Occult Observations: The Shame of Descent - A Review of Charlie Chaplin's "City Lights"

The silent comedy opens with the star, Charlie Chaplin, sleeping on a monument that had not yet been revealed to the city. Once revealed, the eighty-six minutes of controversial adult comedy, inspiring more occult shock than laughter, takes off. The monument that The Tramp rests on consisted of three subjects or statues. The Tramp preferred to and succeeded in the pursuit of disregarding what was intended to be charitable and honorable for the people in order to rest in the lap of the throned woman; an indication of sexual preference and loyalty to his origin, maternal energy. He was successful in the endeavor by waiting until nightfall when neither the people or the city could witness the violation. The comedic and simple-desired criminal mastermind’s timing reveals that the hierarchy of the sexes is, in fact, the reverse. Notice the sword of the reclining male philosopher or paternal deity is pointed to The Mother's abdomen. Oh Mother, the pleasurable pain of division, how we fell!

Furthermore, The Tramp, achieving the child's rest on the mother's lap is later educated on the way of the world by receiving a foreign paternal point in the rear end. This adds credence to the philosophy that our art progresses as our society does. Such a painful consequence for evading the responsibility of rising to the attainment of philosopher as every true adult should. While there is no glory in his pursuit of the mother over the woman, those observing the film must admire and be amused by his ability to turn the tables on the shame of his descent from his prolonged stay on the mother's lap. He proclaimed to the world silently. I should have lived as a man with a woman on my lap and now the point has ruined my pants as my discipline from the elders from my gender related cult. But know this, before I resume tramping I will mock those disciplining me! To hell with you Sir, I sit on your face! Oh, I smell you intelligent and curious gentleman, acceptable, but I must stay on course. So, I'll sit on your hand. Look, it’s humorous to the people. They love it! Then he proudly moves on and finds the woman. Mr. Forty Year Old Tramp, welcome to manhood!

Another impressive aspect of this contextual theme is response from those In attendance of the monumental revelation. The mayor's wife and the other ladies in attendance were utterly mortified. How dare he ruin our moment? Didn't he see our Mrs. Mayor’s pull the ribbon so perfectly? Did he not notice how important we are? No, no he did not. The mayor and other officials were deeply engrossed even slightly amused. Then joined the military in outrage when the commotion was noticed. But overall, Mr. Forty Year Old Tramp had a great turnout for his performance and seamless getaway. With a camera positioned far from the scene, realistic portrayals and long scenes reducing the number of cuts, there is no wonder how such a perversely charged artist could avoid prison. Is one not surprised that a man afraid of swimming’s perfect match is a blind girl?

"I Don't Care!"

The 2001 Sony Entertainment Pictures production, America's Sweethearts was a childhood and family favorite. The premise involved a celebrity acting couple that after an approximate decade or more suffers a terrible break up leaving the husband, Eddie, in psychiatric rehab, mourning the loss of his love, Gwen. Instead of the prescribed three months inside, his money and mourning paid for more than a year's stay at the oasis. To his misfortune, profit and popularity trends disturbed his peace and meditation and he was enticed into leaving, causing him separation anxiety. He later sits in the limousine, with a lap full of high quality herbs, wearing sun glasses, reciting his mantras and growing closer in conversation with his limousine driver, one of the first human interactions he had encountered since his release. He then became perturbed by the spontaneous parking on their way to the late movie premiere and the tapping on his window by an assistant. Begrudgingly, he rolls down the window and is bombarded with what he felt were irrelevant questions with obvious answers that his mental or emotion strain could not entertain. He resorts to the only logical solution of throwing the herbs at the female assistant screaming "I don't care!", repeatedly as he then rolled up his window.

Relating greatly to Eddie's emotional attachment to the detachment of the loony bin, I resound to my life's inadvertent and therefore inevitable controversy with a loud proud, "I don't care!". Life tests my self-esteem, self-awareness, path, intelligence, imagination and physical capabilities, strategically and what seems to be pointlessly. I have reason, so why should my hardships? So I flip the bird, swear, and reject all notions of Universe's dominance over my existence to the point of extremism, even urinating and expectorating in the streets, highly anticipating in-patience. I could care less about being teased or labelled or the stigmas of those labels. I've been called crazy every day since beginning my menstrual cycle at twelve. After all, I am Artist, therefore, I am God.

On this overly critical path where even babies in strollers "are looking at me and judging me, the whole world is judging me", I refuse to contradict anyone's opinion of or desires for me. Think what you want, feel how you want, scheme and plan all you want because you all are "totally nutths". I mean, Hell! "I can't even enjoy my chower", when I get to take one! Where's the loony bin?

If I dont 301 myself before your next half witted practical joke of a hardship, I'll will be forced to pour a skillet of hot scrambled eggs in the next "man"'s lap screaming that "I'm sick of all the buuullshit!". That is, as soon as I manage to find a stove and skillet, or a home with a kitchen for that matter. I declare, with the utmost confusion of the highly intelligent trapped amongst the masses of barking microscopic infusions "You're the Devil" you stupid arrogant asshole! Dare one more time that you dont know whether or not to go through with our agreement or "to just hand me the divorce papers" and I'll go flying through your window on a motorcycle as you sit at the sill. Then, I'm a psychopath and you're in danger. Then, call 911 you shivering midget "bathdard". I wouldn't care about you if you were contemplating suicide from the rooftop of an outdoor event, because you need one last attempt for attention and sympathy. "Puthy boy gonna go splat". Though, I'd be up there too, just to be alone and think. Only, you'd claim it were some non existent occasion where a Black American was a terrorist.

Hold the paddy wagon boys and the fake news actors, this isn't a terrorist attack to report on. I can take myself to the crisis center. I'll take the drugs while I wait on herbs and mantras.