La petite mort

Do we mourn it or should we yearn to die it together

a thousand times, night upon night upon night?

As dusk falls, and crepuscular creatures take control of the air

the senses, the electricity that holds us in thrall to ourselves

and the sparks that fly chaotically between us -

So we find our minds wandering, our dreams hazing

and the slim thread that binds our thoughts to our bodies

becomes taut, tense, resonating at a higher pitch.

When struck or plucked or merely brushed against

the chord produces sounds, sometimes cast from heaven

sometimes flung violently from hell.

Both are embraceable, both can be magical

both are impossible to repeat or recreate at exactly the same pitch.

St. Moritz Club

In a few hours, we will create an illusion.
You cannot place me.
I have already placed you.
Vacuous. City boy. Driven to the point of self-destruction.
You will draw blood. I will taste it.
But for now, you are just another prospect.

I have been watching the crowd.
Chic automatons. Coked-up baby dolls.
A mini-skirted version performs
Some interpretive dance.
Edie Sedgwick, three decades too late.
Tragic. Dishevelled. Utterly ridiculous.

And the suited gentlemen, out for a fuck
Are creaming themselves
Over pubescent girls.
Vodka sipping. Feet tapping.
Regulars since 1990.
Their vinyl affair is intellectual.

Gloves on, seams flat, and lipstick sealed.
Our elegance belies intention.
I hold my dance partner close
But look over her shoulder
Deceiving wallflowers with our embrace.

Tonight, there is a lust for duality
A human instinct, transient, but necessary
Figures float away, The night winds down
And I feel the chill of solitary.

You know a secret. We leave.
A long line of black silk leads your eyes
From my heels to the knees
Which you will wrench open.

Moonlit, the night acquires a dignity.
It is not mechanical. It is not permanent.
It is a moment.
A recognition that beauty transcends aesthetics.

We could be anyone.
I do not care for your name.
It is the illusion of intimacy I crave.

Soho at daybreak. A Dalí painting.
Outside a café
We discuss economics
While kids beg for spare change.

There is nothing to contemplate
We will hold hands as strangers.
We will walk. The click of high heels
Punctuating the silence between us.

I have pictured it.
A leading lady bound in public noir.
My mouth parted.
The same pink as the flesh of my sex.
Fingers. Glass. Beautiful agony.

With your long overcoat
And your generous lips
You invoke a young Belmondo
And I want to be your Jean Seberg
‘A bout de soufflé’ in the rain.

Lace me up

I am a bad girl. A very bad girl. Well, let’s not dwell on the obvious…

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I have a little confession to make. I, Mistress of Wanton Ways, have just purchased that most irresistible instrument of pain. I have purchased a corset. And not just any corset. Oh no.

Behold, its black satin, steel-boned, and back-laced beauty:

So, what do you think?

I have long been enamoured of What Katie Did and its beautiful vintage reproductions. I was always happy to admire them from afar. Yesterday, however, my mind was in a state of unrest.

Forget it, I thought. There are more important things.

Oh, I am not proud of my expenditure. Believe me, I am not. But how long I have desired that feeling: a gentle tug of pain, as lace by lace, the garment pulls you into shape. The wearing part is not so gentle. But I’m a tough kinda gal.

My corset has a name. No, not a personal term of endearment, for I am yet to be encased in this satin fortress. Indeed, the introductory pronoun is still a novelty. My classic overbust corset is called Scarlet. A suitable name, I believe, for its similarly sinful owner.

You may have noticed the uncustomary straps. I was tickled by the additional description, which assured buyers : “this is the perfect corset for energetic dancers.” I am not of the energetic persuasion when it comes to dancing, favouring a hip shimmy and a mischievous air. Still, there is something tantalising about those buckles. The cold harshness of metal. The ying to the satin’s yang.  My garment is at once strong and vulnerable.

Scarlet might look innocent, but she’ll take four inches off your waist. I hear you gasp, dear reader, but those four little inches are nothing at all.

Every story has a dark side and the corset is no stranger to this truth. It was 19th century actress, Emilie-Marie Bouchaud (known as Polaire), who first popularised the 15″ waist. The Bouchaud of today is Dita Von Teese, with only an extra inch of flesh beneath her corset.

