"from the cunt to the head is/ a Mobius strip/ that connects us to death" --Eleni Sikelianos, excerpted from "Notes Toward the Township of Cause of Trouble (Venus Cabinet Revealed)"
I don't know. Maybe you've heard that DC's gotten a little snow lately. And by a little, I mean:
Of course, another 4-6 inches fell on top of this insanity after I took this picture of the sidewalk outside my building. You know, I have a very distinct memory of my mom plopping me on top of a snowbank so I wouldn't get into trouble while she opened my stroller when I was maybe 2? 3? years old (yes, I have a freakishly clear recollection of my toddler years). I recall that snow as being enormous. But I was very short then. I'm not near so short now, but this snow is enormous. Not sure I've ever seen anything quite like it.
But, once again, I'm stuck inside with an odd assortment of ingredients. Tonight, however, I think I might have topped my last soup. Truly, this thing I just made? It could only be improved upon if you licked it off the body of your beloved. Oh, you only wish that was hyperbole.
So, um, let's see. What, exactly did I do?
Snowpocalypse Turnip, Leek and Mushroom Soup
8 or so decent-sized turnips (I had a bunch of different ones, red, gold and the usual white, that I'd picked up at the Farmer's Market last weekend.), cut into 1 1/2-inch cubes 4 leeks, chopped 12 oz cremini mushrooms, quartered 1 clove garlic 1 1/2 TBSP olive oil 1 TBSP butter 1 tsp dried thyme 1 cup dry white wine 1 qt chicken broth (I like the low-sodium organic because it taste more like actual chicken.) 1 1/2 tsp freshly grated nutmeg 1 TBSP dijon mustard 1/4 cup heavy cream juice of 1/2 a meyer lemon (You could use regular lemons here too, but go skimpy because they're more sour.) salt and pepper to taste
1. Boil the chopped turnips in 6 cups of water for about 6 minutes. Drain and set aside.
2. Heat olive oil and butter over medium high heat in the bottom of a Dutch oven. Add the chopped leeks and sauté for 5-8 minutes or until they begin to soften.
3. Add the mushrooms and garlic and sauté for another 3 or 4 minutes or until the mushrooms begin to release their liquid.
4. Add the white wine and bring to a boil. Then, add the turnips back into the pot. Mix the vegetables together and bring up to temperature. Add the quart of chicken broth and bring it to a boil. Reduce temperature to a simmer, cover and cook for about 30 minutes. Test to make sure the turnips are soft before you continue.
5. Mix in dijon, heavy cream, nutmeg and lemon juice. Salt and pepper the soup to taste.
6. Remove from heat and puree the soup. I used my favorite kitchen device ever, the immersion blender. But you can ladle the soup into a traditional blender (carefully--it's hot and blender lids can blow and spew boiling soup all over you if you're not vigilant) to puree the whole thing if that's all you have.
I haven't been to the grocery store or farmer's market it over two weeks. The weather reports at which I looked predicted flurries today and a little bit of accumulation in the afternoon. Instead, we got what looks to be about four inches of snow that fell in fat, fluffy clumps all day. Needless to say, I got hungry and had to make do with rations I'd reserved in my freezer. Because I'm a genius, however, my concoction turned out most delicious. And so, I give you my "recipe."
Chicken and Black-eyed Pea Chili
2 chicken breasts, poached and shredded (1 qt poaching liquid reserved) 2 tbsp EVOO 1 medium yellow onion, chopped 1 green bell pepper, chopped 1 sweet red pepper, chopped 2 cloves garlic, minced 1 qt broth (I used vegetable because it's what I had, but I probably would have used chicken, were it available.) 1 28 oz. can of diced tomatoes 1 1/2 lbs pre-cooked black-eyed peas 3 tbsp chipotle in adobo, minced 2 tsp cumin 2 tsp Mexican oregano (Conventional oregano will NOT do. It's not the same thing.) 1 tsp chili powder salt and (tellicherry, of course) pepper to taste 3 cups pre-cooked rice (I used basmati because it's what I had and it's my favorite, but any rice will do.)
