#They both get called “The Temptress” in their respective musicals

[cavernfullofexistentialdread]

You cannot convince me that they’re literally not the same exact person

[chiseler]

Ophelia By the Yard

Cobwebbed passages and wax-encrusted candelabra, dungeons festooned with wrist manacles, an iron maiden in every niche, carpets of dry ice fog, dead twig forests, painted hilltop castles, secret doorways through fireplaces or behind beds (both portals of hot passion), crypts, gloomy servants, cracking thunder and flashes of lightning, inexplicably tinted light sources, candles impossibly casting their own shadows, rubber bats on wires, grand staircases, long dining tables, huge doors with prodigiously pendulous knockers to rival anything in Hollywood.

Here was the precise moment — and it was nothing if not inevitable — when the darkness of horror film, both visible and inherent, leapt from the gothic toy box now joined by a no less disconcerting array of color. The best, brightest, sweetest, and most dazzling red-blooded palette that journeyman Italian cinematographers could coax from those tired cameras. Color, both its commercial necessity as well as all it promised the eye, would hereafter re-imagine the genre’s possibilities, in Italy and, gradually, everywhere else. 

When color hit the Italian Gothic cycle, a truly new vision was born. In Hammer films and other UK horror productions, the cheapness of Eastmancolor made it possible for blood to be red. Indeed, very red. And, while we shouldn't underestimate the startling impact this had, it was a fairly literal use of the medium. In the Italian movies, and to a large extent in Roger Corman's Poe cycle, color was an unlikely vehicle to further dismantle realism rather than to assert it. Overrun with tinted lights and filters, none of which added to the film’s realistic qualities, the movies became delirious. In Corman's Masque of the Red Death, we learn of an experiment that uses color to drive a man insane; it seems that filmmakers like Corman and Mario Bava were attempting the very same trick on their audiences.

The application of candy-wrapper hues to a haunted castle flick like The Whip and the Body adds a pop art vibe at odds with the genre, and when you get to something like Kill, Baby...Kill! the Gothic trappings are barely able to mask a distinctly modern sensibility, so much so that Fellini could plunder its phantasmal elements for Toby Dammit, fitting them perfectly into his sixties Roman nightmare.

Blood and Black Lace brings the saturated lighting and Gothic fillips into the twentieth century -- a sign creaking in a gale is the first image, translated from Frankensteinland to the exterior of a contemporary fashion house. A literal faceless killer disposes of six women in diabolical ways. The sour-faced detective remains several deaths back on the killer’s trail because the movie knows its audience, knows that it has zero interest in detection, character, motivation — though it’s all inertly there as a pretext for sadism, set-pieces of partially-clad women being hacked up, dot the film like musical numbers or action sequences might appear in a different genre. 

Since the 19th-century audience for literary Gothic Horror was comprised of far fewer men than women, would it be fair to ask whether Giallo’s advent might be an instrument of brutal violence, even revenge against “feminine” preoccupations? Consider 1964’s Danza Macabra, the film’s amorous vibes finding their ultimate source in that deathless screen goddess named Barbara Steele, whose marble white flesh photographs like some monument to classicism startled into unwanted Keatsian fever. Her presence practically demands that we ask ourselves: “Who is this wraith howling at a paper moon?” In other words, is it a coincidence that Steele’s “Elizabeth Blackwood” — a revenant temptress and undead sex symbol — hits screens the very same year as Giallo, which would transform Italian cinema into a decades-long death mill for women? 

The name “giallo”, meaning yellow, derives from the crime paperbacks issued by Italian publisher Mondadori. The eye-catching covers, featuring a circular illustration of some act of infamy embedded in a yellow panel, became utterly associated with the genre of literature. These books were likely to be by Edgar Wallace, the most popular author in the western world, or Agatha Christie: cardboard characters sliding through the most mechanical of plots; or classier local equivalents, like Francesco Mastriani or Carolina Invernizio. The founding principles laid down concerned the elaborate deceptions concealed by their authors, traps for the unwary reader, and the use of a distinctive design motif. The tendency of the characterisation to lapse into sub-comic-book cliché, the figures incapable of expressing or inspiring real sympathy, was, perhaps, an unintended side-effect of the focus on narrative sleight-of-hand.

When Italian filmmakers sought to translate sensational literature to the screen, they looked to other filmic influences: American film noir, influenced by German expressionism and often made by German emigrés (Lang, Siodmak, Dieterle, Ulmer); and the popular krimi cycle being produced in West Germany, mostly based on Edgar Wallace's leaden "shockers." These deployed stock characters, bizarre methods of murder, deceptive plotting, and exuberant use of chiaroscuro, the stylistic palette of noir intensified by more fog, more shafts of light, more inky shadows. A certain amount of fun, but different from the coming bloodbath because Wallace, despite somewhat fascistic tendencies, is anodyne and anaemic by comparison. No open misogyny, a sadism sublimated in story, a touching faith in Scotland Yard and the class system. In the Giallo, Wallace's more sensational aspects are adopted but made to serve a sensibility quite alien to the stodgy Englander: people are generally rotten, the system stinks, and crime becomes a lurid spectator sport served up to a viewer both thrilled and appalled. 

The Giallo fetishizes murder. But then, it fetishizes everything in sight. Every object, every half-filled wine glass and pastel-colored telephone, is photographed with obsessive, product-shot enthusiasm. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring — each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. And yet, for the directors who rode most dexterously the Giallo wave, homicide was something one did to women. Indulging in equal-opportunity lechery was merely an excuse to find other, more violent outlets for their misogyny. Please enter into evidence the demented enthusiasm for woman-killing evinced by Dario Argento, Mario Bava, Lucio Fulci, et al. — whatever trifling token massacres of men one might exhume from their respective oeuvres are inconsequential. Argento’s defense, “I love women, so I would rather see a beautiful woman killed than an ugly man,” should not satisfy us, and hardly seems designed to (also bear in mind Poe’s assertion that the death of a beautiful young woman was the most poetic of all subjects).

Filmmakers like Argento have no interest in sex per se. Suffering seems inessential, but terror and death are key, photographed with the same clinical absorption and aesthetic gloss as Giallo-maestros habitually apply to their interior design. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring – each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. That’s one important subtlety often lost amid Giallo’s vast antisocial hemorrhage.

Like a river of blood, homophobia, in the literal meaning of fear rather than hatred, runs through the genre. Lesbians are sinister and gay men barely exist. As we try to work out what in hell the Giallo is really up to, little dabs of dime-store Freudianism seem sufficient.

The filmmakers’ misogyny could be suspect, a sign of compromised masculinity, so they need fictional avatars to cloak their own feverish woman-hating. The subterfuge is clumsy at best, the desultory deceit embarrassingly macho. Giallo’s visual force, powerful enough to divorce eye from mind, is another matter, leaving us demoralized and ethically destitute; our hearts beating with all the righteous indignation of three dead shrubs (and maybe a half-eaten sandwich).

The Giallo is founded on an unstated assumption: the modern world brings forth monsters. Jack the Ripper was an aberration in his day, but now there's a Jack around every corner, behind every piece of modular furniture, every diving helmet lamp. Previously, disturbing events arose from what Ambrose Bierce called The Suitable Surroundings, or what the mad architect in Fritz Lang's The Secret Beyond the Door termed, with sly and sinister euphemism, "propitious rooms." There's the glorious line in Withnail and I: "That's the sort of window faces appear at." But now, in the modern world, evil occurs in the nicest of places, and tonal consistency died in a welter of cheerful stage blood. One needn’t enter an especially Bad Place to meet one’s worst nightmare, or perhaps better to say: the whole bright world qualified as a properly bad place. Imagine the pages of an interior design magazine invaded by anonymous psychopaths intent on painting the gleaming walls red.

Though the victims are overwhelmingly female and their killers male (Argento typically photographed his own leather-gloved hands to stand in for his assassin’s), when the violence becomes over-the-top in its sexualized woman-hating (like the crotch-stabbing in What Have You Done to Solange?), it’s usually a clue that the movie’s murderer will turn out to be female: a simple case of projection. Only Lucio Fulci, the most twisted of the bunch, trained as a doctor and experienced as an art critic, not only assigns misogyny to a straight male killer (The New York Ripper) but plays the killer himself in A Cat in the Brain. Though, in another self-protecting twist of narrative, all psychological explanations in Gialli are bullshit, always. Criminology and clinical psychology are largely ignored, and Argento has a clear preference for outdated theories like the extra chromosome signaling psychopathy (Cat O’Nine Tails). Did anybody use phrenology, or Lombroso’s crackpot physiognomic theories, as plot device?

A tradition of the Giallo is that the characters all tend to be dislikable, something Argento at least resisted in Cat O’ Nine Tails and Deep Red. With disposable characters, each of whom might be the killer and each of whose violent demise is served up as a set-piece, this distancing and contempt might just be a byproduct of the form rather than a principle or ethos, but it’s of some interest, perhaps mitigating the misogyny with a wash of misanthropy. A Unified Field Theory of Gialli would find a more deep-seated reason for the obnoxious characters as well as the stylized snuff and the glamorous presentation. What urge is being satisfied, and why here, now, like this?

Class war? Though prostitute-ripping is encouraged in the Giallo, most victims are wealthy, slashed to ribbons amid opulent interiors. Urbane characters who might previously have graced the sleek “white telephone” films of forties Italian cinema were briefly edged out by neo-realism’s concentration on the working class. Now these exquisite mannequins are trundled back onscreen to be ritually slaughtered for our viewing pleasure.

Victims must always be enviable: either beautiful and sexy or rich and swellegant, or all of the above, so the average moviegoer can rejoice in their dismemberment with a clear conscience. Mario Bava bloodily birthed the genre in Blood and Black Lace (1964), brutally offing fashion models in a variety of Sade-approved ways, the killer a literally faceless assassin into whom the (presumed male) audience could pour their own animosities without ever admitting it, with the female killer finally unmasked to provide exculpatory relief.

If narrative formulas absolve the straight male viewer, compositions have a way of ensnaring him. Beyond that omnivorous indulgence of sensation for its own lurid sake one finds in Giallo, there is a more gilded emphasis placed on Beauty (in the Catholic sense), and it is only the women who are mounted upon its pedestal. That these avatars of beauty are to be savored, ravaged, and brutalized — in that order — is what concerns us. But the sex and the suffering that captivates most sadists is never what registers; no, it is the instance of death, the terror that afflicts the dying woman’s face that resonates. Once again, physical interiors become a negative form of emotional interiority, rooms amplified for the sole purpose of grisly annihilations; a kind of heretical, strictly anti-Catholic transcendence through amoral delight in what otherwise falls under trivial headings, either “the visuals” or “color palette” – neither of which touch the essential nerve endings of Giallo.