Tightlacing isn’t for everyone. Oh no. It’s for this reason that the phenomenon is outside of mainstream interest. Committed tightlacers wear their corsets for at least twelve hours a day, the most serious  of them removing them for bathing purposes only. Prolonged wear can reduce the waist size significantly, but the hourglass effect comes at a price.

I am not about to go into the physiological dangers of tightlacing. There are extremes in everything. Know thy limits!

Ladies (and gentlemen – you wear them too!), it goes without saying that a corset requires patience and great skill, not to mention a steady breathing pattern. As you well know, patience rarely features in my vocabulary. Nevertheless, I can submit a little for the art of the squeeze.

I once took part in a piece of devised theatre which challenged the myth of the inferior woman from antiquity to now. As I recited a famous speech by  19th century suffragette, Susan. B. Anthony, I was laced up in a shocking contraption. A greying affair, not nearly as divine as my Scarlet.

Why, dear reader, do I summon my days as an actress?  The corset in that scene had a very distinct purpose. As my waist was modified in between gasps, I was gradually silenced. Despite endless campaigning, this woman would not live to see her dream fulfilled. Indeed, almost fourteen years would pass before the 19th Amendment (granting votes for women), was honoured in the United States.

We’ve a long long way to go in the emancipation of women (and not only women), but the corset remains, for me, a powerful metaphor for revolution. I believe in a constant need for social reform, but as a young woman in the 21st century, I can acknowledge that a lot has changed for the better.

I can almost guarantee that some of you will be reading this all agape, clutching mid-riffs to ascertain their liberty. Like I said, it’s not for everyone, but as a lover of all things past (the music, the film, the fashion before it turned vintage), I couldn’t omit the corset from my reveries.

Take the corset as a fetishistic symbol. What might once have been associated with social restraint is now a homage to a certain way of life for many. A liberally chosen way of life that goes beyond the boudoir and has a lot to do with freedom from socially-constructed norms.

You won’t encounter a corset in your local discount store. Rest assured, I am of the budgeting persuasion when it comes to most things, but there are others which require a skillful pair of hands.

Amid today’s shift dresses and empire lines, the nipped-in waist is my glimmer of past elegance. As the owner of a naturally small waist, I cannot fathom the desire to encase my torso in shapeless fabric. It’s one thing about myself with which I have absolutely no qualms.

I await Scarlet impatiently. Until then, strap me in and lace me up!

(Update: Said corset was worn out last night. Could barely breathe, and dancing was a challenge but OH it felt good!)

Seduced? A bit.

I had been dying to go to this exhibition. Full of anticipation, I took the Fuck It approach to finances, and booked my tickets. All in the name of creative research, you see…

The exhibition was ‘Seduced: Sex and Art from Antiquity to Now’ at the Barbican Gallery in London. Now in its third and final month, Seduced has included a performance by a burlesque troupe,  a talk with renowned sexpert, Tracey Cox, and viewings of the most controversial films dealing with the all-pervasive subject of human sexuality.

I find myself before the gallery. (Aside: the Barbican is an architectural mistake, both inside and out. I gape, jaw-on-ground, for some minutes before I remember to keep walking) A silver bowl of condoms graces the ticket desk and looks rather elegant in a kitsch kind of way. There are pheromones in the air.

‘Seduced’ is the only exhibition in Britain with an over 18 rating. There’s something delicious about that number. When a book has been banned, I’m first in queue for a copy. When a new film is released with a claim to revolutionise cinematic history, I’m in the front row with popcorn. I’m only human. And insatiably curious. I’m an open-minded-almost-impossible-to-shock kinda gal, but I thought I might emerge from ‘Seduced’ mildly ablush. And did I? Read on and find out…

In room number one, I am greeted by the giant fig-leaf used by Queen Victoria, to preserve the dignity of Michelangelo’s David. Queen Victoria allegedly refused to outlaw lesbianism on the grounds that it simply didn’t exist. Women didn’t do that. The atmosphere in the gallery is stifling. I’m hoping the metaphorical collar is loosened up soon. In the words of Helen Lawrenson,”whatever else can be said about sex, it cannot be called a dignified performance.”