1. In the bottom of your Dutch oven, sauté the onions and red and green peppers in olive oil until they begin to soften. Add garlic and sauté for a minute or two more.
2. Add can of tomatoes, broth and reserved poaching liquid and bring to a boil.
3. Add the shredded chicken, black-eyed peas, chipotle and other spices. Bring the whole shebang back up to a boil. Reduce heat to a pretty serious simmer and cook for 20-30 minutes until the flavors meld.
4. Spoon 1/2 cup or so of rice into the bottom of a bowl. Ladle soup/chili over the top.
5. Slurp hungrily.
If you have it, it would probably be pretty tasty if you garnished it with chopped cilantro, fresh minced jalapeños and a squeeze of lime juice, but, alas, I didn't have any of that stuff.
No joke. This turned out really well and I'm trés impressed with myself that I just made it up with random crap I had in the house. Not too shabby, considering my limited resources.
I wrote because it was fun. Because I was an inordinately verbal child -- demonstrably so, early. Because there were stories of pink monsters, who lived in pink houses and slept in the top drawer of my pink dresser, in dire need of telling. I wrote because I was told to, for school. I wrote because some short piece I'd dashed off moved my fourth-grade teacher to tears as she read it aloud to the class -- and that was really something. And then I wrote because people told me I did it well. For a long time, I did it simply because of that -- for the praise from grown-ups.
I wrote because I read. I read a lot. Somewhere in all the reading, the writing about reading became habit. Responding became habit.
Sometimes I didn't write and sometimes I did.
I wrote because someone said, "You wrote exactly what I felt." Or because someone said, "No one else could have said that the way you did." Or because someone said, "These are real poems." I wrote because I was unhappy -- with myself, my life, my world. I wrote because things outside of myself made me angry -- crazy angry -- or inconsolable. Because dissatisfaction gave me fuel and fire. Because I have always been solitary but needed to talk about it. Occasionally, I wrote in spite of being happy, though that's always been harder.
I wrote just to finish the goddamn manuscript. I wrote in spite of disappointment with myself. Or maybe I wrote to write myself out of that disappointment. I wrote because I went to grad school for the sole purpose of writing and I. Do. Not. Give up. I wrote to come to terms with what it means to be a white girl from the American south. I wrote because my body was teaching me something new every day -- things I deeply desired to shape into language. I wrote out of a desire to make something pretty, even trinket-like. I wrote because I'd fallen so madly in love with the oddities of my mother tongue. I wrote because I was supposed to be good at it, even though I wasn't. I wrote to get better. I used writing as a vehicle for sorting out how I wasn't in love anymore. To tell the tale of the demise of a relationship I'd held dear, and to obfuscate the tale with politics and some fancy Sanskrit words. I wrote to get a handle on my own sexual identity, which defied both the relationship and the world beyond the relationship. I wrote to know myself, then, right?
And then I didn't write. I didn't miss it. I didn't need it. Until I did. So, then, I wrote. For practice. And also, to keep from fighting with a friend about movies.
And then, I wrote to respond and to engage and to partake in so-called conversations with a world I never thought would answer me. Which were really just conversations with myself. Obviously. I wrote because I wanted the writing to serve as beacon, of sorts. Because what if someone else out there was working similar stones smooth? I wrote because I had a "project" and because the Internet is a fascinating, immersive place. Because the Internet is provocative, in one way or another, every damn minute. And so is the world that isn't the Internet. And I wrote and I wrote. For 10 days, I wrote just because I was really hungry. Other days, I wrote because I was heart-broken. Others still, because I was amped beyond cranial capacity. I wrote because it was the most important thing to me. And as I wrote, the writing became ever more so.
Sometimes, I wrote because I was turned on. Because I wanted to turn other people on. Because I had this fantasy that my writing could be so charged that it would draw folks to my bed in droves. At times, I thought I wrote simply in service of this fantasy. As though the writing amounted to so much sublimating, which, I'd secretly hoped, would inspire folks to provide me opportunity to sublimate no more. Or less, at least.