Swaddled inside an otherwise hyper-masculine castle lies a windowless chamber with feminine, if not psychotic, decor. Before he tortures and stabs her to death, “Lord Alan Cunningham” (fresh from his sojourn in the asylum) brings his first victim to this pageant of off-gassing plastic furniture, the single most obnoxious vision ever imposed on gothic environs. Risibly overblown ’70s chic rules The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave with nods to Edgar Allan Poe, as the modish Lord juggles sports cars and medieval persecution. Laughs escape the viewer’s throat in dry heaves when each new MacGuffin devours itself without warning. Take “Aunt Agatha” (easily two decades younger than her middle-aged nephews) suddenly rising from her motorized wheelchair, clobbered from behind seconds later, her body dragged into a cage where foxes promptly munch her entrails. Nothing comes of this. The phony paralysis, the aunt’s role in a half-dozen mysteries, which include a battalion of sexy maids in miniskirts and blonde Harpo Marx wigs – all gulped, swallowed.

About the only thing we know for certain is that “Aunt Agatha” is gorgeous. Though, in the end, she’s another casualty of the same nihilism that crashes Giallo aesthetics headlong into Poe country. That is into “Lord Alan” and his gaudy room crowded with designer goods to be catalogued in a horror vacui of visual intrusiveness – a trashy shrine to his late wife, the titular Evelyn. If lapses of good taste define The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave, they also reflect Giallo’s abiding obsession with real estate. After all, this Mod hypnagogia has to fill the eye somewhere. Why not bang in the middle of a castle? Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher features a wealthy aristocrat burying his twin sister alive, thereby entombing his own femininity.

Evelyn represents both Usher’s primary theme of the divided self and the obdurate refusal to learn from it. “Alan,” who emerges a moral hero in the end (after his shrink aids and abets his murder spree), remains just as ornery, alienated, and vainglorious as Giallo itself. We’re never told precisely what the film’s fetish objects are supposed to mean. And since the camera seizes upon each one with existential grimness, we’re left with a visual style that begs its own questions.

Function follows form into the abyss. One Ophelia after another dies to satisfy our cruel delectation, even as will-o’-the-wisp light, taken from the bogs and neglected cemeteries of Gothic Horror, finds itself transformed into a crimson-dripping stiletto.  Evelyn stands in for all Gialli, a genre which redefines film itself on the narrow front of visual impact: stainless steel cutlery and candy-colored light enact a sentient agenda as color becomes an instrument of hyperbolic misogyny that fills the eye and then some.  

As with certain other Italian genres, notably the peplum, smart characterization, solid performances and decent dialogue seem not only unnecessary to the Giallo but unwelcome (the spaghetti western, conversely, in which many of the same directors dabbled, seemed to demand a steady stream of good, cold-blooded wise-cracks). Argento, in pursuit of that “non-Cartesian” quality he admired in Poe, took this to extremes, stringing non-sequiturs together to form absurdist cut-ups, torching his stars’ credibility merely by forcing them to utter such nonsense. And this wasn’t enough: from Suspiria (1977) on, the psychological thriller (which the Giallo is a sub-genre of, only the psychology has to be deliberately nonsensical) was increasingly replaced by the supernatural. So that the laws of nature could be suspended along with the laws of coherent motivation.

In Suspiria and its 1980 quasi-sequel Inferno, the traditional knifings are interspersed with more uncanny events, as when a stone eagle comes to life and somehow makes a seeing-eye dog kill his owner, and there are also grotesque incidents with no relation to story whatever: a shower of maggots, or an attack by voracious rats in Central Park. The Giallo’s quest for a solution, inspired as it was by the old-school whodunits, is all but abandoned, replaced by the search for the next sensational set-piece.

Argento’s villains are now witches, but, abandoning centuries of tradition, these witches show more interest in stabbing their fellow women with kitchen knives than with worshipping Satan or riding broomsticks. Regardless of who they’re meant to be, Argento’s characters must express his desires, enact the atrocities he dreams of. And inhabit places built for his aesthetic pleasure rather than their own. Following Bava’s cue, he saturates his rooms in light blasted through colored gels, making every scene a stained-glass icon, no naturalistic explanation offered for the lurid tinted hues. Just as no explanation is offered for the presence of a room full of coiled razor-wire in a ballet school, or for the behavior of the young woman who throws herself into its midst without looking.

Dario Argento’s true significance, at least with respect to Giallo, was perceiving in the nick of time the almost incandescent obviousness of its limitations; that Italian commercial cinema’s garish, polychromatic spin on the garden-variety psychological thriller – departing from its forebears mainly in the rampant senselessness of its “psychology” – had Dead End written all over it. It could never last. On the other hand, Giallo does take a fresh turn with Argento’s Inferno, thanks in no small measure to a woman screenwriter who sadly remains uncredited. Daria Nicolodi explains that “having fought so hard to see my humble but excellent work in Suspiria recognized (up until a few days before the première I didn’t know if I would see my name in the film credits), I didn’t want to live through that again, so I said, ‘Do as you please, in any case, the story will talk for me because I wrote it.’”

Daria Nicolodi

Nicolodi’s conception humanizes (it would be tempting to say “feminizes”) Argento’s usual sanguinary exercises du style, while at the same time summoning legitimate psychology. This has nothing to do with strong characterization – indeed, the characters barely speak – and everything to do with the elemental power of water, fire, wind.… Inferno rescues Giallo by plunging it into seemingly endless visual interludes, a cinema that draws its strength from absence.

by The Chiselers

Daniel Riccuito, David Cairns, Tom Sutpen, and Richard Chetwynd

[littlequeenies]

BEBE BUELL: MUSING ON MUSES AND OTHER FANS

📷BEBE BUELLJUNE 17, 2020

Before embarking on a musical career of her own, Bebe Buell was a much in-demand model but was most often seen as the second fiddle to the famous rock musicians she was dating. She, however, saw herself as the Muse to these musicians, inspiring and sharing ideas with them. Inevitably, the term “groupie” would arise. As she says, “I’m not opposed to ‘groupies,’ per se. I just don’t like being called a name or being tagged like a sheep to slaughter’. Bebe elaborates on this idea for PKM.

I remember the first time I saw a photograph of Oscar Wilde. I was five and it was Easter. We were at the Virginia Beach home of my mother’s friends, Poppy and Tilly, who were hosting a Sunday get together. We were dressed in our pastels and frills and the candy and food was flowing. It was an adult affair and, being the only child there, I wandered off to explore while the grown-ups enjoyed their martinis and snacks. I found myself in a living room study area and on the table was a big book filled with photos of poets, painters, sculptors and scholars. I was immediately drawn to an image of Oscar draped on a chair like a velvet throw! It stuck with me and when I got older I looked him up in the school library. At the age of twelve I read The Picture Of Dorian Gray, but my main interest was in Oscar Wilde, the man and his story. I felt an instant connection, just as I have with all the great inspirations in my life. In 1978, when I was living between NYC, Maine and LA, before finishing the year in London, I never missed one episode of Masterpiece Theatre and their 13 episodes of Lillie about the life of Lillie Langtry, played brilliantly by Francesca Annis. To my delight, it explored in great depth the relationship/friendship between Oscar and Lillie, and I became obsessed with knowing everything and anything I could about their dynamic. I was intrigued, too, by the descriptions of Mrs. Langtry in the press at that time in England and the U.S. She was often called a “Professional Beauty” or “The Jersey Lily” because she was born on Jersey, the largest of the Channel Islands off the coast of Normandy. She was also one of the most featured women in advertising; her face was everywhere. She was the image for Pears Soap and the most respected painters of the day stood in line just to have a sitting with her. In 1877, she met Edward, Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, and became his first publicly acknowledged mistress.

One of my favorite quotes was attributed to her from her conversations with Wilde: “They saw me, those reckless seekers of beauty, and in a night I was famous.” This reminded me of the back room at Max’s Kansas City, the temple of cool when I arrived in New York during the era of everything! It was this platonic duo that introduced me to the role of the “Muse”—that is the Artist and the Muse. Throughout history and especially in the arts, there seems to always be a driving force that brings the flora. In the series Lillie, they emphasized how Oscar would repeat Lillie’s quips and observations in his writing. Their banter with one another fascinated me and I often envisioned myself as a “Patron of The Arts”, in a sense, as I’ve always promoted and sang the praises of those whose work I liked. I felt an affinity with that spirit—the gift of inspiring and sharing special ideas with an artist I admired. It wasn’t just music. I adored musing with photographers, writers, film directors and designers, too. Creative energies have always fed my soul. The first time I referenced the term “muse” was in a 1981 interview I did with the Emmy-winning writer Stephen Demorest for the edgy publication Oui. Its sister magazine in France was called Lui. Playboy had taken over ownership of Oui so it was a glossy, classy, European-style men’s delight, targeting a younger demographic. When Stephen approached me about the piece, he showed me a couple other interviews with “It Girls” that had been published.

One was with Patti D’Arbanville, the inspiration for some of Cat Stevens’ biggest hits. He even used her last name in one of the songs, “Lady D’Arbanville”. I knew Patti from the early 70s and, in fact, it was she who introduced me to Jimmy Page in 1973 on a night out dancing with her in NYC. It was a quick meeting, as I was eager to get home to my boyfriend at the time, Todd Rundgren. A year later, I would run into Mr. Page again and the rest is the stuff of rock tales.

I adored Patti so knowing that both she and Jerry Hall had done this particular interview sealed the deal. Like Patti Boyd, Jane Asher, Linda Eastman, Maureen Van Zandt, Sara Dylan, to name a few, the musical muse is the most often of the muses referenced. I recall how so many people wanted to know my viewpoints and opinions about the word “muse” and why I preferred it to the term “groupie”.

Even in Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous, his beloved character Penny Lane’s first words on screen are, “We are not groupies. We inspire the music- we are bandaids!”. The film was Cameron’s love letter to women and how even at that time a stigma was attached to calling a woman a groupie; it was not necessarily a compliment. It was almost like a dismissive jab, on par with “she’s such a slut” or “whore”. Another scene in Almost Famous has all of the members of the fictitious band Stillwater squeezed onto a small plane that, they thought, was about to crash. Secrets were spilled and fingers were pointed. In one of the most moving moments, the William character defends Penny when she is described as “that groupie” by one of the band members. William nails it when he points out who and “what” she really is- a bright light and cherished fan. Someone who loved them all and for all the right reasons.

I feel that women have been unfairly branded and labeled without cause. I’ve often said that I’m not opposed to “groupies,” per se. I just don’t like being called a name or being tagged like a sheep to slaughter. Summing me up for the life I’ve lived, seen through someone else’s eyes or, worse, exaggerating the truth. I didn’t want those I’ve truly loved or the relationships I’ve had to be considered less sincere because of the visibility of my partner.

Certainly loving music or dating musicians is not derogatory. Isn’t it logical, then, that birds of a feather flock together? Like-minded tribes mate or unite because of chemistry? Rock boys and models have been drawn to each other since forever! In the Netflix series Hollywood, you find that sex and sexual favors were the core of the industry. Several of the movie stars everyone loved on screen had started out as rent boys or nude models to make ends meet. Who decides why someone can give a blow job to the “right” person and get a starring role in a movie and another blow job by an aspiring talent gets tossed into the trash can of regret.