There is something going on in every corner. To my left, a flashing pink sign by notorious(ly overrated?) Tracey Emin, poses the question:

I’m sure there’s something meaningful about this. Still, I’m significantly underwhelmed and irritated: the reaction I have to most of her work. A 45 degree turn shows an early Warhol film called Blowjob, depicting a man in the throes of ecstasy, but only from the shoulders up. I like this. It is at once selfish and unpretentious. There’s no hiding from the overbearing face, strategically placed to watch you from any point in the gallery. Agony is beautiful. It’s also unusual to see male orgasm objectified in such a way for the predominantly male gaze. Warhol’s sexuality makes the artwork doubly significant – it is both groundbreaking and totally demystified.

This dynamic is later challenged for very different reasons. KR Buxey’s Requiem is both a homage and counterpoint to Blowjob. The video installation depicts the female artist receiving oral sex in the same face-only frame, with Faure’s ‘Requiem’ adding a dimension that is lacking in Warhol’s piece. There is something about a sequence of facial contortions played over melodramatic music that is unabashedly amusing. Buxey’s film has a sense of humour. Walking out of that little viewing room, however, something clicked. The female orgasm of the porn industry is either faked or irrelevant. Here, it’s an intricate, unadorned and incredibly candid portrait. It’s not fake. It’s not injected with silicone. It’s very real, and very moving.

My favourite piece was a photographic montage by Nan Goldin. Heartbeat is an ode to sexual love, played to a sublime and haunting cover of ‘Kyrie Eleison’ by the wonderful Bjork. Kyrie Eleison is Greek for ‘Lord, have mercy,’ which, when considered in the context of sexual pleasure and gratification, inevitably raises questions of guilt in a religious framework. Sadly, many are shackled by their faith, not, as they believe, guided by it. Sex is natural. It’s normal, and so is the need for pleasure. In a world dominated by religion, it can be a frustrating and alienating place for a non-believer. Goldin’s piece is timeless, immensely significant and it moved me almost to tears. I think it’s impossible to ignore the questions it raises, and I hope, more than anything, that it acts as a logical intervention to those plagued by unneccessary (and often self-destructive) guilt.

The exhibition succeeded on a lot of levels. It waxed and waned between mild arousal and earth-shattering climax. At times, the Guardian crossword seemed more thrilling. I guess I wanted more, but just what ‘more’ is would involve a lengthy debate on censorship. That, kids, is to be covered in another chapter.

Seduced is a portrayal of sex from antiquity to now. That’s over 2000 years of the stuff. You wanted to know if I left with a slightly roseate glow to my naturally pale complexion? Well, I saw a lot. From anally inserted whips to  graphic Japanese brothel art and magnified anatomical studies, there was certainly enough to make a shy gal blush. But I am not shy. Unless I have selective vision, however, I’m pretty certain that no space was given to the exploration of lesbianism.

Did I miss something? From Sappho to my own experience, I’m in no doubt over its existence. Am I blushing? No. I’m just a little perplexed…

I suppose Seduced wanted us to consider whether sex and sexuality have changed much in the last 2000 years. It seems a shame that such an eagerly-anticipated exhibition left a lot of (vitally important!) ground uncovered. Still, it showcased some worthy pieces, and took me on an interesting, if slightly anti-climactic journey.

Les liaisons dangereuses

I’m no evolutionary psychologist. I’m not a therapist. I can’t guide you through the neural processes of emotional attachment. I am, however, a ‘serial monogamist.’

Last night I was thinking about monogamy. Does it exist? Can it? The internet is a web of deceit, full of people looking for no-strings-attached fun. It’s a lonely old world after all. Why shouldn’t we turn to the internet in our search for romance (or five minutes of lust)? Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Imagine a person. The person in question is married to someone who’s not romantic, emotional or tactile. It happens to be Valentine’s day (that day I omit from my calendar). On that special day, he buys his wife some lingerie, “not too sexy, in pretty colours.” Then he cooks dinner, tells her she looks fantastic, and makes her feel loved. He gets nothing in return, “maybe a peck on the cheek if I’m lucky.”Had it been an isolated occasion, you could put it down to any number of reasons. But it was not, and his wife does not intend to show any affection. He’s a loving dad, and would never leave his kids. So why, he asks, shouldn’t he have an affair? The answer should be simple. Life, however, is not.

