Bethany: Part One

From a Hypnagogic Journal:

Bethany, Part One

 

I’m drifting, falling – then coming to with a start, bouncing up from the car seat as I’ve fallen onto it from the sky. I have that weird feeling you get when you wake up in a strange place, and look around, wiping my mouth and trying to collect myself. I know where I am, the gravel turnabout in front of Pierce Tower, but that doesn’t mean that I have any idea of what I’m doing here. The driver’s familiar too – I’ve known Bethany since High School, and we’ve been intimate enough in our day, I can’t seem to remember why I’m with her, or even getting into her car in the first place.

She’s looking over at me, smiling indulgently. We’re here, she says.

Yeah,

I say. I can tell.

She sits there, still smiling, half turned but not moving, evidently waiting for me to get out.

Uhhh, thanks Bethany.

Sure, UBU, not a problem.

She leans closer and there’s an expectant pause, the warm Ohio night silent except for the drone of the cicadas. Bethany and I haven’t seen each other for a while, but that’s never mattered, things have always gotten physical quickly between us, well not always, but always after a certain point, a point we reached a long time ago. I move to kiss her and she quickly cups the back of my head, pulling me closer, her tongue wriggling into my mouth.

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Things that are like annoying!

Things I really find, like really, you know annoying.

1. Like people who always know what day it is, and then like make fun of you because you don’t happen to be a big enough nerd to know the exact specific day of the week it is. I mean really, what difference does it make as long as it’s not Monday, Friday Saturday or something. Do you think a really big star like Ashlee Simpson or Paris Hilton know like that it’s Wednesday or what ever? They just know it’s time to go to the club and hang out and be a famous celebrity like I’m going to be and then no one will make fun of me for not knowing what day it is. Who cares also what month it is because you know they can change in just one day from being like September and then being something like November or what ever, it kind of reminds me of math or punctuation or random stuff like that. Thanks to TiVo and computers and whatever we can now watch whatever TV show we want without worrying what day it is. I think people who who are always saying like don’t you even know what day it is you airhead are really like cavemen or something who don’t understand the 21st century. It’s not like I don’t know the names of the days of the week or whatever, or that I couldn’t find out by looking at my phone which I have to do all the time because I have so many messages from all my many friends who think I’m cute and don’t care if I know what day of the week it is or not anyway. Also the month and date too, and where different countries are and who is president or what ever.

Jimmy and I are going to the mall later and do you really think anyone at the mall cares what day and month it is unless they are like really big losers who have to work there or what ever. At the mall it’s always the same day and the clothes are cute no matter what supposedly interesting thing has happened in the news that day like an atom bomb or something, I mean who cares if some dumb funny looking guy wants to fool around with all that or terrorism or what ever as long as they don’t make me wear those black sheets those girls have to wear in those other countries in Egypt or whatever. So I’m really tired of people telling me that I don’t know things just because I don’t know things or whatever.

Big football game this weekend so I had to look real hot. I think pretty much everybody thought so. Then I pretty much laid around the house but also talked to Cinnamon and a bunch of other people. Parents can be a drag always telling you what day it is and all. I wish we got Columbo (?) day off or whatever even though he is some boring guy who lived like three zillion years ago who discovered Ohio or something.

Yo there’s my phone! Gotta Go! Peace out and shout out to all my buds and boys! Dog!

Brittni

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After Trakl

After Trakl

 

The sun’s buried

In the leafless wood

The moon ripples

In the freezing pond

 

A pale man

Lives in the blue crystal

His cheek resting against the stars

His head nodding in purple sleep

 

Yet, the flock of birds

Still

Stirs the water

Holy

The close stillness

Of forgotten things

 

Heather appears

Young

Shining in Autumn

Yet

Spotted with dark decay

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Bettie III

Bettie III

 

She walked in on her toes

Tippy toes like a toe dancer

And there was this beautiful flawless

Tan body

Tan all over no marks no freckles

No blemishes Miss Perfection

La Venus Des Mers Chaudes

Miss Bluebell Urania and Porne

Transcendental love common lust

White breasted one

She radiated

The adventurous spirit of Bettie Page

Hypnotic Magnetic Uninhibited

She knew her body

Taboo

Nobody is that fresh           Bettie

Came alive in front of the camera

She would give you that look

Like well what’s coming next

Nightgown candlestick Christmas tree

Bettie thought it was playtime

She wasn’t uptight about being tied up

Striporama Varietese Teasearama

Eyeful Wink Titter

Bettie’s Clown Dance

The visual power to provoke

Something inside

Something very specific about the moment

Once she enters your consciousness

You see evidence of her everywhere

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Think what they would have done it had been a kitten!

ANNALS OF CRIME: think what they would have done if it had been a kitten!