Why, after having four children with Mick Jagger, a successful modeling career and now being Mrs. Rupert Murdoch, would anyone refer to Jerry Hall as a groupie? Or gold digger, another favorite term used to describe women who marry well. Or Marianne Faithfull, Anita Pallenberg or Winona Ryder, for heaven’s sake? These are the questions I’ve always had and one of the main reason why I have rejected the term groupie in the press. It’s not a personal attack on those who identify with the moniker. It’s my own rebellion against being labeled and frowned on for the relationships I’ve had.

I’ve taken this stand for a long time, even though it’s also caused some judgement and negativity towards me from other women. It’s almost as if they think I see myself as better than them. Or that I’m not being honest when I don’t just call myself a full-on groupie, and own it. My closest friends tell me it’s just jealousy but that doesn’t make it any less hurtful to have tales and lies circulated about you by people you barely know or those who don’t know me at all. Or to have relationships that lasted for years being reduced to a laundry list of “conquests.”

This is nothing new, of course. Catherine The Great‘s enemies within the Emperor’s Court turned on her and started rumors that she was a sex fiend who had intercourse with horses. That stuck with her throughout her life and even in the museums of Russia, the tale has echoed although it’s completely untrue. Cleopatra and Anne Boleyn were also targeted. Ruining reputations was the way people got their revenge in days of yore. Or in some cases, the reason why some lost their heads to the guillotine. Why is it that women who have power or beauty have been subjected to crazy accusations of sexual voracity or deviance? Eve takes the blame for the banishment from Eden and although she was supposedly created from Adam’s rib, she is seen as a temptress and Adam as her victim.

I believe every woman should identify by how she feels comfortable and for the work she does. I personally prefer to be known for what I do, my accomplishments, my career. However, dating a rock star or an actor should not merit a nasty quip or name calling fest. It becomes unbalanced when just because someone gets famous as, say, a model or an actress and then dates a rock star, that she should get called anything other than what she does to earn a living. I’m not sure “groupie” falls under the umbrella of job occupation. I’d file it under pastime, hobby, passion, or fetish.

The origins of the groupie started with nothing more than a desire to be close to the band—the guys who made the music. Or in some cases, the women. The term came into use in the mid-1960s as slang for women who liked to hang out with musicians. It’s fair to say that not all “groupies” are the same. There are many tiers and pecking orders when narrowing it down. Certainly not every girl who dreams of being with a rock star will waltz backstage and demand sex or give oral gratification. That’s the image I despise and wish would not tarnish the entire viewpoint to the outside world. Some of the girls on the scene want to take the word “groupie” back, to personify what it meant in the ‘60s and early ‘70s. It became something entirely different when the ‘80s rolled around. Bands born out of the LA scene liked a different kind of arm candy than the Rolling Stones or the Beatles. They preferred exotic dancers and porn stars, the girls du jour of the time. Just as music changes with each era, so do the kinds of women who pursue the bands. But, more importantly, what kind of women the bands seek out. One man’s status is another man’s yen.

And then there are those who look at being a groupie as a form of prostitution. I’ve never understood that one because most girls who live that lifestyle don’t charge money to be with their favorite rock god or even their crew. It’s a thrill to be with the band, but it seems the glamor that was once attached to that goal has changed. For me, it was a thrill to fight to say “I’m IN the band”… or even “I AM the band!”

When I was living with Todd, he produced one of the first all-female bands, Fanny. They were so great! June Millington could shred! I felt bewildered when I would hear snide remarks wondering if Todd was sleeping with one of them. I thought to myself that would have never been said or thought if they weren’t women.

The bottom line is preference. We all have a choice. And we all can be whatever we want. We can wear many hats. I see myself as a mother, wife, musician, singer, songwriter, writer, mentor, animal lover… many different things. What I do in my spare time is how I make my soul happy. Who I date is based on connections, fate and karma. We end up with who we’re meant to be with and the experiences we have are all meant to be. I’ve been with my husband Jim for twenty years now. Our 18th wedding anniversary is coming in August 2020. So, I’m writing this piece from the perspective of a wife, mother, working musician, writer and mentor. Not just a girl who had lots of suitors in her youth. Every single little thing is part of the journey.

The first time I saw a photo in Rolling Stone of what they called a “groupie”, I was 15 years old and in the 10th grade. It was 1969, and neither the image nor the word was at all something ugly to me. It just seemed exciting and cool. The girls were so outrageously dressed, and it reflected an almost innocent charm. I didn’t aspire to be a groupie but they seemed like they were the ones who made the guys in the band cool. They helped dress them, created make-up looks and spread the word all over town about how good they were. It didn’t seem to be so much about sex and backstage antics. Maybe I was too young to fully understand everything, especially from the pages of a magazine.

On my first trip to LA with Todd in 1973, when I finally did meet some real girls who liked to be called groupies, it still didn’t seem derogatory. I started to see how it was all just tossed together in some people’s minds. It’s a complex dance between an artist and his muse. None of it is something so vulgar or tainted as being only about sexual conquest. Maybe to some, it’s about that. But for me it was a series of fated encounters that have lasted throughout my life.

Some people see a groupie as a girl who will do anything, including have sex with a roadie, to get to the band. There is that element to the rock n’ roll lifestyle. But it’s not the entire package. Others see groupies as a vibe, the girls who are there when the band makes it, the girls that helped them make it, the on-the-road bestie, or the girls who get the bands drugs and food. Or even give them the clothes off their backs if the band is short a cool stage look. I often joke that that’s how wearing your lingerie out became a signature rock girl look- the band had taken her clothes to wear onstage!

I recall reading where Pamela Des Barres said she was still a virgin when she first discovered her teenage heart being drawn to rock boys. It felt sexual to her and it was also just youthful and sweet. Not a salacious sexual quest. More a desire to be near the music and the men who made it. That’s perhaps what one would define as a “classic groupie”. Or, in some circles, “fan” is the preferred analogy. I can relate to that myself as I knew when I was ten years old, I would hang out with Mick Jagger one day. I knew those were my people… my kind.

Pamela has made a career out of her life as a proud groupie. But certainly she has a right to claim the term because she helped invent it! She now calls it her “groupie heart” and that is something anyone who’s ever had a crush on someone or loved someone’s music so much that it altered your DNA can relate to. Hasn’t everyone felt that way? Every guy or gal who picks up a guitar or slings a mic stand had to have been dazzled by their inspiration or felt a need to pursue that for their own futures. So, my point is this- none of it is negative nor should one word hold so much power that when it’s flung at a woman, she’ll feel shamed or scorned.

When I started to get a bit of fame, the media seemed to want to call me anything but “groupie”. It was “Friend Of The Stars”, “Queen Of The Rock Chicks”, “Leggy Model”, “The Mother Of All Rock Chicks”, “It Girl”… so when the internet entered our lives, I began to see just how judgmental and downright mean people were about the women who hung out with the bands. It started to become something so dirty and taboo that I wanted no part of that term. It’s a thin line, a hard one to walk. Personally, I feel loving music and being attracted to musicians is as natural as doctors and nurses getting along. Humans are drawn to their soul tribe. Music, musicians and all art forms attract me. I’m the moth to that flame.

As an entertainer myself, it always hurt me when what I actually do for my job was ignored or not taken seriously because of the famous names I’ve been attached to. It’s so one-sided to only put that burden on women. It has been the norm for men to be patted on the back and admired for their taste in women and especially if they were able to appeal to many and have tons of sexual experiences. Even in the animal kingdom, the male peacock has the massive plume bloom to attract as many lovers as he can. A male lion can rule the pride with his sexual domination. A male celebrity only becomes more famous if he’s got a beautiful model or actress on his arm. Whereas a woman who’s dance card is busy or even full is often ridiculed or bashed. Branded with the scarlet letter of infamy.

It started to get under my skin when I saw myself defined only by who I’d dated or had close friendships with. It’s the luck of the draw. Some women who are in the public eye can date and marry a celeb several times and be embraced for it. They use it to further their already visible life. They are proud and exploit all their lovers as the playthings that they’ve become. Some have become famous by leaking a porno or being on a reality show. What was once a limited field has become wide open with lots of branches of thought and assumption. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for me to fight for my image… my persona… my legacy. But I did fight. I turned down almost every request I was presented to be interviewed for groupie documentaries or sensationalized TV shows. Sometimes turning down large sums of money. But I wanted to work hard and felt if I worked hard enough one day I’d be thought of for what I did on a stage, in front of the lens of a camera, as a mother and at times even a manager, more than who I shared my life with. Dare I use the “R” word? I wanted RESPECT.

There’s lots of contrast in the definition of groupie or muse but what about “partners”… the duos who took the world by storm. Sonny & Cher, Karen & Richard Carpenter, Debbie Harry & Chris Stein, Jack & Meg White, Jane Birkin & Serge Gainsbourg, Stevie Nicks & Lindsey Buckingham, Annie Lennox & Dave Stewart, Kim Gordon & Thurston Moore, etc… Or Chrissie Hynde and Courtney Love, who both married musicians. There’s a kaleidoscope of ways women are seen. It all depends on how you are first perceived. The general public seem to hold on to how they first heard of you even if you go on to do many different things in your life. Marianne Faithfull is a perfect example of someone who has been able to transcend her detractors and carry on like the warrior she is. But it baffles my mind how anyone could call her or Anita Pallenberg anything but tastemakers and trendsetters. They were the women I would stare at for hours as a young girl. They fascinated me almost more than the guys they hung out with. Yet I still hear them sometimes referred to as groupies.

Like any entertainer, I have an overwhelming need to be loved and to give love and positive energy to others. That’s why I crave being onstage. The connection with the audience is almost like having the best sex in the world. Or at minimum, a great, soulful hug that sends sparks through your body. I’ve been doing this since 1980, in public anyway. This is my life… not the talented, special men I dated in my youth. That’s part of my story and I will never regret a single heartbreak nor will I ever regret loving to the point of forgetting myself and my own pursuits. But I want to be remembered for more than my dates or suitors. I gave birth to a child who grew up to become a superstar so the role of nurturer has followed me throughout my life. I’ve accepted the fact that my fate is to be a vessel for talent and to enrich those who possess it. It’s become who I am- all the parts and pieces of my karma rolled into one big bang! My artistic side occupies just as much space as my musing side- equal parts love and creative energy.

Things come full circle especially when I get approached after one of my shows by young girls that call me “High Priestress” or tell me that they are my “groupies”. When I hear the words “Bebe, Im your biggest groupie!”, my heart swells but I also like to immediately remind them that I do what I do onstage because of them. Because of the exchange being a performer gives to my being. It’s like fuel… hors d’oeuvres for the soul.

One morning in 2009, I got a call from an old industry friend who had landed at Interscope Records. I was awoken with, “Bebe, you’ve been touted in a song produced by Pharrell Williams called ‘Bebe Buell’ by a young band from Boston called Chester French.” I remember thinking “wow, that’s a nice compliment” because the gist of the song was that someone like me or Pamela Anderson Lee were the creme de la creme of rock-boy desire. There’s a clothing line called ‘Muse & Lyrics‘ that has a blouse/top called “The Bebe” and the brand ‘I’m With The Band’ has named their leopard scarfs and headbands the “Bebe”. There’s even a cocktail called “The Bebe Buell”.