Recently, a new drama started on the BBC. It’s called Mistresses, and follows the lives of four London women who ‘shag’ (their choice of word, not mine), their way through IVF, bereavement, confused sexuality, and stalkers. Albeit in very different ways, each character is betraying someone. I’m hooked. I guess I’m hooked to the uncustomary life events that enliven an otherwise dull Tuesday night. But I’m also angry. I’m angry that infidelity is laced with nonchalance, and presented to us for careless consumption. OK, I want to feel true anger, but I can’t. I know it’s television, but I give a damn about these characters. Human compassion tips the scales every time. My sympathy wavers from time to time, but for the most part, I understand.

One character is up to her eyeballs with IVF treatment. With babymaking on the menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner she begins to resent the monotonous nature of her sex life. “Just make love to me!” she says to her husband in one particularly moving scene. Months later, there’s still no baby. With a husband who has no interest in satisfying her needs, and a work colleague who does, is it surprising that she plays away? No. Am I condoning infidelity? No. I cannot, however, condone a life of unhappiness.

So where does that leave the human race? If you look at the psychology of monogamy, the three main factors are satisfaction (which can wane after the first few years of a relationship),  duration, and attachment. There are immense feelings of elation when you fall in love, but it’s whether those feelings are a temporary thrill or something more permanent that determine the length of a relationship. We all have an innate need for closeness, and the bonds we form with our loved ones can be overwhelming. I guess the only way to avoid the downward spiral of infidelity is to pay attention to the warning signs. It’s only natural to drift apart from someone you’re not really in love with. From personal experience, it’s better to get out while you can still avoid the drama. “Follow your heart” may sound like a cliche, but it works every time. Still, it’s a subject that fascinates me. There is nothing more intriguing than the human psyche.

Could you resist?

The end’s not near, it’s here

Insatiable thing my muse. I mean, truly insatiable. If my muse were human, she’d be a mess of smeared lipstick, slurred speech and post-coital hair-do from too many encounters. Quite the little harlot. As I type this, I’m closer to dawn than I’d like to be. Cinderella abandoned her prince four hours ago. She’s probably awake too, and missing the fabulous shoe she sacrificed for the sake of a happy ending. It was upon realising Prince Charming was a retifist that Cinders decided to run, though not before forsaking her patent leather Mary Janes.

Speaking of endings, the end of the year is upon us. Well, not yet. It’s poking its head from a gap in the curtains. It’s been a strange year. Forgive the unintended cliche, but it really has. The all-pervading factor in my life this year has been death. Death on a large scale. Death of people whose loved ones are dear to me. Death returning from its resting place to remind me of my losses. At night, I have often closed my eyes to dream of my own death, only to awaken hours later, wondering how many nights this was going to be a recurrent theme. To dream of death, they say, is to dream of new beginnings. Now, I’m not one for superstition, but never, in the two decades I have been sleeping badly has that statement meant so much to me.

The past 365 days flit about like photographs begging to be saved from a fire. Only there are very few memories I wish to salvage. For the most part, things remain unchanged. Deep down though, I’m a different person.

Things have happened this year. I have needed to reassess who I am, and what it is that I desire from life. I have been faced with difficult choices. I have encountered new, or previously dormant areas of myself, and almost always, this has resulted in pleasant surprise. Only one thing has remained constant, a linear companion in the squiggly, unpredictable journey that is this existence. And that is my gratitude.

An hour has passed since I first started writing. It is now 05:14 on Monday 31st December 2007 and I am still restless. Some things will never change. I hope you have enjoyed the festive season. I hope the negativity of this year is buried with the last digit and that the pleasant memories are carried through to the next chapter.

Happy new year!

20 Things

…about moi.