At some point along this trajectory, I began to write because I thought I was a writer. Because writing is what writers do. What I mean is that I wrote because doing so had become a facet of my identity, my personhood. Because if I didn't, what am I? I'm a girl with a job, that's what. Not a bad job -- a job that sustains me and for which I'm grateful -- but a job I wouldn't miss, for itself, if I didn't have it. I wrote because being a writer meant that my job didn't have to matter as much. And neither did my lack of investment in my obtuse notion of "career." And again, I wrote because I needed to. Because it made me part of conversations bigger than my own experience. Or because I wanted it to do that for me, maybe.
So, then, it's really a pain in my ass that it occurred to me that I don't actually need it. That, kinda, I don't miss it. Not enough. Or maybe just not often enough. And while I can enumerate a hundred and one reasons I once wrote, I can't name any for why I will or would write again. Save this nagging grunt in my mind that nudges, "Oh, but you should." What is this "should" business? What's the basis for "should?" Why should I? Because writers write. It's what they do.
So what, then, if I'm not a writer?
What if this role I've (at times, forcibly) adhered to my identity is bogus? What should I do then? Huh, mind? Huh? What fucking then?
Now, I write this not because I'm in need of a pep talk or because I'm feeling particularly inadequate in terms of my chops (though I do feel that way, and often). I'm writing this because, last night, a friend asked me why I wrote and he put it in past tense, just like that: "I want to come back to this. Why you wrote." In the moment, his past tense sunk me -- and then it kept me up all night, stewing. Of course, he clarified and said he meant for me to answer the question with a comparison between why I used to write and why I'll write in the future, but it's not like I'm not keenly aware that I am not writing at present. And that, besides this niggling feeling that I should be posting something, anything, because I've established expectations that I would (mainly from myself, but also from the handful of you out there who have so kindly asked me for more), I haven't felt any real tremendous compulsion to write, really, at all, lately. Therefore, though this may be just another bout of blockage, of the likes I've encountered in many iterations before, I think the question of how integral my writing is to me bears consideration.
So, that's what I'm doing. Considering. Because I can't help but notice that a nauseatingly high percentage of those reasons for which I've written in the past seem to be all about seeking external approval and cosseting my puny li'l ego. And I'm considering because I've never nursed any serious aspirations to get paid for my writing (likely out of chickenshittedness) anyway. Given that cold light, I think asking myself just exactly how much I profit from adopting a writerly persona at this juncture is entirely appropriate. Funny how I have to use words to do that, though, eh?
For the first time in the history of this blog, I didn't write anything for the entire month of September. Perhaps you've noticed? Writing a post just to say that, yes, I too have noticed that nothing much has been happening whenever I open up an empty post window feels sort of dramatic and self-aggrandizing in itself, but a few of you have commented-- and I thank you for doing so. It's lovely, really, to feel as though what I do in this space is, in some way, miss-able.
The truth is that writing that abortion post seems to have taken a lot out of me-- intellectually, emotionally, and also in terms of my writerly self esteem. I didn't intend for that to be the case. I was so sure the whole event would come and go, rolling off my back as though I'd grown duck feathers. Friends who've been through similar experiences shook their heads and warned me when I swore it was going to be no big deal for me, but, you know, it was. It is. It is in ways both difficult and astoundingly awesome. I have new friends now. I have new readers now. I have new perspective now. But I also have new anxieties now. This, of course, is how it is.
Three months on down the road, I remain nothing but steadfast in my conviction that writing about my experience was the right thing to do, but -- if nowhere but in my own mind -- it seems to have raised the stakes of this blog. It may well be the most "important"-- whatever that means -- thing I've written to date, and it's certainly the most charged (emotionally, politically) thing I've written here. And it made me want to write better, more seriously, less glibly and with more of a real aim-- at what? I'm not yet sure.