But I think one of the coolest things was having Cameron Crowe name the lead singer in Stillwater Jeff Bebe. He gave me the original T-shirt that was used in the movie, too, and boy do I treasure it! Cameron sprinkled all kinds of little clues and messages throughout Almost Famous. I was especially touched by the Jeff Bebe nod because he knew how much I wanted to be a singer in a band. I remember him once saying to me that I should just go for it. At that point, people only knew me as a model and Todd Rundgren’s girlfriend. I hadn’t even done Playboy yet, so I was still trying to figure out who I was and how to do it. I finally did but it took me six more years to get in the studio and front a band!

It’s moving to be honored and it’s also nice to be appreciated by the younger generation of pop culture lovers. The first time my name was in a song, I was excited by it. My old friend G.E. Smith had a line on his solo album that was about coming to visit “Bebe and Liz”… he came over to my best friend Liz Derringer’s house to play it for us. We were elated… it was cool. I would never be so bold as to sit here and make a list of my lovers or the songs they wrote for me because it seems so long ago. I’d rather leave that up to the fans of the music to decipher and besides not all songs written for others are acknowledged as such. I’ve had several songs given to me as gifts or written to me in letters.

Sometimes the authors don’t admit it because their feelings change and they don’t want to upset their new love interest. Didn’t Bob Dylan write “Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat”, “Just Like A Woman”, “Fourth Time Around” and “Like A Rolling Stone” about Edie Sedgwick, only to later deny it? I know the feeling because it’s happened to me. So, at this point in my life, I just cherish the letters (yes, I still have them so one day when we’re all gone they will maybe solve the puzzles) and I respect and allow artistic license to have its day. It’s an artist’s prerogative to change their minds so I hold no hurt feelings. Music buffs are pretty smart anyway and they usually know the truth, so it matters little unless it’s blatant. The one topic that irks me is that I claimed This Year’s Model was about me. Well, that’s impossible because I didn’t meet and start to date Elvis Costello until he was well into Armed Forces. I was living with him in London when he recorded it in the fall of 1978. He included a couple of lyrics from songs on Armed Forces in letters to me but I can say with certainty that “Party Girl” wasn’t one of them. I guess it was the timing of the release that made people speculate I was the subject, but I wasn’t and never claimed to be. He didn’t even know me when he wrote those records. Why this is disputed has always been a mystery to me. The songs Mr. Costello sent me in letters were from later albums, starting with Get Happy. I will always wonder too why he would say something so false and perpetuate a rumor twenty years later in the liner notes of a re-issue.  Here’s to hoping it is finally put to rest. And even with the shame and pain I felt at the time, I feel no regret or ill will toward anyone. To me the truth is pretty obvious. Remember the story I told earlier about Catherine The Great? Revenge is often used when hearts are hurt, and it is very common in the entertainment industry.

In summing up my thoughts on the topic, I feel it’s time in our culture to appreciate the roles women have played in art since the beginning of time. Dali had his Gala, Picasso would hide the initials of his mistresses in his paintings and secretly tell them so they would know it was for them, Clapton immortalized his love and lust for Patti Boyd with the ultimate ode in “Layla” and John Lennon may have written the most beautiful love song of all for Yoko in “Woman”. Or was it Paul McCartney with “The Long And Winding Road” about Jane Asher or “Maybe I’m Amazed” about the spectacular Linda Eastman McCartney?

We can’t leave out the spirited and unique George Sand whose given name was Aurore Dupin. She was born in Paris on July 1, 1804 and adopted the name “George” because women couldn’t write professionally with the freedom of men in those days. She became one of the most popular writers in Europe during her lifetime- one of the most notable writers of the European Romantic era. She would wear male attire in public saying it was easier and more affordable than women’s garb. She was a confidant to Franz Liszt and lover and muse to Chopin. She would lie beneath the piano while Chopin composed, saying it sent the music through her entire body instead of just her ears.

Music is primal and it gets into our bloodstream. It’s easy to see why young girls get crushes on their idols and some even grow up to marry their dream man. But the days of defining women by their sexual desires or “conquests” should be on the wane. I never looked at the men I dated or loved as conquests. Humans aren’t territories to be battled over or ceded to. The human connection is divine. Each and every person we cross paths with is part of our magical life story.  So, whatever you identify yourself as is fine. That is your privilege and judgement should not follow even if the choices aren’t the norm. As Oscar Wilde said, “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.”

*Closing side note* As I was finishing this essay, I was doodling with a People magazine crossword puzzle and one of the clues was “GROUPIE”. Guess what the answer was… “FAN”. The timing was uncanny!

[thewincestgospel]

Do you have an established relationship wincest recs? Where they are in love and together :) thank you!

Of course!

I live for the boys getting their HEA and just growing old with each other.

Established Fics aka Curtain Fics

Anniversary by sonofabiscuit77   The Smith-Wessons go away for a ghost-hunting mini-break to celebrate their anniversary. Just a slice of life, domestic Smith/Wesson thing where they salt and burn the ghost, have brunch and Dean gets tied to the bed.      

Backseat of My Brother’s 67 Chevy by  NaughtyPastryChef  Extended scene from “Baby”. Dean’s feeling proud of Sam’s hookup until he hears that Sam tried to give that waitress his number. Uncharacteristically, he lets Sam force him to talk about it.

Better Homes and Gardens  by  chick (orphan_account)   After getting whammied on a hunt, Dean wakes up a househusband in Lawrence married to his little brother. Trapped in this world where down is up and up is completely fucked, Dean desperately tries to figure out a way to get back to a world that makes sense without completely losing his mind in the process. Featuring: spice gardens, bridge clubs, and the power of incestuous, gay love.

Cat’s Cradle by  saltandbyrne   My version of curtain fic, with human furniture, the Outback Steakhouse, and brutal, loving BDSM.            

The Chicago Verse by  compo67 After angels and demons and things that go bump in the night, Sam and Dean want a place of their own. Finding a place is easier said than done; and settling somewhere isn’t taken lightly. They take a chance on the city Death spared because he liked the pizza. The boys settle in a Mexican neighborhood just south of the Loop called Pilsen. Sam looks back at how they got here.

Crush by  sonofabiscuit77   Five years after the apocalypse didn’t happen and Sam and Dean have settled down, or as much as the Winchesters can ever settle down. Sam is a college professor and Dean a well-respected small business owner and they’re learning how to balance work, hunting and dog-ownership while coping with the metaphorical and literal scars of war. Life’s not perfect, not for a (sort of) out and proud couple in small town USA with a lot to hide, but they’re dealing, that is, until Dean employs one sexually-confused teenager who develops an unhealthy obsession with both of them. Switching between five years earlier and now, we learn how the boys came together, how they made it through the big fight and whether they’ll ever manage to find that flighty temptress, happily ever after.

Give Him What He Needs  by  brokenlittleboy   Sam wakes Dean up for some good old-fashioned morning loving and Dean is more than happy to comply. They’ve been going at it for almost eleven years now, and it seems like every day Sam gets dirtier and dirter, and more and more desperate for it. Dean’s not complaining–he’s just a little worried someday he won’t be enough for little brother’s needs.              

How Does Your Garden Grow by majesticduxk From the prompt: Sam getting his hands all dirty, Sam getting bad knees as he ages, Sam being excited about his bean crop, Sam bringing vast quantities of zucchini to the Bunker kitchen and expecting Dean to figure out something to cook with it, Sam being wrathful and indignant about caterpillars, Sam out there all day with the sun hot on his neck and the soil cool in his hands thinking about nothing at all but the tactility and the way he’s having this small, steady good effect on the world and coming back HAPPY.

 A Life Most Ordinary  by  sonofabiscuit77   Sam and Dean Winchester are two ordinary brothers living ordinary small-town lives. Okay, so having a mother who was brutally murdered by one of America’s most notorious serial killers and a father who was forever mentally scarred by the event is not that ordinary, but the rest of their problems: marriage breakdowns and relationship failures, job disappointments and sexuality crisis, and Dean’s two kids, 9 year-old Jonah with his disturbing passion for the music of Lady Gaga and 6-year old Simon with his severe hearing loss, well they’re all completely ordinary. The only thing extraordinary about Sam and Dean is how they fell in love.Written for 2010 spn_j2_bigbang challenge    

Just Another Day  by  selecasharp   When rain keeps them in a motel for another night, Sam settles in for a quiet day of movies, popcorn, and cuddling (and maybe more) on a couch with Dean — until he realizes what day it is.      

Just Say My Name by  leonidaslion   Dean turns into a complete and utter nympho. It takes Sam a while to notice the difference.              

The King and The Lionheart by waywardelle     After the disastrous but effective removal of the Mark, Sam and Dean Winchester suddenly face a life without allies or a reason to keep hunting, so they leave their old life behind them in flames. They re-emerge from the ashes as Sam and Dean Wesson, residents of Misty Luna, Maine– a town with a personality all its own. As they settle into civilian life, they gain careers, a home, good friendships and the kind of fulfillment they never thought possible. But with nothing left to fight, the underbelly of their particular kind of love is thrown into sharp relief, especially considering the whole town thinks they’re married, anyway. After dancing around their feelings for the past twenty years, Sam and Dean find a peace they never knew existed, and through it all, they find each other again. And maybe, just maybe, forever. Curtain!fic. Canon divergence after 10x21, “Dark Dynasty.”            

Like a Fish Out of Water by nyxocity AU after Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie. During the final battle with the Leviathans, God finally makes an appearance and deigns to intervene. After granting Sam and Dean a few final requests, he ‘packs his bags’ and takes everything supernatural in existence with him. Left with nothing to hunt, Sam talks a reluctant Dean into settling down in a small town outside of Sioux Falls. Sam seems to want them live a normal kind of life, but between the ridiculous estate sale Sam bought to furnish the house, the arrival of a very human Castiel who’s overwhelmed by human emotions, and their quirky, invasive neighbors, it’s anything but. Dean’s having a difficult time adjusting, convinced everything couldn’t be more abnormal until Sam reveals exactly what kind of life he wants to have with Dean. Dean can’t deny the part of him that wants it–but can he accept it? 

Love is Never Blind  by Calysta18 Love is the only game that is not called on account of darkness!!

Milk Me  by LittleSparrow69   Fill for this kinkmeme prompt:  A knocked-up Dean’s lactating and he hates it but it hurts. Sam “milking” him is less humiliating (barely) than leaking all over his shirts. Sam, though, lives for this.              

On A Friday We Call Good by  gaialux   One unlucky moment. That’s all it took to turn Dean’s life upside down. Sam seems to be on board with the fallout; insisting they take a break from hunting and set up in suburbia. While Sam finds himself assimilating, Dean is far from Mr. Domestic. If he can’t hunt - if he can’t save people - he has nothing. Or so he thinks.                      

Over the Hills, Far Away by roxymissrose   Somewhere in the middle of season seven, this world careens towards the left.Dean looks at Sam and decides enough is enough. They need to settle down for a while, take a breath.                      

