Amid the thousands of options, I like these two pictures of sister Anna. They are so atypical of the dominant images she presented to the media over the years of her alleged celebrity. Plaid and sad cowgirl, with the far away eyes and edible candy necklace is my hands down favorite. Enough is enough, "Talk to the hand," speaks it's own volumes.
Without question, Anna Nicole sent the media engraved invitations to her performance. She became gluttonously fixated on their fixation. She exploited and benefited from the symbiosis, although I imagine she came to deeply resent their parasitic existence following her son's death, if not sooner. Her insatiable pattern is no surprise. Her death at 39 should not be either. Addiction is addiction is addiction, no matter how big the pay day or how bright the lipstick. Addiction is the surface manifestation of deep truth, hidden from view and deathly afraid of the light. Left untreated, it's a dead bang killer, natural born and nursed to beastly proportion through self-medication.
We all know today's "press" has no off button, other than signs that the cash is drying up around one of their overly whipped posts. It's the one and only switch capable of shutting down the lights and killing the power on the magnifying telescopes of these voyeur cannibals.
The death of Anna Nicole Smith is no tragedy. Tragedy necessarily involves the conclusive overtaking of a protagonist by the superior evil it has valiantly battled. Anna's death is very sad, regrettable and unfortunate. But Anna was in bed with the unnatural force that made her and eventually broke her down. It is the all too predictable closing chapter of a troubled life arrested by serial flirtations with all manner of identity crises and lack of grounding in reality. That is to say, she had too much of the faux reality of the material universe and far to little of that which is ultimately genuine and completing. The stuff that lives beyond shape and form, and that which neither eyes nor cameras can never hope to capture.
I hope Anna is at peace. I have no such wish for the scavengers and zombies who will no doubt whip the carcass of her life cut short until it flows with water instead of green blood. Show some human dignity. What am I saying? I'm talking about the media machine!
I want to leave you with a personal favorite line from someone who learned a little bit about over-exposure to artificial light. And in his case, as compared to Anna Nicole and a good many other mortals, there was a vast and porous surface on which the light could land and lose itself. He was much adrift, but that's for another post. I don't know if you've noticed, but we humans don't seem to possess the constitution to bear up under the worship and adulation of other mud people. It merely increases the rate of entropy and magnifies the gross imperfections so painfully obvious to us as we view ourselves in even the smallest flicker of candlelight.
Can you give me sanctuary?
I must find a place to hide;
a place for me to hide."
-Jim Morrison (1943-1971)
-t.
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