's hypnotic monotone voice. The Mohawk, the white dress, the clapping, the bloody walls. It's all here, folks - and Woody Allen, too.

  Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA

Falling in love again: damn you, Harold!

Falling in love again

Never wanted to

What am I to do?

I can't help it

Love's always been my game

Play it how I may

I was made that way

I can't help it

Men cluster to me

Like moths around a flame

And if their wings burn

I know I'm not to blame

Falling in love again

Never wanted to

What am I to do?

I just can't help it

I am a sap. And I know it. For years now - YEARS - I have pursued this elusive, illusive wild aquatic fowl, as Spock would put it. I have run around and around chasing my own tail.

There is a pattern to this. Falling like a shot sparrow, or an elk with an arrow through its heart, I lie quivering, seemingly dead. Then, mysteriously, sometimes years later, something happens.

I don't know how it happens.

I can't help but feel that my third published novel failed just as disastrously as the first two. I don't know why this is, except that I am not a very good hustler. In today's atmosphere of kill or be killed, that's as fatal as not being able to write at all.

I doubt if I will ever know how to play this game, and that admission is supposed to bring great humiliation down on me. At the same time, I am supposed to smile and act as if everything is fine. There is a slow trickle of articles from people "admitting" they have needed help for depression and other forms of mental illness. But it's quickly tucked away again as we put on our game face and get back out into the fray.

For that's how we "win", isn't it?

Harold enchanted me and totally took me over. I walk away, storm away, over and over again, after a year or couple of years, and I am sure it's "over", which I believe it actually is. So why then am I sending out yet another copy to someone in Los Angeles, making one more email attempt to reach someone in the UK? All my attempts to get someone to notice my book are so far-fetched, they are practically ludicrous, and I might as well save myself the postage. I always feel embarrassed to do any of it, but I am pulled back and forth because I also feel tremendous pressure to do it. And I should be doing it a  whole lot better than this.

Death never appealed to me much, either the death of my novels/dreams, or my own. I keep getting up again. It's stupid. Everything I do here is stupid because nobody sees it or cares anyway. But if I say so, I risk looking like a loser. So let's stay chipper.

Never wanted to. What am I to do? I can't help it.

  Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA

Degraded humanity: Nazi baby farm

This is one of the most horrific things I have ever seen: a Nazi "baby farm", the preferred method of raising the next generation of Superbeings to serve the Third Reich.

So deluded were they that they seemed to believe that rough-handling infants, slinging them around by the feet and massing them together like a product was the best and most efficient way of producing a healthy population of emotionless thugs for the Third Reich. They look like they are all the same age and size, reminding me most horribly of the rigid uniformity in Leni Reifenstahl's Triumph of the Will  They resemble plucked chickens who have somehow survived processing and evisceration. Most of these would either have been kidnapped from invaded countries (if their Aryan blood was deemed to be pure) or bred from blonde-haired maidens and officers in the elite corps of the SS.

How could this happen? we ask over and over again. It's the same thing that happens in cults. People surrender their will. So much for triumph. Babies en masse, surrendered to the Cause. Brains facing forward, all without a single thought.