The Psychology of Genetic Sexual Attraction by  sonofabiscuit77   “…50% of of reunions between siblings, or parents and offspring, separated at birth result in obsessive emotions…”This story begins in 2001 in a garage in Palo Alto when 18-year old Stanford student, Sam Sharma plucks up the courage to ask car mechanic, Dean Cooper, out for a cup of coffee.   Their attraction is instantaneous and overwhelming, and the relationship that develops seems perfect.  Except nothing is really perfect, and this particular love story started a long time before Sam and Dean even met.  Wincest non-hunting AU. This is my attempt at a boys-don’t-know-they’re-brothers story.  

The Theory of Relativity by wutendeskind   The Apocalypse is over. Sam writes it all down, and the result tops the New York Times bestseller list for an entire year. Dean loves that Sam’s found something to do with his life, but doesn’t know how he fits in. And when Dean reads Sam’s second novel, things get even more confusing for him.     

Trust Me, I’m A Doctor by  checkthemarginsThe one where Dean is a pediatric neurosurgeon and Sam is a law student and they figure out they’re in love.            

Walkin’ the Tightrope by  non_tiembo_mala  It’s 2036, and twenty years since Sam and Dean called it quits on hunting to take up a secluded, quiet life. Maybe Jesse and Cesar gave them the idea, but after Amara, they realized they’d done enough. And they wanted a proper life together even more.Known as Sam Wesson and Dean Smith to the residents of the nearby town they call home, Sam and Dean keep mostly to themselves, their immaculately kept ‘67 Chevy Impala, and their cabin in the woods. That is, until someone from their past tracks them down, desperate for help.Sam and Dean can’t say no, not when it’s their dear friend Jody Mills in deep trouble – she’s missing – but the wedding bands they wear make going back to their old life just that little bit more complicated…              

Wanna make your motor run  by  cordelia_gray   Four times Dean got road head, and one time he gave it.      

I could literally go on and on with this list so I might make a part two of this list.

[jerusalismreview]

Stuck in quarantine, I make a video in which I get romantic with a spoon. I send it to my friends, one of whom tells me to check out the video poems of Adeena Karasick. Some online digging tells me Karasick is a Brooklyn-based poet, writer, performer, and thinker whose work tackles the fun and the real. She also happens to be on the line-up for Mekuvan, Jerusalism’s first online reading series. In a cool combo of fate and query, I interview her and ask more about what’s happening between the lines of her words.

When Adeena sends me an email, she calls me “sweets” and “babe.” Though we think about speaking on Zoom, our interview happens over email, which is to say—text. I don my best quasi-professional internet speak while Adeena skyrockets into my gmail, peppering her answers with emoticons and parentheticals, taking me inside and outside her answers in a slightly overlarge Arial font. Her I’s are lowercase, her proper nouns uppercase. Her signature is one lone, light gray “a.”

I go deep into Karasick’s online corpus. Soon I’m floating. Her virtual vocals hold words fused across mediums, embodying a world intimate with its own supposition of depth. Within this world is the explicit understanding that depth is about layers, and its meaning comes from the interaction of all things—poetry, politics, kabbala!—not nearly as disparate as we imagine. Her work reminds me of the internet itself: obsessed by its ever-updating form and devoted to the process of making image meet word.  

In our interview, Adeena tells me as much, making sure to blow my mind with the theoretical underpinnings of her playful, sexy, serious work. She signs off on our correspondence with ; ))))))) and !!!!!!! and xxxxxxx. Though we’ve finished speaking for now, I find myself again looking at her work, mesmerized. An in to the infinite. Here are some of her thoughts on the matter.

—

Joelle Milman: The infinite abounds in your work. What is your relationship to ein sof?

Adeena Karasick: I like thinking about ways in which ein sof is where all possibility erupts; everything that has been and will be created is housed in a kinda blueprint of potentiality. I think this sense of potent play is crucial, opening up dialogue for new possibilities of reference, connection, an “infinite” unfolding of semantic, syntactic (political) possibilities.

In the Zohar it says, “all binding and union and wholeness are secreted in the secrecy / that cannot be grasped and cannot be known, / that includes the desire of all desires. // Infinity does not abide being known, / does not produce end or beginning./  Primordial Nothingness brought forth Beginning and End? Who is Beginning?… It produces End… But there, no end.” ;)

I guess you could say this sense of questioning and a sense of endless opening really interests me. Take for example, how transliterated ein (nothing) is homophonically connected to ayin (eye) through which we can envision anything. Or if one shifts the letters to ani (i), then we are between being and nothingness, endlessly re-presencing. I’m interested in navigating this space between visibility and invisibility, what is revealed, concealed, veiled unveiled through the flux of form, emanation, re-formation. Recognizing, of course, that in order for anything to be manifested there has to be a limit, a concealment. I adore this ex-static play of expansion and contraction, where everything hums with a kinda vertiginous, vibratory edge.

JM: Who is your muse?

AK: Abraham Abulafia, 13th C. Kabbalistic mystic.

JM: Your ew hybrid poetic work, Salomé, takes a misunderstood character and gives her a new story. What was it like to work with such a specific character, attached to particular historical narratives?

AK: Well, it always bothered me that within Christian mythology and entrenched in history by writers like Wilde, Gustave Flaubert, Mallarmé, artists such as Gustav Klimt, Gustave Moreau, and Aubrey Beardsley, Salomé was seen as yet another Jewish temptress/Christian killer (which is not so great for the Jews ;).

But, in fact, there isn’t any evidence to substantiate this claim. I did a whack of research and according to apocrypha and Josephus’s Antiquities, she came from Jewish royalty and there is no evidence she murdered John the Baptist or even danced for Herod. The only historical reference that [Herod’s wife] Herodias’s daughter’s name was Salomé is from Flavius Josephus, who makes no other claims about her—not that she danced for Herod, not that she demanded John’s head, but only that she went on to marry twice and live peacefully. The other apocryphal reference is that a daughter danced for Herod, which caused him to lose his mind and kill John the Baptist. Thus, the conflagrated Salomé that appears in the Wilde play, [Richard] Strauss opera and all subsequent productions, is an amalgamated construct. Along with Klezmer/jazz god Frank London, I embarked on a 7 year journey to set the record straight.

For the record, there are three women named Salomé in Jewish history: Salomé, daughter of Herodias and Herod II (circa 14-71 CE); Queen Salomé, her great-aunt (65 BCE-10 CE); and Salomé Alexandra (139-67 BCE). Her great-aunt, Salomé I, was the powerful sister and force behind Herod the Great, king of Judea and Second Temple rebuilder.  Salomé Alexandra (also known as Shelomtzion) was one of only two women who reigned over Judea. I wanted my Salomé, Salomé of Valor (pun intended), to carry the weight of both her genetic lineage and the cultural heredity of her name, embodying the legacy and power of the women that came before her.

JM: Your recent work, COVID/ KAVOD, pays attention to these particular times and the words we have created around it. Can you tell me more about the piece?

AK: You know, I was sheltering at home with my daughter Safia Fiera (Sefira) in NYC, and wrote a Facebook post thinking about the power of words and names. I was increasingly obsessed with how COVID transliterated in Hebrew as Kavod כבוד, which translates to glory, honor, and respect. When we congratulate someone we say כל הכבוד – ‘all the honor’ (Good job!)— or close a letter with the word בכבוד which means ‘with respect.’  Yet, ironically, it’s also related to kaved “heavy.” And throughout Exodus, the presence of God in the tabernacle is symbolized by the word ‘Kavod’ (which is also represented by a cloud!). Through a 13th Century Kabbalistic lens, Kavod כבוד refers to Shekhinah, the female revealed aspect of God, which is symbolized by the lips, the mouth, the wound, the word: gates of entry, gates of transmission. AND – according to the Zohar [3296b], the CORONA (crown) of the phallus. And most astoundingly, KAVOD as a technical term within the sefirotic system emphasizes the distinction between the 1st vessel of light and the other 9 – COVID19.

Superstar dub poet/producer Lillian Allen contacted me and asked me to record my thoughts. She had it set to music with a DJ and a cello; launched on Spotify and CD Baby…crazy! It was one of those things, where you never know where things might lead, the synecdoche of the ever-so prescient spread?! Really makes one think about the viral nature of everything, i.e. memes—units of cultural energy that virally replicate themselves; how à la Korzybski / Burroughs, “Language IS a virus…

JM: You work in performance, video, text—but everything seems grounded in words. How do words play differently in different forms?

AK: All my work is dedicated to highlighting ways in which language and being are so intricately entwined; how we are formed and reformed through the language we use; how language’s physicality / materiality / sonic qualities infinitely re-create meaning and being. Playing between and within language’s visual and acoustic space, underscoring how it’s all so viscerally alive.

I love the differences between them [mediums] and I love ways that they feed off and expand the experience of one another.

JM: What is your relationship to the individual letter?

AK: Kabbalistically speaking, if the world was created through letters, every time we read or write or speak, we are in essence re-creating the world.

I love thinking about the way each letter rubs up against another letter, how that modulates the overall feel of the way a line or a text plays itself like a score; how it asks us to renegotiate meaning and being. How every letter in a way contains every other letter and how they themselves hover, erupt as sparks of light.

My recent work Aerotomania, which investigates how the airplane is structured like a language, exposes how the shape of the airplane is reminiscent of the letter Alef, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, symbol of infinite and contemporaneous beginnings.

It’s constructed from two Yods י, one above and one below, with a diagonal line, the Vav ו, between them, representing the higher world and the lower world, separating and connecting the two Yods. And through chambers of light rungs of life ærotically connecting higher and lower worlds, all brimming with interior struggle and yearning, hiddenness, and longing—

JM: Tell me more about what you find sexy. What is the erotic up to when it shows up in your work, and do you find it particularly intertwined with gender? If so, how and why?

AK: HA! What I find most sexy are witty mashups of entwined letters. Ways references wrap around each other, the ways letters brush up against and wind around each other—ways meaning erupts in unexpected ways.

To this end, my new work Aerotomania really focuses on the erotics of meaning production. According to Marshall McLuhan, “the airplane is an extension of the body.” So, with it I’m exploring not only how the airplane is structured like a language but an extension of the body, specifically metonymic of the female body; flying through clouds of data, through a sultry and amorous mapping of light, “shade,” shadow, highlighting the relationship of how language becomes a shape-shifting trickster; an ever-swirling palimpsest of spectral voices, textures, whispers and codes transporting us to sometimes unknown destinations; flying through a variety of zones, registers, soaring to higher and higher levels, leading to radically transformative possibilities of passion, pleasure, power and promise, as we negotiate loss and light; opening up new ways of seeing and being. THIS is sexy ; )

JM: I love it. I haven’t seen anything that approximates the video poetry you make and they’re awesome. When it comes to idea generation, do you start with the medium or the message?  What is your editing process like?

Well, in media ecological terms, the medium is always massaging the message. I’m always interested in the way information reads and is transformed through multiple platforms; whether on a page or a stage, a tablet, computer, or movie screen.