1. My name is Anita. This name is derived from the Hebrew ‘hannah,’ meaning graceful. My name is the  sweetened Spanish version of Anna. I was named after my maternal grandmother. Anita is a town in Iowa. I have also been a hurricane. In 1960, Anita Ekberg graced La Fontana di Trevi in Fellini’s ‘La Dolce Vita.’ See above. In her own words, “it was I who made Fellini famous, not the other way around.” I’m not surprised…

2. If I could be any musical instrument, I would be the double bass.

3. I cry very, very easily.

4. Passion is my aphrodisiac. Life without would be death. I am passionate about living. I am passionate about love.

5. I was trained to sing by an opera singer, but all I want to sing is jazz.

6. I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of being forgotten, or of dying without making a difference to people’s lives.

7. At times, there’s nothing better than a fucking good swear. It’s not insulting, it’s therapeutic, for fuck’s sake.

8. Someday I’d like to leave the buzz of the city behind and open my windows to a perfect landscape. Not a skyscraper in sight.

9. I have no faith, but I do believe in a non-religious alternative reality.

10. I am forever trying to make people happy, sometimes to the detriment of my own happiness. Occupational hazard.

11. If I could play any part in a play/film, it would be Alice from Patrick Marber’s, ‘Closer’

12. I am a quagmire of contradictions.

13. Anais Nin’s ‘Delta of Venus’ changed my life. I was too young to read it. It was a hazy, uninspiring summer, spent in a holiday apartment. Then my eyes were opened.

14. I want a tattoo. I know where and what of.

15. I sometimes wish I could get all my life’s sleep in one short burst. That way, I could stay awake and savour the many delicacies without missing a thing.

16. I used to play the violin.

17. Initiation without completion doesn’t feature in my vocabulary. My working space is also my sanctuary. I must have ambient lighting at all times. It must be free of clutter. I contradict myself again, by living either in hell or fastidious perfection.

18. I am quite happy in my skin. I would happily pose for a life-drawing class.

19. I have dreams of becoming a professional burlesque dancer. Once you try it, there’s no going back.

20. And here’s my secret: I couldn’t ask for anything more right now.

The Lip Sticks

What is it about lipstick? Of all the questions to pervade an insatiable mind, this is the one I am faced with today. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but the lips are effortlessly erotic. If you study the history of lipstick (it dates back to ancient Mesopotamia), you’ll find a turbulent love affair. It was the ultimate in Egyptian chic. No aspiring Cleopatra would leave the house without perfectly painted lips. Elizabeth I used cochineal blended with gum arabic, egg white and fig milk. Perhaps, not the most inviting of ingredients, but today there are greater worries. Lead poisoning, anyone?
The history of lipstick is fascinating, if a little strange. In the 17th century, painted lips were associated with witchcraft and the altering of God’s creation. Any woman caught wearing it could be sentenced by law, which, I suspect, only heightened its allure. The cosmetic phenomenon went underground for a while, until it re-emerged in the 19th century. By then, make-up was the domain of actresses and harlots. In the 1940’s, a revolutionary woman invented the invincible lipstick. It was glass-proof, food-proof, and most importantly: kiss-proof. No self-respecting starlet, from Ava Gardner to Bette Davis would feel complete without a little rouge.
And now? Lipstick has infiltrated every medium of popular culture. The Guerrilla Girls are not ‘lipstick lesbians,’ nor are they ‘feminazis,’ ‘bra-burners’ or ‘yummy mummies,’ for that matter. Polly Harvey invites us to look at her, ‘ruby red, ruby lips.’ We have lipstick on our collars. Lipstick Jungle, by the writer of Sex and the City, is the latest dramedy to grace our television screens. It’s official. It sticks.
There is definitely something about lipstick. Let‘s look at the science. During sexual arousal in mammals, the sex organs fill with blood and flush red. In a naturally healthy human being, the lips and cheeks retain a roseate colour that is representative of youth and fertility. The application of lipstick simulates this flush, making them moist and inviting.
My quest for the perfect red lipstick continues. Red is the colour of passion, and passion is my drug of choice. There’s a lipstick for every woman, and I’m not alone in my beliefs. Back in 1992, Poppy King, founder of Lipstick Queen, realised she could never find a decent lipstick. Far from recreating the 1940’s glamour she admired, most lipsticks had a slimy, and frankly, unappealing consistency. Spotting a potentially lucrative niche, King released her range of high quality cosmetics. Over a decade later, she returns with a new line, called Saints and Sinners, which aims to please lipstick virgins and veterans alike.