Also, I've been busy. The offline conversations that post generated were plentiful. Some of have dwindled and, as I mentioned, some have kindled new and important friendships. I didn't know the sort of people it would bring into my life, the sort of people who'd respond to it in some way or another, the sort of people who'd take interest in me as a person because of the way I chose to handle a problem that isn't really so uncommon. But now that they're here and talking to me and challenging me and encouraging me, I can't really help but feel like something I wrote -- something I made up out of my own little brain -- has made my own world a little bit bigger. That's kind of amazing, right? And no one is more surprised, humbled and excited about that than I.
So, let's call this quiet period my Epoch of Re-assessment. I'm thinking about the possibility of going to school again. I'm thinking about the sort of platform I want this blog to be -- the sort of ideas I need to process. How a blog is good for processing but not necessarily all that great for instilling rigor -- insular and self-congratulatory as it can be. And I'm thinking about how a relationship between added rigor and my usual spin cycle of ideas might look -- the thoughts I express here and the sort of persona I'll need to cultivate if I want to make a go at... something more... serious?
I'm intimidated, frankly. Well-meaning folks in my most bare-bones support system have been very encouraging, indeed. With a handful of exceptions (exceptions that made me doubt my efficaciousness as a practitioner of written communication, but did not make me doubt the rightness of my choices, I might point out), I received remarkably kind feed-back on that abortion post. But somehow all the well-wishing has me feeling as though I have even more at stake every time I sit down to pound out something -- anything -- witty, wise, winsome or resolutely un-ambitious -- whatever. Yep. Pretty classic. I'm psyching myself out and I know it. I did the same thing when I was working on my manuscript in grad school. Once my classmates and professors began to respond positively to my work, I found I had to lock myself in my office for an entire semester just to keep their encouragement from staunching the flow, just to squeeze those few little coagulated, sticky poems from the turnip that is me. For me, living up to the accomplishments of which I'm sorta kinda proud is always harder than overcoming failures. And that's where I am now--scared it's all downhill from here. And, from here, I know, I've barely gotten started.
So, I'd ask the friends who've been asking after my writing to be patient with me, but that's not really the point. I love that they care whether I write and notice when I don't, for sure, but the standards I'm worried about living up to are mine. So, really, I'm better served trying to be patient with myself and to let the writing come when it comes and not to become exasperated when it doesn't. I am trying not to assign so much significance (to piddly ol' blog posts) that I can't even write fluffier fare -- because it seems silly to take this blog so seriously. But I am having trouble writing fluffier fare. And less fluffy things too.
Which isn't to say things aren't percolating. It's just a slow drip. And that's okay. This time around, moving from the dormant state into a thaw is not something I want to rush.
Mixing metaphors, however? I'm totally fine with that.
Allow me to spare myself the indignity of hyperlinking my many moonings over David Duchovny.
Here's the obvious thing about nursing sexual feelings about someone you will never meet: it's totally self-defeating if felt with any earnestness. These people are essentially inaccessible. The things we think we like about them may well be wholly fabricated by whatever publicity machines are operating around them. And, as I've argued before, actual sexual attraction cannot be gauged without a proper assessment of the pheremonal charge one picks up within physical proximity of any given lust object. Therefore, I fully admit that whatever steamy thoughts I may conjure up about a famous person are utterly pointless and based in idle self-illusioning--which I hope lets me off the hook, just a little bit, for the following indulgence in douchebaggery.
How's that for an apologist's disclaimer of an opening?