Videopoetry as a medium allows me exquisite axes of entry into a virtual arena. There, not only can the materiality of language be exposed, but through the conflagration of image, music, voice, text, sound and animation, a ‘textatic’ slipperiness of meaning appears. Each piece, operating with its own structure, codes, logic, idioms, reminds us how meaning-making is always a praxis of palimpsest and dissemination, generating a contiguous infolding of meaning.

But to answer your question—in almost every case, I start with a text that I want to multimodally play with. For example, right now I’m working on a videopoem for a Salomé track. I have my text, the recording of it, with the music (composed and performed by Klezmer / Jazz god, Frank London), and now have to assess what aesthetic feel is going to auratically transport it. So unlike writing the poetry, where I see and hear and feel the words all simultaneously, making videos is usually sequential.

Though I do all my own pechakuchas, it literally takes a village to make the videopoems! I write the text, communicate my vision, but I don’t have a lot of the technical expertise—so each one is a loving and painstaking process collaborating with musicians, animators, editors. Textual editing process parallels this in that I am a ferociously compulsive editor, renegotiating every syntactic reference, line break, lexical choice. And even though I have so much respect for Ginsberg’s “first thought best thought,” everything goes through a crazy amount of editing and re-editing until the last possible moment.

JM: So much of your work is mash-up, combining elements from other texts be they theoretical, visual, or otherwise. What is it like to combine existing content and bring it into new forms?

If everything is inherently intertextual and archival, my work celebrates a kind of parsed play of laced socio-political-lingual cultural shards and fractures, highlighting how all is pulsing with palimpsested resonance. This then inherently asks one to revisit and recontextualize, reframe information and thereby see it in new ways.

For example, I’ve been working on an ongoing collaborative project with famed critic / weaver, Maria Damon, on a piece we call: “Intertextile: Text in Exile: Shmata Mash-Up A Jewette for Two Voices,” where we investigate the relationship between text and textile. The whole piece is marked by a kind of intertextatic syntacticism; as we weave meaning through found data, shattered matter, shredded fragments, through all that is proper, improper, impropriotous, riotous, simultaneously celebrating and questioning all that’s filthy and wrinkled and inside out, all that’s unfolded, soiled, sullied, un-rinsed and uncomfortable. And it’s this sense of exploration and reformation, through research, inquiry and play where one can explore the impossibility of the possible, the contingency of our finitude, our brokenness, excess and exuberance, within the fissures of being.  

What’s it like? In a word: textatic ; )  

JM: Your work has uncompromising trust in its own voice and self-representation. For us just getting started out here: do you have any advice on how to commit to and advocate for your work, particularly in a world not always eager to support emerging artists?

AK: Trends, aesthetics, modes, schools of thought come and go, in and out of vogue, and if I’ve learned anything over the years is that everything goes in cycles. Or to use McLuhan’s terminology, systems get enhanced, reversed, retrieved or obsolesced, and so it’s so important to just trust your own mind. Regardless of what seems to be the genre, the praxis, procedure, fashion of the moment, write what you want. Read, as much as you can, go to readings, start journals, perform at open mics, gather community and share ideas, share work. But it’s so important that you trust your own vision, and just sometimes shut it all out and just create your own unique powerful universe that you want to inhabit.  

[mexican-texican]

“Houstatlantavegas”

-Part of the “Repercussions of an Earworm” series, the Dirty Bit Volume. Note, this used to have direct links to the stories themselves on AO3 and FF, but otherwise you will have to excuse the system and take a detour through my blog for links. Otherwise, sorry for the delay, and enjoy :) Megamind/Roxanne M! IT’S RATED M, PEOPLES but no seks, sorry Words: 2600. Don’t listen to AO3′s word counter. “Houstatlantavegas” by Drake, So Far Gone, 2009 He didn't mean to linger, at least not at first... 

They called her Temptress, and she was the most beautifully broken thing he had ever seen. He originally hadn’t meant to linger at first. Hell, he hadn’t planned on staying any longer than it should’ve taken to scout out the place for any potential profitability, seeing as it was on the outskirts of a recently overthrown territory he managed to take a hold of. And yet somehow he was there long enough to hear the music change, hear how the dirty sounds of desperation melted around pure sin, saw the lights filter out from the harsh sharpness the ellipsoidal lamps offered to the soft caress of a followspot being turned on over the center stage. Long enough to see her standing there. Where she took his breath away with a glance, her strikingly blue eyes peering with disinterest from underneath a black fedora while her leather suit clung to her as a second skin. One hand on the fedora and the other wrapped around a whip strapped to her hip. The soft pout of her blood red lips garnered attention; their movements were easily as captivating as watching her hips sway to a needful rhythm, her lips hugging each word that followed the song flowing out of the overhead speakers. Her fluid hands were another form of distraction; dancing, enchanting, caressing the air that surrounded her and beckoning a spell she did not know. She would crouch, she would raise, she would bend; no matter the movement his eyes stayed fixated on the bloom of her lips at every which way and angle she would grace him with. He hadn’t realized he had been entranced until the crack of the whip brought him back, his eyes finally taking in the sight of her exposed skin. Sometime during his infatuation with her mouth did she shed herself of her clothing; everything gone but the boots on her feet, a pair of velvet briefs concealing her bottom and the snapping whip in her hand. As well as that smirk he wanted to devour off her face. It was at that fated moment he realized he didn’t want to claim her as his own, contrarily, he wanted her to stake her claim into him, if she wished it so.

Could she ever want it he’d think as they locked eyes while she offered herself to the city night after night. And in the end it was never about her body, the lewd looks her angelic face would shape or the promise of lust and death in her gaze that would keep him returning to her serpents dance. At least, that’s what he kept repeating to himself in the dark of his room after every visit. Eventually the visits became more regular, almost scheduled, wherein he would get his drink at the bar and sit with his disguise under the dark prior to the queen’s arrival. Everyone else’s performances never quite matched her level of standards; as a result waiting though every dance prior to hers was trying, if not torturous. But when she made her way out of the shadows to the spotlight, her movements slow and languid, he’d forget how to breathe. Every time. In each beginning she would sway her way to the pole, disrobing her outfit layer by layer to reveal herself for her audience. By the time she reached the end of her walk she would twine around the metal bar on stage, completely bared to the flesh for her nightly visitors. Any fabric she had left on her legs was always guaranteed to drop, but whatever lay underneath had no room for negotiation. If she was allowed to hold on to any form of dignity, it was hidden within that stretch of fabric that wrapped around her curves of her hips. A secret she shared with no one. A secret many tried to take. He held some worry for her safety, as obvious as he would with the amount of attention she captured. There would be few who jested at the opportunity of having her exposed to their pleasure. All talk, really, since the risk of getting killed or at least maimed along the way was too high. Then there were fewer who actually had the balls to attempt a go at it, if their fear of being spontaneously castrated was non-existent. None ever made it farther than having the bouncer wrap a hand around their neck, if Temptress herself hadn’t already gotten to them first with a well-placed swing of her heel. But really,that college punk that managed to land a hand to her thigh was just asking for a new facial piercing. The repeating guests that usually kept their distance had been around long enough to know better. To know she offered more than just a show if one behaved. Which was why most nights he would find the room in a standstill when she stepped into the light, straining to listen the tale she had to share. Her skin told stories, whispered lies, a fantasy she wasn’t allowed to own easily spoken through the movements of her body. And if you looked closely enough, you would be able to hear what she had to say. Anyone with even a remote sense of conscious thought could see it was all business to her; she hardly took any pleasure from wringing herself out on a nightly basis. If anything could be taken from her facial expressions of disinterested ecstasy, it would be that she’s a very convincing performer who knows how to wield a mask to shield those from her shattered reality. She never showed interest in anyone else, unless they showed interest in her girls.More than a few occasions did it catch his eye when she walked through the muted crowds with a guest in tow, on their way to the back-alley exit. And he never raised an eyebrow when she walked back in alone with nothing more than a sprained wrist and sometimes a stiletto missing its heel. Which is why he had been heartbroken the night she approached him at the bar with that smile that made him want to bear his wrists out to her. Had made small talk he knew would lead to nowhere but the bed. Tilted her head towards the back rooms and lead him by that invisible leash. Shoved him flat against the back of her dressing room door while stealing his breath and his gun in one swift movement. She earned his respect that night, although in all honesty he probably would’ve just handed it over had she asked. She showed no fear, no hesitation at all as her fingers soundly tightened around the grip of the gun without even questioning the glowing weapon itself. One arm tangled in his coat while pressing into his neck and the other holding the barrel steady underneath his chin, she stared him down with warmth intensity in her eyes that bore into him. More life than he’d ever seen since he first laid eyes on her, really. This development was-

interesting. She’d noticed him more often than not the nights he stood in the shadows. Choked him with all the information she had gathered in the back of her head, things she would take in as she put out on stage. She would’ve been a great investigator in another life. A damned good interrogator. But as unfair as the city was with her denizens, she always made sure to break down the strongest. Having felt he humored her enough, he gripped her wrist with one hand as he twisted the gun away, the other gently but quickly placed in the crook of her outstretched arm to fold it into herself and rotate them both, having her back rest against the door instead. A flash of his teeth, few words spilled between, a twist of his wrist and he was as much exposed to her as she was to the world. Once he revealed himself to her, she could not keep her eyes off of him from her perch on the stage, as if he hadn’t been staring back to begin with. He didn’t bother exchanging the disguise for another, trusted her methods enough to dispel the need for marking the club as his. If she let him walk out of her room alive he at least had the decency to let her take care of things her way. So long as everything was under control, as it usually was. Usually. On slow evenings she would invite him to wait out on the comfort of her changing room bed, gifted to each of the dancers private rooms courtesy of the previous mistress who Temptress had mentored under. An offering, she said, for the girls to have a safe place to crash after their mistress had a “talk” with a guest who paid too close attention. And to prove her trust in him, had extended her invitation to what was considered their safe place. An invitation he did not take lightly. Slowly she opened up to him, one petal unfurling at a time, until she was comfortable enough to let him see her bloom. In the privacy of her changing room, of course. ”Would there be anything else you would do with your life if you, say, found a reset button?” he asked through the thick smoke lingering in the air during one of their quiet evenings. His blue spirit felt lifted in the sweetness of it all even as he laid still besides her. Never bothered by the act and in a way why would he be? He practically controlled the entirety of the city’s supply. She held her breath in, letting the flow of sticky smoke filter out through her nostrils in a lazy lift. ”Not sure. Hard to imagine what a decent life would be like when all you’re used to is shit. Besides, can’t really think of anything much better when the pay’s this good.” He couldn’t help but feel a resonance in her struck cord as she handed him the glass pipe. ”You’re good at sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. You could’ve done some investigative journalism for all I know.” She snorted at that response, a hand running flippantly in her bangs. ”And can you imagine the actual reports? ‘ This is Temptress, signing off’” She smiled at that, the line of her lips cutting deep into her cheeks. The dullness never left her glossed over eyes. He gave a noncommittal shrug into the mattress. “Doesn’t sound half bad, could be your alter ego,” he defended before tilting his head further backwards with practiced impassiveness. ”What, is, your name anyway?” She eyed him from her seat, a nervous grind of her teeth the only sign of hesitation. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” ”I don’t really know mine,” he responded without pause. “It could’ve been ‘light’ or even ‘tektite’, but that’s just some of what they called me in the days before the black hole-” he said before the sullen quiet overtook him, his eyes suddenly diverting to the ceiling. She stilled, running her tongue underneath her top lip and taking in a muted sigh. ”People call me Roxie.” He hummed, blankly staring into the ceiling. ”Funny,” he said after a moment of prolonged silence, letting the quiet of her room suck out any humour the sentence would’ve carried. ”As Ironic as it is, you don’t look any more than just a Roxanne.” Her face froze, the stillness of her chest making him hold his own breath as he waited for, anything. Then he heard it. Heard the beauty that was her laughter for the first time, the sound of the sky opening up. His lips slowly stretched into a grateful smile of awe. He wouldn’t have minded if that was the last thing he ever heard in his life. Most nights ended that way, laying on the bed together sitting in comfortable silence between bouts of needless chatter. Others, he held her in his arms as she shook in pain of memories past. The one night he found her unconscious he nearly had blood on his hands. She lay limp against his arms, a barely restrained anger simmering underneath the surface of his eyes. Most of the addicts had already run out at that point, a few lingering in the corners in the ghosts of their former selves. The one that pointed Roxanne out for him stood alongside him quietly, her vibrantly red hair cascading over her slumped shoulders as she held onto herself.