L’amour

”Do not seek the because – in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions. ” – Anais Nin

I concur.

The beauty of jazz

Last night was going to be a night like any other. Thankfully, I got off my derriere and chose to oppose those indoor blues. If you happen to be free tonight (24th) or tomorrow, then you need to board your chosen vehicle to Riverside Studios in London for a night of life-affirming jazz, Thelonious Monk style.

Of course, I’m biased, as jazz has always been close to my heart, but it was one of the best musical experiences I have ever had. It takes skilled musicians, and a daring vocalist to really do justice to Monk’s music.

Monk was an uncompromising pianist, with a very distinctive style. When playing the piano, he would spread his fingers and point them upwards, as though greeting the skies. The keys were greeted with a highly percussive stroke, and he often interrupted his piano playing with abrupt silences. These uncustomary traits, however, meant that his music was all the more intriguing, and he has posthumously received both a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award and a Pulitzer Special Citation for his longstanding influence on jazz music. Go here to watch him performing ‘Ruby, my dear’ in 1969.

I took the liberty (as I always do) to spy on unsuspecting members of the audience during the music, and was pleasantly surprised to witness many a shut eye. Everyone -myself included- was lost in a kind of musical ecstasy. Much of the set was improvised, so you never quite knew what was coming next; you were always on the edge of your seat, awaiting the next key change. For me, music is the most moving of all art-forms. The world can be a sombre shade of grey sometimes, and it’s nice to leave it behind for a few hours of perfect surrender.

If you’re interested, below is some information I have pasted from the website, www.riversidestudios.com about the performance.

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Theatralia present
Misterioso: A Journey into the Silence of Thelonious Monk
Recreating the setting of a 50s jazz club, Misterioso explores the magic of jazz through the story of pianist Thelonious Monk, a genius and an outsider, who spent the last seven years of his life in complete silence.

An evening of notes and verse about the struggle of jazz musicians in the McCarthy era, alternating poetic words written by superb Italian writer Stefano Benni with Monk’s hypnotic notes. A fascinating mix of live music by an All Stars jazz ensemble and stunning projected artworks.

Loneliness

‘We’re all lonely for something we don’t know we’re lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around like missing somebody we’ve never even met?’

David Foster Wallace

A year of mornings

Thanks to the ingenious arrow in the top right hand corner of my blog, I stumbled across a really wonderful page, and thought I’d share it with you. Its creators, Steph and Mav, live 3191 miles apart in Oregon and Maine respectively. From Monday to Friday, they like to get up early and capture their mornings in photographic form. The result is an ongoing project entitled ’3191: A year of mornings.’ There’s something quite beautiful about viewing two individual lives side by side, and how the artists can feed each other’s passions from such simple snapshots. I found it inspiring. You can find their work here

Ooh la la!

It’s National Erotica Day tomorrow.  Have fun!

I leave you with (the notorious) Betty Page…

Life in LOMO-tion

Lomography. I was discussing this unusual art-form with a friend recently. The name is derived from the former manufacturer, LOMO PLC, of St. Petersburg, Russia, who designed the LOMO LC-A Compact Automat camera.

Lomography places an emphasis on casual snapping, and an inversion of ‘real’ colours to create an over-saturated glow. It is not an interference to your life, but a part of it. As a certified dreamer, I have always been enamoured with Jeunet’s ‘Amelie.’ Its cinematography has an other-worldliness that never fails to restore my faith in the beauty of the world. The scenes of Amelie pointing her camera towards the sky and capturing all those cuddly formations makes me smile every time. Partly because she looks a bit like me when I was younger, and partly because I still see the world through a child’s eyes. Clouds aren’t just masses of condensed droplets and frozen crystal suspended in the air (thanks, Wikipedia). They can be anything.