I follow all of two Hollywood types on Twitter. No, Duchovny's not one of them. There are two Twitter accounts attributed to him but neither appears to be all that authentic. Or interesting. Basically, because I only really care about language, sex, food and the continuation of human life on my planet, most of the people I follow are writers, eco-activists, sex-workers, or chefs (or some delicious mix-and-match combination of the four). But I do follow Diablo Cody. Her tweets sometimes make me snort green tea out my nose. She says cool shit about the confrontational quality of female nudity. And really, she kinda fits into both the sex-worker and the writer categories, so I figure can absolve myself of the usual celebrity sycophanticism (of which, apparently, I'm deeply concerned I'll be accused) on that one. The other one's Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
So, fine. I've been known to wax florid on a film or two of his (again, purposeful lack of hyperlinks here). I like to watch the kid. His intensity, his physicality, his offbeat charisma. I find him compelling. But I think I started following him because I was curious about the sort of hype (500) Days of Summer, which I saw last April at NaFF, would get. That's the thing about film fest fare--when you get to see something before everyone else does, and if it's any good at all, it's inevitable you'll take an interest in what becomes of it. But then, in following him, I discovered he's devised this little hitRECord.org website (Joe, help me out here. I don't understand the capitalization. As the stress in the word "record" is actually on the 2nd syllable, why highlight the first? Picky, picky, I know.), which appears to be a collaborative video remix forum. He links a lot of hitRECord-derived videos in his tweets--several of which have been worth the double-click. Fantastic, I thought. Non-boring celebrity tweets. What a boon! So I continued to follow.
And then he hits me up with this one:
All right, Joe. You got me.
It's like a missile to my ooey-gooey lit-nerd core. It could only have been made better if he'd been reading one of Jim's letters to Nora:
"My sweet little whorish Nora. I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes."*
As it stands, that video reminds me lot of that time I caught Mr. Duchovny casually dropping the word "gerundive" in an interview...and I had to change my panties. Is it really any wonder I've been having dreams of performing prolonged fellatio on this guy?
I've noticed that, much in the way that my sexual crushes and my creative crushes seem to have collapsed in on each other, Twitter owes part of its addictiveness to this collapsing of the distance between us and those whose talents we admire--this strange false intimacy. As such, Joe's thoughts enter mine in a couple 140-character bursts a day. And those bursts have reminded me of how much I loved his 2005 film, Mysterious Skin. And from there, I've been reminded of another sort of fantasy altogether--that one I used to have about becoming a doctor of pervertology. Or something.
Remember all those months ago when I swore up and down that taking my current job would grant me the leeway to go frolicking off in search of yet another useless graduate degree? Well. It seems I've gotten a little more invested in my job than I'd planned. It seems I've grown accustomed to actually seeing my friends in the evenings and having time to pick up my dry-cleaning. It seems I enjoy waking in daylight on weekends. And in a million other ways, life has interceded. But I continue to long for school. Sometimes now more than ever.
Over the course of the last three years writing this blog, a series of observations have coalesced into a couple of big questions. I still don't know what kind of program would have me (Critical film studies? Gender studies? Pop culture criticism? An amalgam?) but I have a hunch said questions would benefit from some academic structure. Here are the basics: in fictional reflections of our culture, non-compartmentalized sexuality, particularly if the sexuality in question belongs to someone female, is described as a threat to social order. As a result, it's often explained away by means of one of three causes--and have a cause, it must. In fiction, disruptive sexuality is rarely a naturally occurring phenomenon. Rather, a fictional slut has become a slut, not because s/he was born overtly sexual, but because either s/he is demonic, s/he suffers some sort of mental pathology, or s/he is a victim of abuse. And as the story goes, the slut either seeks a "cure" or is forced into one--and by "cure," I mean either (usually heternormative) monogamy or celibacy. And there it is: the pattern for which I've been looking-- a little one, a humble one--but a pattern nonetheless. The thing that intrigues me so about this pattern is that it really does seem rather divergent from the way I've experienced my own sexuality. Actually, it's divergent from the experiences of a lot of other sexually open people I know. So, the questions themselves. Why the disparity? Why are filmic depictions folks with fully integrated, big, showy, swaggering fuck-vibes so rarely positive? Why do we perceive sex as threatening in the first place? And so on.
So, because it's what good geeky girls do, I thought, why not turn that question into a scholarly inquiry? Oh, some day. Some day.