“She does this, goes on these- bingers, every once in a while. Says it helps her,” the redhead murmured with a plaintive shrug. “With what other than getting fucked up I don’t really know.” He breathed out his frustration and held her against his chest a little tighter, adjusted his grip as he stepped his way over the unconscious bodies of the travel agents he incapacitated on his way in. He figured he should’ve come sooner when he got the text, somehow tried to make it to the trap house faster even though he knew he was breaking laws left and right on his way there, social and theoretical. Getting her home was only slightly harder, seeing as they’ve never spoken of their respective habitations. Tapping into her phone helped him solve that problem quickly, and if she had any objections to the matter, they would have to deal with it after she sobered up. On his way to her bedroom, his eyes skimmed over the layout of her apartment without taking anything in. He didn’t think it was his place to get to know hers. He cleaned her up and laid her in bed. Cleared her living area and replenished her kitchen. Watered the neglected windowsill plants before making leave. When he met her gaze during his next visit she held no face of thanks, absent to the thought of their previous encounter. She rolled a shoulder in a half-effort shrug as she finished off the last of her drink and slunked off the high bar stool. Made way to the hall that led to her room, taking the ache in his chest with her. She would probably never be able to give him what he wants the most, would never be able to reciprocate the feelings he buried deep inside himself, each layer of filth and lies a weighted cloak over his heart. But that was okay, when he got to see her genuine smile in the privacy of her dressing room. Was allowed to hear her laugh in those quiet nights laying side by side. The laugh that almost made him think he was alive. Almost convinced him he was real. They called her Temptress, and she was the most beautifully broken thing he had ever seen.

And he was hers.

[jerusalism]

Adeena Karasick interviewed by Joelle Milman

Stuck in quarantine, I make a video in which I get romantic with a spoon. I send it to my friends, one of whom tells me to check out the video poems of Adeena Karasick. Some online digging tells me Karasick is a Brooklyn-based poet, writer, performer, and thinker whose work tackles the fun and the real. She also happens to be on the line-up for Mekuvan, Jerusalism’s first online reading series. In a cool combo of fate and query, I interview her and ask more about what’s happening between the lines of her words.

When Adeena sends me an email, she calls me “sweets” and “babe.” Though we think about speaking on Zoom, our interview happens over email, which is to say—text. I don my best quasi-professional internet speak while Adeena skyrockets into my gmail, peppering her answers with emoticons and parentheticals, taking me inside and outside her answers in a slightly overlarge Arial font. Her I’s are lowercase, her proper nouns uppercase. Her signature is one lone, light gray “a.”

I go deep into Karasick’s online corpus. Soon I’m floating. Her virtual vocals hold words fused across mediums, embodying a world intimate with its own supposition of depth. Within this world is the explicit understanding that depth is about layers, and its meaning comes from the interaction of all things—poetry, politics, kabbala!—not nearly as disparate as we imagine. Her work reminds me of the internet itself: obsessed by its ever-updating form and devoted to the process of making image meet word.  

In our interview, Adeena tells me as much, making sure to blow my mind with the theoretical underpinnings of her playful, sexy, serious work. She signs off on our correspondence with ; ))))))) and !!!!!!! and xxxxxxx. Though we’ve finished speaking for now, I find myself again looking at her work, mesmerized. An in to the infinite. Here are some of her thoughts on the matter.

---

Joelle Milman: The infinite abounds in your work. What is your relationship to ein sof?

Adeena Karasick: I like thinking about ways in which ein sof is where all possibility erupts; everything that has been and will be created is housed in a kinda blueprint of potentiality. I think this sense of potent play is crucial, opening up dialogue for new possibilities of reference, connection, an “infinite” unfolding of semantic, syntactic (political) possibilities.

In the Zohar it says, “all binding and union and wholeness are secreted in the secrecy / that cannot be grasped and cannot be known, / that includes the desire of all desires. // Infinity does not abide being known, / does not produce end or beginning./  Primordial Nothingness brought forth Beginning and End? Who is Beginning?... It produces End... But there, no end.” ;)

I guess you could say this sense of questioning and a sense of endless opening really interests me. Take for example, how transliterated ein (nothing) is homophonically connected to ayin (eye) through which we can envision anything. Or if one shifts the letters to ani (i), then we are between being and nothingness, endlessly re-presencing. I’m interested in navigating this space between visibility and invisibility, what is revealed, concealed, veiled unveiled through the flux of form, emanation, re-formation. Recognizing, of course, that in order for anything to be manifested there has to be a limit, a concealment. I adore this ex-static play of expansion and contraction, where everything hums with a kinda vertiginous, vibratory edge.

JM: Who is your muse?

AK: Abraham Abulafia, 13th C. Kabbalistic mystic.

JM: Your ew hybrid poetic work, Salomé, takes a misunderstood character and gives her a new story. What was it like to work with such a specific character, attached to particular historical narratives?

AK: Well, it always bothered me that within Christian mythology and entrenched in history by writers like Wilde, Gustave Flaubert, Mallarmé, artists such as Gustav Klimt, Gustave Moreau, and Aubrey Beardsley, Salomé was seen as yet another Jewish temptress/Christian killer (which is not so great for the Jews ;).

But, in fact, there isn’t any evidence to substantiate this claim. I did a whack of research and according to apocrypha and Josephus’s Antiquities, she came from Jewish royalty and there is no evidence she murdered John the Baptist or even danced for Herod. The only historical reference that [Herod’s wife] Herodias’s daughter’s name was Salomé is from Flavius Josephus, who makes no other claims about her—not that she danced for Herod, not that she demanded John’s head, but only that she went on to marry twice and live peacefully. The other apocryphal reference is that a daughter danced for Herod, which caused him to lose his mind and kill John the Baptist. Thus, the conflagrated Salomé that appears in the Wilde play, [Richard] Strauss opera and all subsequent productions, is an amalgamated construct. Along with Klezmer/jazz god Frank London, I embarked on a 7 year journey to set the record straight.

For the record, there are three women named Salomé in Jewish history: Salomé, daughter of Herodias and Herod II (circa 14-71 CE); Queen Salomé, her great-aunt (65 BCE-10 CE); and Salomé Alexandra (139-67 BCE). Her great-aunt, Salomé I, was the powerful sister and force behind Herod the Great, king of Judea and Second Temple rebuilder.  Salomé Alexandra (also known as Shelomtzion) was one of only two women who reigned over Judea. I wanted my Salomé, Salomé of Valor (pun intended), to carry the weight of both her genetic lineage and the cultural heredity of her name, embodying the legacy and power of the women that came before her.

JM: Your recent work, COVID/ KAVOD, pays attention to these particular times and the words we have created around it. Can you tell me more about the piece?

AK: You know, I was sheltering at home with my daughter Safia Fiera (Sefira) in NYC, and wrote a Facebook post thinking about the power of words and names. I was increasingly obsessed with how COVID transliterated in Hebrew as Kavod כבוד, which translates to glory, honor, and respect. When we congratulate someone we say כל הכבוד – ‘all the honor’ (Good job!)— or close a letter with the word בכבוד which means ‘with respect.’  Yet, ironically, it’s also related to kaved “heavy.” And throughout Exodus, the presence of God in the tabernacle is symbolized by the word ‘Kavod’ (which is also represented by a cloud!). Through a 13th Century Kabbalistic lens, Kavod כבוד refers to Shekhinah, the female revealed aspect of God, which is symbolized by the lips, the mouth, the wound, the word: gates of entry, gates of transmission. AND – according to the Zohar [3296b], the CORONA (crown) of the phallus. And most astoundingly, KAVOD as a technical term within the sefirotic system emphasizes the distinction between the 1st vessel of light and the other 9 – COVID19.

Superstar dub poet/producer Lillian Allen contacted me and asked me to record my thoughts. She had it set to music with a DJ and a cello; launched on Spotify and CD Baby...crazy! It was one of those things, where you never know where things might lead, the synecdoche of the ever-so prescient spread?! Really makes one think about the viral nature of everything, i.e. memes—units of cultural energy that virally replicate themselves; how à la Korzybski / Burroughs, “Language IS a virus…

JM: You work in performance, video, text—but everything seems grounded in words. How do words play differently in different forms?

AK: All my work is dedicated to highlighting ways in which language and being are so intricately entwined; how we are formed and reformed through the language we use; how language’s physicality / materiality / sonic qualities infinitely re-create meaning and being. Playing between and within language’s visual and acoustic space, underscoring how it’s all so viscerally alive.

I love the differences between them [mediums] and I love ways that they feed off and expand the experience of one another.

JM: What is your relationship to the individual letter?

AK: Kabbalistically speaking, if the world was created through letters, every time we read or write or speak, we are in essence re-creating the world.

I love thinking about the way each letter rubs up against another letter, how that modulates the overall feel of the way a line or a text plays itself like a score; how it asks us to renegotiate meaning and being. How every letter in a way contains every other letter and how they themselves hover, erupt as sparks of light.

My recent work Aerotomania, which investigates how the airplane is structured like a language, exposes how the shape of the airplane is reminiscent of the letter Alef, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, symbol of infinite and contemporaneous beginnings.

It’s constructed from two Yods י, one above and one below, with a diagonal line, the Vav ו, between them, representing the higher world and the lower world, separating and connecting the two Yods. And through chambers of light rungs of life ærotically connecting higher and lower worlds, all brimming with interior struggle and yearning, hiddenness, and longing—

JM: Tell me more about what you find sexy. What is the erotic up to when it shows up in your work, and do you find it particularly intertwined with gender? If so, how and why?

AK: HA! What I find most sexy are witty mashups of entwined letters. Ways references wrap around each other, the ways letters brush up against and wind around each other—ways meaning erupts in unexpected ways.