So, whether you’re lucky enough to own a Lomo, or have to make-do with the minuscule lens on your camera phone, go forth, and snap to your heart’s content. There is so much beauty in the world, and one can never stop dreaming. I, for one, am making it my mission to procure a Lomo. In the meantime, a very nice person has been kind enough to lend me his own (not a Lomo) camera. So watch this space! I may return with a lobster-shaped cloud.

It could be interesting…

So, I’m not sure how many people click onto this page, but I came up with a little idea to complement a montage I am currently working on. All you have to do is send me a line of poetry, or a line from a story, or even a phrase of overheard conversation, and I will post them all here. The idea is to build up a mini-library of interesting lines, and that’s it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking you to dig out your Norton Anthologies! Something you can rememer off by heart is even better. It can be anything (within reason!), as I’m not one for censorship if I can avoid it. Just add your lines as a comment on this post, along with a brief statement about why you chose that particular one and how it affected you. Banal is fine too. Just make it original! I’ll go first:

The still waters of the air under the bough of the echo

The still waters of the water under a frond of stars

The still waters of your mouth under a thicket of kisses.

The above is a translation of a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca entitled, ‘Variations.’ I chose this particular poem for its abstract grammatical construction, and for the metamorphosis of the initial image into something rather sinister. There is something unsettling in the image of a ‘thicket of kisses.’ A symbol of love is transformed into a dark illustration of intrusion.

***

By Jenny: (my housmemate)

‘She was well aware of that golden glow of ideal intention which, for the artist, covers so often the achieved reality of his own at so that it is hard to see the contours of what he had done amid the shimmering lights of what he might have done.’

A bit long but I love this sentence…It’s from Iris Murdoch’s ‘The Time of the Angels’. I thought it really expressed well the feeling of unsurity about one’s own work. It’s hard to judge the quality of a piece of work when you have the pure abstract original in your mind.

***

By Charles:

‘Say no to evil’

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By Lucy:

Why oh why, annie? I have so many. And to restrict me to only a line!

‘A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !’

S. T. Coleridge, ‘Kubla Khan’

The woman is a haunting image, sexually charged, unsettling. This is one of STC’s ‘Daemonic’ poems; it has the feel of the Gothic about it and so many contrasting images: the moon, the enchanter…(rather Pagan, like a pack of Tarot cards) and ‘holy’ thrown in there hints at a dark religion, perhaps a dark side of Xianity. It reminds me of incense and the Oriental.

***

By Friya:

‘…sleep, the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knitteth up the ravell’d sleeve of care,’

From Macbeth. One of the most stunning lines in English literature and one that takes my breath away every time I read it. I’m not quite sure why but this line seems to bring together so much of the beauty of sleep, relating it to the mundane but elevating it to a level of near-euphoria. A gift from the gods and yet as human as anything can be.

***

By Gareth

“It’ll be all right in the end.”

IT doesn’t feel very all right.

“That’s because it’s not the end”

From the end of Black swan green by David Mitchell.

***

By Matt:

This is the one quote I can remember by heart.

” ‘Why art thy songs so short?’ a bird was once asked. ‘Is it because thou art so short of breath?’

The bird replied, ‘I have very many songs and I should like to sing them all.’ ”

Alphonse Daudet said it … I saw it quoted in an article we read last year, used as a defence of the short story as a form.

***

By Wil:

I hear my father in laws response…’Your life amounted to no more than a drop in a limitless ocean!’
Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?

Our boy David Mitchell in Cloud Atlas

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By Tom:

‘We each have our own allotted share of tears, and must be content with what we’ve got’

Dream of the Red Chamber

***

By Luke:

“Bound and Weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast”

“Infant Sorrow” by William Blake
I just thought that it was a funny image. But it’s more than just that. It’s the image of a baby learning that he has to reconcile personal ambition and society. His first lesson in life is that you can’t be yourself.

Who’s to say love needs to be soft and gentle?

In 2002, a little-known short story called ‘Secretary’ was given the silver screen treatment.  Dubbed the “Pretty Woman version” by author Mary Gaitskill, the story (taken from her collection, ‘Bad Behaviour’), is just one of nine tales of sexual deviance and isolation in a morally constricted world.