But here's where Mysterious Skin fits in. In many ways, this film relays a very conventional slut's narrative with the victim variant I mentioned above. An 8-year-old kid is molested by a man he worships. He grows up to become a rent boy, furiously seeking to replicate the feelings that early experience drummed up in him--feelings he names "love." And then, literally and figuratively, he gets beaten down--punished for his slutty transgressions. On the surface, the character of Neil McCormick, as embodied with so much slit-eyed heat by our Joe, isn't really all that different from, say, Rae in Black Snake Moan. She too was molested as a kid. She too develops an itch. And she too gets smacked into unconsciousness for it.
Now, it's no secret that I love Black Snake Moanfor being the flawed disaster that it is. It really is a mess. I suppose I value it most for the way it adheres so slavishly to the model I described two paragraphs ago. Black Snake Moan tells a fallen girl's tale so very straightforwardly, stopping obligatorily to suggest Rae's childhood molestation before depositing her safely into her monogamous hetero marriage, that it veritably points out its own ridiculousness in the doing. The film is, after all, not much more than a fantasy of a sexed-up white trash American South that never was. It's perfect. Bless it's sweaty, bruisy, spermy little Southern heart.
But Mysterious Skin is just that much more sophisticated. For all the ways that it plays by the rules, as determined by the pattern I've been chasing, it breaks just as many. And what I really love about it is that the rules it breaks have very little to do with gender roles, despite Neil's maleness and his queerness. Actually, the film's casual handling of Neil's queerness makes it, in essence, incidental.
Rather, he is subject to many of the usual vulnerabilities visited upon slutty women. Being a lithe young kid, physical debasement is a particular occupational hazard for him. And though he is described as having "a black hole where his heart should be" (or something like that--I don't have the exact quotation), he seeks love through sex-- a thing folks like Oprah try to tell us is behavior typical of women. It's not, of course, but my point here is that within the construct of what I'm calling the slut narrative-- a species of story usually populated with women--Neil ain't special because he's a boy. His psychological motivations seem very much aligned with your garden variety contemporary fictional construct of the harlot. (Incidentally, that boy-seeking-love thing is most of why there's so much fuss being made over the (tres debatable) "reversal of gender roles" in (500) Days as well. That makes me giggle because, last I checked, being a fool for love isn't gendered behavior. Regardless, I continue to find it rather satisfying when it just happens to be a cute boy dipping toes into this gender-role-discussion bath. In more than one film, even!)
So, no, at first glance, Neil isn't a terribly anomalous character. However, this film takes a very notable risk--a risk that knocks it slightly asunder in relation to that pattern upon which I'm harping. Namely, it presents Neil's disruptive sexuality as a thing that precedes his abuse. I know. It seems small. Except that in a culture in which prepubescent children are generally ascribed a pointed asexuality, positing lusty thoughts in the head of an 8-year-old kid drastically complicates the hustler-as-victim paradigm. Can I just shorthand the pretentious Foucault reference here? I mean, here we are, 30-some-odd years after The History of Sexuality: Volume I was first published in French, and still, a large portion of the energy Western culture directs at this thing we call child-rearing is focused on negating innate sexuality in our children, and claiming said sexuality doesn't exist. But it does exist. So when a a very young child in a film describes jerking off to orgasm and being "sledgehammered" by desire, it's noteworthy. And more than that, it takes the story arc out of the realm of the conventional whore's tale.
Personally, I happen to think this little facet of Neil's character goes a long way to lend this film a particular authenticity. I mean, long before I ever read Foucault, I knew in my, er, heart that fucklust precedes the acquisition of secondary sexual characteristics. I was born with basically all the same nerve endings I've got now-- and, as I may have mentioned in previous posts, I figured out what all those nerves endings do pretty early on. Which was kind of awesome. Getting busted by a fellow kindergartner? Not as awesome.
