Scene one –
bright grey light: curtains closed, flapping noisily in the wind woman in yellow shorts and grey sleeveless shirt on used overstuffed couch. Open street window- noise of cars and men unloading from a parked truck. Yells from below echo up the grey slender walls of the building, she thinks: Heavy sweating muscles remind of weight lifters and fragmented ‘cliché’s’ of photographers into the ritual of bodies. From where the woman lays she looks out between the rhythm of rippling curtain, a publicity poster’s suggestive eyes glowing with the unmatched modern ‘fuck me” stare - selling yoghurt like peddling the ultimate Viagra climax between the cleavage of her white cotton T and panties… Notice how a man sells manly things, cars and coffee dressed in suits and ties, or bare chests like landscapes, denuded and dreamy… making me orgasm with desire for his wristwatch, eyes focused on over sized image. Who are they kidding - posters movie screen size of people looking as if they’re about to cum all over me is anxious making. King Kong theory by Virginie Despentes, her particular experience and the sharp words are, clear and do ring a truth that feel good to hear about feminism and pornography, a subtle personal emancipation by learning and knowing how to “see” bluntly, coldly analyzing and sharing her experience without dressing up ideas into escape artist words. It’s ludicrous to say back: your experience is wrong and I don’t want to know about what you have to share. It appears that one can disagree, and it’s even easier to ignore it entirely by pretending it doesn’t exist -shove it far away from every day, until it explodes and bleeds-privately- King Kong despite its large size bleeds privately.
This standardization of beauty feels like a lack of imagination. And tell me, did Calamity Jane ever, I mean did she ever play coy?
Opening the curtains and moving away from the bright grey outline – rectangle is a frame to see through, silhouette on white light, closing dirty windowpane, shutting out noise. She looks up at the curtain rod, two hooks missing making fabric bulge limp, eyes gliding along wall to ceiling. Reflects, surprised to hear her voice – faint – in empty room:
- How’s it going?
And just maybe, if the woman hadn’t read the lines by Virginie, maybe she would have gotten up and finished the laundry, doing what she does, without having to think about the gestures of cleaning a man’s dirty cloths. Because from the book her silent amnesia was awakened by Camille Paglia, Angela Davis, Virginia Wolf, and so many woman who remind her to think about how it feels in a woman’s skin, how “she” feels in her skin and the anger of a consensual silence. Counting and spreading the reasons outnumbered by facts, the clichés and the banal tip toeing around words such as rape, discrimination, abuse, statistics, sexual, objects, orgasm, phantasy, repression...
Wonder about that girl in the bar, who said it was safer to be fat then to have to overcome the aggression of objectifying stares of desire. This is definitely a cultural point of view-a sickness.
Taking her pulse, feeling her mind for sharp thorns that rip the fabric of conventions, there’s a feeling that what ever details are picked up as clues, it’s uncertain if there is any better way to understand them completely then by experiencing it. And what is experience but a life lived, her spirit and body used by compassion to understand clearly. Her couple and this book – between - teasing her mind with – modern feminism – all that she has talked about openly behind closed doors, or more commonly in the open, not talked about at all because “equality” is a heavy burden to invent. And sensing that equality is like freedom, one doesn’t know it’s a feeling until it’s experienced.
All men at some time were brought up by a woman. And all these men, Burroughs, Zappa, Dali, Pound, Pessoa, Marley, Dylan, Sinatra, Smithson, Morrison, Dean, Kaprow, Schubert, Antonnioni, Ginsberg… of delicate minds and fragile warm penis on wilted flesh of clean thighs in flows, flowering bright new inventions and fragile poetry…endless man
All women at some time were brought up by a woman. And all these women, Stein, Smith, Arc, O’keefe, Duras, Abramovic, Cahun, Horn, Arbus, Duncan, Monroe, Nico, Golden, Aycock, Lessing… of delicate minds and fragile warm vulva between wilted flesh of clean thighs in flows, flowering bright new inventions and fragile poetry…endless woman
Good ideas are genderless, she rubs her head between the break of an ache.
Scene Two – “I have a small revolution on my hands and I’m not putting it down very successfully”
All words out of context create new meanings
published in NUKE mag 2007