Lee Holloway (played by Maggie Gylenhaal), is a masochist. She just doesn’t know it yet. Recently released from a psychiatric hospital, she struggles to lead a normal life and craves the structure and control that were previously enforced in her daily routine. Underneath her mattress is the secret she has harboured since high school. It is an elaborate kit containing iodine solution, plasters and cuticle scissors. She doesn’t know why she does it until a lawyer, Mr. E. Edward Grey (James Spader), places an advert for a secretary in the newspaper, thus initiating an unconventional rapport.

So, I started thinking about pain. I’m not just talking about self-mutilation, but pain in all its human guises. The fact that ‘Secretary’ was labelled ‘kinky’ by even the most intelligent sources left me feeling disillusioned. If a film doesn’t give you a pair of bodies entwined in missionary lust it’s not realistic or refreshing: it’s kinky. What we’re dealing with is an act between a pair of consenting adults. BDSM isn’t the latest craze to take the sexual world by storm. It’s had its place in society for centuries, but because it rarely infiltrates mainstream cinema as a focal point, it inevitably causes a fuss. Why?

I got to thinking about pain in its crudest terms: physical and emotional. The Lee Holloway we meet at the start of the film is numb. Almost mechanical. She forms one quarter of a dysfunctional household with a family who is loving and protecting her to death. All parents can be over-protective at times, but as Mr. Grey likes to remind her, “you’re a big girl now, a grown woman.” What ensues between the couple is a logical quest for not only sexual gratification but self-actualisation.

Amongst other things, BDSM is concerned with discipline and power that can be shifted according to personal desire. The almost non-existent relationship Lee has with her father forms a powerful backdrop to the infantile games of control and submission she engages in. From a psychoanalytic perspective, she is seeking a dominant man to account for the lack of a father. Self-harming was the only thing that could replace the feeling of numbness with that of living. Sexually, this translates as a need to experience pain in order to experience release and ease the frustrations of daily life. When she masturbates, it’s the thought of being dominated that arouses her.

Mr. Grey isn’t without his needs either. He asserts an excessive amount of control in life, in order to overcome his shyness and get things done. When Lee enters his life, she senses “an intimate tendril creeping from one of his darker areas, nursed on the feeling that he has discovered something.” So he’s not the only person with a secret. Maybe we all have one, but are afraid to deviate from a socially-constructed norm?

Though at times idealistic, I felt this film was a step in the right direction for mainstream cinema. It goes some way in proving that sexual deviance is not a kind of madness, but the need to escape monotony in order to find fulfillment. Not only is this completely normal, it can also be very beautiful.

Secretary (2002)

Directed by Steven Shainberg. Screenplay by Erin Cressida Wilson. Adapted by Wilson and Steven Shainberg, from story by Mary Gaitskill.

Written on the body

I have always felt an intimate connection between writing and the body. We are sentient beings. Some things need not be pronounced.
I reject the notion of the body as a temple. Our infatuation with immortality has made us overlook the present. Without kindness we are savages, but without temptation we become utterly hopeless…vacuous vessels sailing through time. Some would say they are not of the body, that life has higher pleasures. This search for enlightenment is carried through to the afterlife: an ambiguous concept between fear and reality. A concept that provides little comfort to the average cynic.
I reject that notion. A temple will offer countless promises, but truth is not one of them. And so I have invented a world of eternal sunshine, where faith is a choice. Here, there are no truths, except for that of our mortality. And so back to the body. I remember reading once that a certain writer (the name escapes me now), would dress and undress compulsively in front of a mirror before picking up his pen to write. The art of writing is surrounded by curious rituals, which offer a portal to the creative psyche.
Sometimes, just being alone with my thoughts is more stimulation than I can bear. I am not the first woman to write this, not the first artist. At ungodly hours, the desire to write becomes carnal, aligning itself with my sexuality as the perfect aphrodisiac and cultivating an inexplicable love. I cannot leave this affair unconsummated. To do so would be like nipping a bud before it blossoms.
I imagine that when I die, my epitaph will be engraved into my skin. As I leave this reality, the words will leave too. They were written on my body, and one day they will become part of the earth.