Ypsilanti woman punched by teen girl

An Ypsilanti woman said she was punched in the chest Monday by a teenager who was angry that her daughter wasn’t at home.

Ypsilanti police said that the woman reported that five or six teenage girls kicked at her door in the 300 block of South Street at about 3:30 p.m. and demanded to see her daughter and her new puppy.

When the woman told them her daughter wasn’t home, she said, one of the girls punched her in the chest. She was not seriously injured.

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Phyllis Davis: Love Vessel

Phyllis Davis: Love Vessel


Phyllis begins in disguise, with a wig on, heavily made up, looking like a moderately priced hooker, in a silky, loose jump suit – but still everything comes through, most obviously that incredible, best on T.V. body, which manages as time progresses to show not only, like that nurse in Catch-22, two nipples standing out like bing cherries under the thin fabric, but other incomparable riches, the seismic curves of the deep rolling cream of her breasts uncovered in an extreme v-neck as obligingly and semi-naturally she does a series of pirouettes and bend-overs which expose as much firm but shifting softly white as standards and practices will allow – the sound’s off but the situation seems to be one that I can dimly remember – Phyllis’s man is bankrupt, and pimps Phyllis to a lecherous associate to bail himself out – what a scenario! Are we really supposed to hiss the villain boyfriend when he’s pimping Phyllis to the lech the same way Aaron Spelling is pimping her to the audience? Or feel contempt for the dirty old man when he’s ogling her the same way we are? Is there any man out there who wouldn’t rise to that bait? Especially when Phyllis’s strongest inner quality, her vulnerability, which accompanies her outer, brassy sexuality, emerges so transparently – not only in the exposed position of her character and the silly disguise she has to wear and the gymnastics she has to go through to make the lech’s eyes pop out, but, in a certain Marilyn Monroe-like way, vulnerable as herself, Phyllis Davis the actress, who, as a character she played admitted in another episode, is seen first and foremost as a body, cast to display herself to the public in the same way her character’s been coerced to display herself to the villain, vulnerable to the embarrassment of it all, the tawdriness of both actress and character being exploited simply for physical attraction, used like a hypnotic object to separate the viewer from his money.

And yet, along with the vulnerability she projects – Are you just using me? Do you only like me for my body? – the mirror reflection questions of the character asking other characters and the actress asking the audience that shine from her eyes, there’s her undeniable erotic power, her assurance, her poise, her grace, and she’s very aware of it, both Phyllis and the viewer glorying in her physicality, as she moves, so confident and practiced in this dance of seduction, even a slight contempt for the oh so easily manipulated male expressing itself in the ironic twist of her lips, and she’s really teasing us all, isn’t she, promising revelation, taunting us with these hints of her most private parts, flashing enough to keep us drooling from commercial to commercial, while we all know that the censor will never allow her to reveal the most fundamental mysteries of her body, the same way the lech will never actually get into her pants.

And yet, despite the fact that you feel as if the writer is deliberately degrading her, punishing her out of resentment over the power of her sexuality, somehow Phyllis transcends, even within this leaky love vessel, the pseudo-serious sentimentality even more painful than the pseudo-porn, the whole thing a clumsy parody of not only of life, but of art – and still her projection of eroticism, vulnerability and a complex, mysterious consciousness gleams out of the crap of it – like Sophia, the Gnostic first thought, Wisdom herself cast down to earth as a prostitute the same way Phyllis has been cast by demiurge Aaron into a very similar role. Her image lingers beyond any single part, as that modern day minor divinity the Sex Symbol, surrendering herself on screen as you feel she would in life, tender, soft, sweet, willing, but somehow essentially melancholic, fallen from innocence, not knowing, even at the final moment of ecstasy, if she is desirable for her own self, or just for the spirit of lust she engenders, yet needing to experience, to create that desire, sucking it up like her life’s blood….

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Hunting The Wild Duck

Hunting The Wild Duck

 

I first got into Henrik Ibsen’s The Wild Duck while reading Shyness & Dignity by Dag Solstad (I’m sure you all remember my review – 3 out of 4 people find it useful on Amazon!) which begins with the main character having a moment of true insight about the play, leading to further epiphanies about his life and a sort of existential breakdown. I freely admit that I was totally unfamiliar with the play, which is considered his masterpiece in Scandinavia, but much less well known in the English speaking world. Ibsen’s always been on the wrong side of one of those (perhaps false) dichotomies that anchor my critical thinking – sort of as the Beatles to Strindberg’s Stones, but when I was genuinely moved by the movie version of The Wild Duck I thought I might have to reassess that opinion and, who knows, maybe the whole Hegelian dialectic way of thinking.

