aristo

How many theses are there, now, on Gladys Kravitz of morning glory circle...? 

The stationary feminine lapsed in magically propulsive femininity; that knows and is told it cannot know, sees and is made to unsee, plot swiftly capsized, collapsing into take your medicine, so intones her husband 'Abner', commander, blot it out, for the little lady doth be crazy (ancient Didi-Huberman). In an establishment of character—necessarily foiling—observation, intuition and reception are assumed to be, must be, malicious, finger-pointing and accusatory, drawing up binaries between words and actions or things, and so, meted in counterclockwise fashion, a would-be, could-be Watcher, witness, companion to enchanted expression is born swallowing her chin, the very inverse of caricatured wiccan protrusion...and as her long nose, pure metaphor, pokes in, goading those of imagined warted persuasion to, Bisclavret-style, grab and honk it. In fun.

To encase Sam's secret, she must be convinced of her own powers (a late Season One episode), or, failing at all basic faculties, of her own derangement.

So here is the thing about The Show, about any antinomian container stationed along our highway to an End: to render certain principles—the omnipresence of the irreal—as clear and true, in dressings of the norm, someone is made to butt the joke (there is also, here, the protective valve of Spiderman the musical, suffering actors swapping in and out). As humor always functions, this butt is, in her way, just a tinge removed from median flavor, and yet its enforcer, awaiting a kinder story, one that would nourish humble affinities across the many poles or stations of awakening rather than this version—finally benighting—of backyard silencing and separation.