So, right. My point here is that if we understand Neil's seemingly precocious sexual awareness exists prior to his being molested, even in an unformed way, it becomes much more difficult to view Neil as an unadulterated, agency-free victim. I know that idea could be touchy but bear with me. Neil's desire for his baseball coach doesn't, by any means, absolve the adult coach his transgressions against a little kid--a kid utterly lacking in adult perspective, self-preservation instinct and aplomb. But it does mess with the head of the viewer just enough for for a niggling little thought to wedge its way in: just how does a kid's willing participation affect the dynamic between victim and victimizer?
Oh, I know. That thought is an unnerving one that confounds the conventional wisdom regarding these sorts of encounters. It's one few of us particularly want to dwell upon. The notion that grown-ups shouldn't touch the sensitive parts of children is a wholly nonpartisan--and sacred--concept in our culture. Within the landscape of a film, to make an infraction against that concept is to jeopardize an audience's loyalty in a very serious way. But the fact that Neil's ostensible collusion in his coach's desire does indeed squirm its way into this film, without actually exculpating the coach character, is truly what makes its narrative feel both a little dangerous and uniquely challenging. Those two descriptors constitute just about the highest compliments I'll ever pay a movie.
That said, the film itself even looks for ways to undermine the implications that Neil's childish, yet clearly sexual, desires cast upon it. One could point to the character of his mother, for instance. She keeps porn under her bed (bonus points for her, by the way--a woman who likes porn? In a film not so terribly far from the proverbial main stream? How often do you see that?), she doesn't hide her own sexual shenanigans from her kid, and she seems generally oblivious to Neil's teenage tricking on the edge of the playground. Some might call her "negligent." Some might say she "sexualized Neil too young." Well? Meh. I don't buy that argument. I tend to think it draws upon some class-ist rhetoric, actually. She is a blue-collar single mom with resources simply too limited to allow her the luxury of the perpetual child-monitoring that we like to call "good parenting"--which isn't to suggest that she isn't something of a mess herself. But she is, as they say, doing the best she can.
And, yes, the film does go on to imply that every last bit of the blame for Neil's career trajectory into professional cock-jockeying lies with the attentions of his once-beloved coach, rather than with... I don't know...Neil's own jubilant lustiness and generous desire to service the world, one blowjob at a time, with only paltry remunerations as his reward. Now, don't get me wrong--I don't begrudge this movie its portrayal of sex work as degrading. An awful lot of it is degrading. It's not like I'm gonna try to deny that. It's more that, when looking at cultural representations of whorishness through a wider lens, there are so blasted few of them that consider sex work as something other than an act of desperation. I've used the following quotation from debauchette's blog before, and again, it seems apt here:
"This is where the press consistently gets it wrong: they suggest that all sex work is oppressive and dehumanizing, when it isn’t. Dehumanizing sex work is dehumanizing, just as any work that treats human beings as automata is going to be dehumanizing. Or they suggest it’s empowering, which it can be, but only empowering sex work is empowering. There’s tremendous range. And within that range, it’s easy to feel valued only for your sexuality, as if you have nothing else to offer the world. But then, that’s not limited to sex work alone."
Well, someday that perspective will get some screen time. Some day. Maybe. Right?
Fuck me. I miss school.
Anyway.
It comes to this:
"I've played the smart kid, the funny one, the nice sweet one, even the angry one, but never the sexy one."
A while back, I randomly found that little nugget on IMDb, which attributes it to none other than Joe. That's right. He once said he'd never played sexy. Now, who knows when he said it--if it was before or after Mysterious Skin. Clearly, it's hopelessly marooned sans any semblance of context. But, Joe! Seriously? What the crap? Surely you know it's not the part. It's the human energy in the part. You simply can't actualize a haunted teenage prostitute without tapping into some kinda fuck-vibe. It's there. It's in some of those smart, funny, sweet and angry kids too. It's innate. It's what it is. If it weren't there, you probably wouldn't be populating the wet dreams of women who don't know you. Just sayin'.
*It should be noted that I bought my used copy of the 1976 Ellmann-edited Selected Letters of James Joyce with the spine already broken. It naturally falls open to the filthiest of Joyce's erotic letters. It seems some perv before me also bought this book with prior knowledge of its unique contents.