Fortunately, my rickety conceptual edifice remained intact, thanks to the fortuitous find at the Kiwanis rummage sale of The Modern Ibsen by Hermann J. Weigand. In his essay on the play Weigand writes:

"The Wild Duck" is an instance of the most remarkable self-discipline imposed on a dramatist upon a very active part of his self. The moralist is for once put under lock and key, securely gagged and bound…

The operative phrase for me is "for once" – in other words, even the Beatles could come up with a good song, even if they’re not fit to carry Keith Richards’s guitar strap. It is the oh so P.C., social reforming, issue oriented Ibsen that’s celebrated in the Anglo world, while it’s these very tendencies, in what I admit is a brilliant act of self-examination, whose destructive consequences are exposed in the play.

I’ll also admit that I saw the movie before I actually read the play, but that’s not as bad as a high schooler watching The Tale of Two Cities instead of reading it – plays are meant to be performed, after all, and I usually don’t enjoy reading them. The 1983 production of The Wild Duck packs an emotional punch, despite the murky set looking like it was light by candle light. The cast is very good, especially Liv Ullmann, who plays earth mother Gina. The usually excellent Jeremy Irons is unfortunately miscast as Hjalmar (here called Harold) – he’s just too lean and hungry to play a complacent, flabby blowhard. (UBU much more resembles the part!)

I finally did read the play in the handy Dover Thrift Edition ($2.00 in USA), and it made me appreciate the job the film makers did in adapting it and opening it up. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great play and a competent stage production would probably blow me away, but on the page Ibsen’s programmatic nature and idiosyncracies come through, and the necessary compression of the stage piles the conflicting emotions on a little too quickly.

Here’s one of my favorite parts, the good lines given, as usual, to Doctor Relling:

Relling.

Oh, individuality – he! If he ever had any tendency to the abnormal developments you call individuality, I can assure you it was rooted out of him while he was still in his teens.

And, to bring me back to the beginning, it’s Relling, a minor but pivotal character who is the focus of the obsession of Elias Rukla, the protagonist of Shyness and Dignity, and the subject of his shattering insight, which, now that I’m actually familiar with The Wild Duck, doesn’t seem all that brilliant to me, folding back in turn to lay another level of irony on Solstad’s work.

Dag, this literary stuff can get pretty heavy, huh?

For another psycho-biographical look at The Wild Duck check this rave out:

http://bad.eserver.org/issues/1994/11/bertsch.html

This is the kind of Academic that’s teaching your children, people!

While UBU’s just sitting here – watching the river flow…

YR PAL,

UBU

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Log of the HMS Metaphor: Quotebag

Log of the HMS Metaphor

 

Here arises the daughter of the great Thunderer who emerged from his head without a mother, and she proffers her hand to our lowly mind.

– Lorenzo de’ Medici

 

Indeed she was better than lovely, with her jet of hair and her pale set face, the whipcord knee and the hard bust sweating a little inside the black jersey.

– Samuel Beckett

 

Your salmon lioness face is dawn.

– Robert Lowell

 

I went into the room and Yun rose to greet me. She held my hands without saying a word. Our souls became smoke and mist. I thought I heard something, but it was as if my body had ceased to exist.

– Shen Fu

 

The Temian believe it is the rain spirit going berserk, and, while the men of a group hide in terror, the women strip themselves naked and run out into the clearing, dancing and screaming like demented creatures as they offer themselves to it.

– Richard Noone

 

They shone like golden altars, like spotless slivers of the moon, like rays of the oblation – devouring fire, like marvelous stars. As Agni saw the wives of the supreme Brahmins, his heart went out to them, his senses were agitated and he was in the power of desire.

– The Vedas

 

In primitive religion, religion and sexuality are one.

– Wilhelm Reich

 

The men of whom we speak, after losing the heart’s fresh gaiety, imagined a wild philosophy of pleasure, and came hither to act out their latest day dream.

– Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

I always imagined that you would take me to some place where there was a huge, wicked spider as big as a man, and we would spend the rest of our lives looking at it and being afraid of it. That’s what our love would be wasted on.

– Fyodor Dostoevsky

 

And a strange metaphysical question arises: Whether, when the object of an impassioned love has itself faded into shadow, the fiery passion itself can still survive as an abstraction, still morn over its wrongs, still clamor for redress. I have heard of such cases.

– Thomas De Quincey

 

The love she lacked, and which she had the will-power to refuse, became the torture of her life, an incessant and abominable torture. She had to fight against the fevers of her own body and the irritations from outside, against the facile emotions and lazy cowardice of her flesh and all the solicitations of Nature that assailed her. She had to struggle against the heat of the day and the suggestions of the night, the sticky heat of thundery days, the whisper of the past and memories, things suddenly imprinted within her…Despite everything she could not find peace or a cold heart.

– Edmond and Jules Goncourt

 

Those he would love fear him, with consternation. They wonder at his intense audacity.

– Charles Baudelaire

 

He thought to himself that it would be difficult to come through this adventure without being caught again in her hands.

– Marie-Madeleine Pioche de la Vergne, comtesse de la Fayette

 

My friend, the wisest among us is indeed fortunate not to have met that woman, beautiful or ugly, witty or stupid, who is capable of driving him out of his mind or having him locked up in a lunatic asylum.

– Denis Diderot

 

She is a disease, her flesh is insane. She is the secret of ecstasy and of Gods and of all things that are beautiful.

– Ben Hecht

 

She was the hetaera-teacher, determined to use her own erotically charged body to teach him the lessons of modernity.

– Irene Gammel

 

Ilyin sits opposite day and night, never taking his eyes off her, angered by his own weakness and pale with mental agony. He calls himself a dissolute schoolboy, abuses her, tears his hair, but when darkness comes and the passengers are asleep or get out at the station, he seizes the opportunity to kneel before her and press her knees.

– Anton Chekhov

 

He’d been mad about her in a colloquial sense first. And now he was mad about her in the literal sense.

– Cornell Woolrich

 

Screams. Choking. Hideous torment. Torn screams poured out, choked, grew, broke out. Choking. He held the woman by the wrist and shook her. He tore his hair, beat his fist against the wall, threw himself across the table, fell onto the floor, thrashed about, and then with a long sigh lay still. Small convulsions still shook his body.

Sophie stood bending forward, with an avaricious gaze. She grew. She filled the room. She arched herself into a prayer. She became a chalice. Its edges darted with flame. Higher. More brilliant.

– Franz Jung

 

Sad thought! That unto thee I gave my heart

Seeking for peace, and finding naught but pain.

Seeist thou the bitter anguish and the smart

With which life’s fairest years are taken?

But you and my aching grief

Waken the thoughts that had in slumber lain,

And point to paths, ascending which I gain

Sublime heights that may afford relief.

– Raphael

 

As the novel becomes in the hands of the anti-bourgeois writer more lyrical and more autobiographical than the Richardson prototype, seduction and adultery turn into a symbol not of a struggle between established and rising classes, but between the exceptional individual and conventional society. In this struggle, the woman comes to stand both for the seducer’s reward and his temptation to compromise; while the seducer himself is more and more closely identified with the author, a projection of self-pity and self-loathing.

– Leslie A. Fiedler

 

The rose and the poppy are her flowers; for where

Is he not found, O Lilith whom shed scent

And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?

Lo! as that youth’s eyes burned at thine, so went

Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent

And round his heart one strangling golden hair.

– Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

I looked at a woman now the way I looked at a book. The end had come. So what? Everything must have an end.

– Knut Hamsun

 

She’s gone but the joke’s the same.

– The Psychedelic Furs

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Trifecta

Crime Beat: Another Great Alibi

from Ann Arbor Police Reports

Two housemates returned and saw the thief near another home, so they called 911 and followed him until officers found him sitting on a ledge near the Frieze Building. The man had two metal allen wrenches, a watch, a ring, two flasks, a digital memory stick, iPod arm band, cell phone, keys and cigars in his pockets. The man claimed someone walking down the street gave him the items, reports said.

 

 

from

A Wild Duck by Henrik Ibsen

Gina.

Men are strange beings; they must always have something to pervert themselves with.

Hjalmar (snappishly).

Just so; we must always have something to divert ourselves with.

Gina.

Yes, that’s just what I say.

Hjalmar.

H’m.

 

 

I Saw Her Again Last Night: A Dream Fragment

I’m at Heinz field watching a game – the Steelers versus the Bears, but Pittsburgh’s way ahead so I leave and walk around outside by the river and Virginia rides by on a white horse. I don’t hesitate for a second but run right up to her, Virginia, hey Virginia! Even after all this time she recognizes me right away. UBU! I can’t believe it! she says, getting off the horse. You look exactly the same.

So do you, I say, You’re still so beautiful.

She laughs. You know I always used to think about you – I got a really good grade in my mythology course – I knew all the goddesses’ names because you were always comparing me to them.

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Thunder Perfect Mind

from

Thunder Perfect Mind

 

For I am the first and the last.

I am the honored one and the scorned one.

I am the whore and the holy one.

I am the wife and the virgin.

I am the barren one and many are my sons.

I am the silence that is incomprehensible.

I am the utterance of my name.

 

– Gnostic Text

 

"Do you believe in an eternal life in a world to come?"

"No, but I do believe in an eternal life in the here and now. There are moments when time suddenly stands still, and gives place to eternity."

 

– Fyodor Dostoevsky

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