To this end, my new work Aerotomania really focuses on the erotics of meaning production. According to Marshall McLuhan, “the airplane is an extension of the body.” So, with it I’m exploring not only how the airplane is structured like a language but an extension of the body, specifically metonymic of the female body; flying through clouds of data, through a sultry and amorous mapping of light, “shade,” shadow, highlighting the relationship of how language becomes a shape-shifting trickster; an ever-swirling palimpsest of spectral voices, textures, whispers and codes transporting us to sometimes unknown destinations; flying through a variety of zones, registers, soaring to higher and higher levels, leading to radically transformative possibilities of passion, pleasure, power and promise, as we negotiate loss and light; opening up new ways of seeing and being. THIS is sexy ; )

JM: I love it. I haven't seen anything that approximates the video poetry you make and they’re awesome. When it comes to idea generation, do you start with the medium or the message?  What is your editing process like?

Well, in media ecological terms, the medium is always massaging the message. I’m always interested in the way information reads and is transformed through multiple platforms; whether on a page or a stage, a tablet, computer, or movie screen.

Videopoetry as a medium allows me exquisite axes of entry into a virtual arena. There, not only can the materiality of language be exposed, but through the conflagration of image, music, voice, text, sound and animation, a ‘textatic’ slipperiness of meaning appears. Each piece, operating with its own structure, codes, logic, idioms, reminds us how meaning-making is always a praxis of palimpsest and dissemination, generating a contiguous infolding of meaning.

But to answer your question—in almost every case, I start with a text that I want to multimodally play with. For example, right now I’m working on a videopoem for a Salomé track. I have my text, the recording of it, with the music (composed and performed by Klezmer / Jazz god, Frank London), and now have to assess what aesthetic feel is going to auratically transport it. So unlike writing the poetry, where I see and hear and feel the words all simultaneously, making videos is usually sequential.

Though I do all my own pechakuchas, it literally takes a village to make the videopoems! I write the text, communicate my vision, but I don’t have a lot of the technical expertise—so each one is a loving and painstaking process collaborating with musicians, animators, editors. Textual editing process parallels this in that I am a ferociously compulsive editor, renegotiating every syntactic reference, line break, lexical choice. And even though I have so much respect for Ginsberg’s “first thought best thought,” everything goes through a crazy amount of editing and re-editing until the last possible moment.

JM: So much of your work is mash-up, combining elements from other texts be they theoretical, visual, or otherwise. What is it like to combine existing content and bring it into new forms?

If everything is inherently intertextual and archival, my work celebrates a kind of parsed play of laced socio-political-lingual cultural shards and fractures, highlighting how all is pulsing with palimpsested resonance. This then inherently asks one to revisit and recontextualize, reframe information and thereby see it in new ways.

For example, I’ve been working on an ongoing collaborative project with famed critic / weaver, Maria Damon, on a piece we call: “Intertextile: Text in Exile: Shmata Mash-Up A Jewette for Two Voices,” where we investigate the relationship between text and textile. The whole piece is marked by a kind of intertextatic syntacticism; as we weave meaning through found data, shattered matter, shredded fragments, through all that is proper, improper, impropriotous, riotous, simultaneously celebrating and questioning all that’s filthy and wrinkled and inside out, all that’s unfolded, soiled, sullied, un-rinsed and uncomfortable. And it’s this sense of exploration and reformation, through research, inquiry and play where one can explore the impossibility of the possible, the contingency of our finitude, our brokenness, excess and exuberance, within the fissures of being.  

What’s it like? In a word: textatic ; )  

JM: Your work has uncompromising trust in its own voice and self-representation. For us just getting started out here: do you have any advice on how to commit to and advocate for your work, particularly in a world not always eager to support emerging artists?

AK: Trends, aesthetics, modes, schools of thought come and go, in and out of vogue, and if I’ve learned anything over the years is that everything goes in cycles. Or to use McLuhan’s terminology, systems get enhanced, reversed, retrieved or obsolesced, and so it’s so important to just trust your own mind. Regardless of what seems to be the genre, the praxis, procedure, fashion of the moment, write what you want. Read, as much as you can, go to readings, start journals, perform at open mics, gather community and share ideas, share work. But it’s so important that you trust your own vision, and just sometimes shut it all out and just create your own unique powerful universe that you want to inhabit.    

--------

To join the Jerusalism Mekuvan Zoom session featuring Adeena, please see register: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/mekuvan-4-wadeena-karasick-tickets-107540472448

[deborahdeshoftim5779]

The Marvel of Trelsi (Part XI)

I’m back with a bang. Real life constraints should be made illegal, so that I can spend my days squeeing over Trelsi loveliness. (The above picture! :D) In this instalment, I’m going to round up on my major problems with the central pairing of HSM, Troyella. The initial list I wrote down was much longer, but I realized that many things came under the same catgeory: arguably, the central problems with Troyella can be summarized into one. Their relationship is fundamentally unequal, hence why they have no shared passion, almost nothing in common, one-sided respect, and aren’t in love with each other. Like I said in the last post, I would have rearranged my list in retrospect. I’ve been debating upon which final problems are worth exploring for a while, because there is so much overlap, but I think this final point encapsulates another core problem in the Troyella farce. 

6- Nobody criticizes the Troyella relationship. Everyone thinks it’s the best thing since the invention of the wheel. 

If there was one thing more obnoxious than Troy Bolton being shackled to someone as unrepentantly selfish, cruel and hypocritical as Gabriella Montez, it has to be the way his peers worship this “relationship”. The message in the HSM franchise is clear: this is the ideal, and you, the viewer, will be convinced of this not only by virtue of excellent camera work, romantic music and well-timed PDA, but also by the way that East High’s world revolves around the central pairing. Whenever Troy and Gabriella perform onstage, everyone cheers, whistles, smiles, claps, jumps, has religious experiences. All competition is either explicitly shown or implied as being innately inferior to Troy and Gabriella, even though this is unlikely. Not that I think all the emotion shown during the Troyella ballads is fake; Troy in particular translates a lot of genuine emotion into his musical renditions and therefore is a captivating performer. And even when his previous love for Gabriella degenerates into mindless emotional dependency, he conceals this when performing his ballad duets with Gabriella during HSM III. So, in effect, their relationship becomes a performance. 

But Troy and Gabriella’s peers, although potentially able to perceive problems between the two, rarely react to them, let alone acknowledge them. It is only during HSM I, I believe, where Chad and Taylor show some remorse when they see the upset that their deceitful webcam stunt caused. And to their credit, both The Jocks (The Jerks) and The Brainiacs (The Maniacs) repent of their sins, realizing that Troy and Gabriella have a right to pursue their own interests in peace. This appears a more uniform approach to addressing relationship problems from an outsider’s perspective. And I often think that outsider perspectives are important in romances to instigate and even interrupt character development, and to motivate the plot. All the classic romances have commentary, help and even interference from outsiders. They do not necessarily have to be helpful-- that clearly wasn’t the case in HSM I. However, in the franchise, we are dealing with, in particular, Troy’s friends. The sheer lack of any scene in which someone asks about his relationship out of concern, instead of gushing over it like Troyella is some American version of Romeo and Juliet (and look how those two ended up!), is deeply troubling as it leads to Troy’s increasing emotional isolation. 

Let’s break this down carefully. Many of the scenes of conflict between Troy and Gabriella occur when no one else is around. In HSM I, she suddenly turns cold towards him in the corridor, but everyone else is just passing by. In HSM II, two of her cruelest moments, mocking him for wearing Italian golf shoes, and then dumping him, had no onlookers. In HSM III, Gabriella’s refusal to listen to any of Troy’s advice with regards to Stanford happens in the private of her bedroom. However, there are several scenes betraying problems in the Troyella relationship that occur with onlookers, or could potentially involve other characters, as I will demonstrate below. 

Chad Danforth

One of the most mystical things throughout the entire HSM franchise is Chad’s inability to act like a best friend towards Troy when it doesn’t particularly suit him. I have covered this in Part IV, V, VI and VII of this series. Let’s just remember that Chad is Troy’s best friend. In the man’s own words: “we have been like brothers since pre-school.” And that’s a beautiful thing. How many people have managed to remain friends with people for at least fifteen or sixteen years in a row, from childhood no less? That’s why I like Troy and Chad’s friendship-- not because it’s stellar, like his friendship with Kelsi-- but because of its tenacity as well as the genuine brotherhood between them. 

Initially, Chad is not sold on Gabriella, because in his view, she is luring Troy away from his basketball career like a Siren leading sailors to their doom. In HSM I, he says, “What spell has this elevated IQ temptress girl cast that suddenly makes you want to be in a musical?” Gabriella is getting in the way of the Grand Plan. She is an obstruction, and not just a new girl in school who has become Troy’s friend. However, it is a credit to Chad that, upon realizing the cruel effects of his webcam stunt, he appears willing to make amends for his behaviour, and we can presume from then on he approves both of Gabriella as well as her relationship with Troy. But at the end of the day, he is still Troy’s best friend. Somewhere along the line, his friendship with Troy took a back seat, whilst a blind acceptance of Troyella took centre stage, with Chad even willing to default to Gabriella’s side (she’s “already one step ahead... As usual” after bailing on Troy before prom in HSM III) whilst his own friend is clearly upset. It’s an assumption, but Chad seemed more concerned with Gabriella’s feelings in HSM II, particularly when they were watching Troy teach Sharpay golf. We can see this where Chad casts a look at Gabriella, after telling Taylor that he has “no idea who [Troy] he really is,” which could be interpreted as sympathetic. It’s quite brief. Since the scene ends here, it seems that Chad felt that Gabriella had been wronged, as well as himself. It is surely astonishing that in a friendship supposed to resemble family ties, we NEVER see a scene in which Chad asks after Troy and Gabriella’s relationship in casual conversation, even if he suspected that Troy was neglecting Gabriella. 

Even after definitely discovering that Gabriella broke up with Troy in HSM II, there is no scene where Chad tries to comfort his best friend; we know this, because later on, when Troy is lying alone, despondent in bed, he says the two following things: that the Wildcats wouldn’t come “even if I called”, and that “Chad won’t talk to me.” His best friend, so openly a fan of Troyella, won’t bury the hatchet and pick up the phone, come round and visit, try to boost Troy’s spirits. Demonstrate that their friendship is stronger than a petty quarrel motivated entirely by Chad’s own jealousy. And why is this? Because the image of Troyella, this glorious legend, becomes more important to Chad than Troy the man-- a person he never truly understood anyway. What’s ironic is that Chad never seems to demonstrate much insight into people anyway, so he can’t be that clued up on Gabriella’s character, yet he eventually treats her as though she is without blame and her word is immutable. So when Gabriella sees fit to renege on her promises to Troy over the phone in HSM III, Chad only offers the verbal equivalent of a pat on the back, although this is one of the few occasions where he does genuinely try to pick Troy off his feet, urge him not to pine and mope. But that’s offset by Chad’s lack of interest when Troy was sitting alone in the auditorium, clearly devastated by Gabriella’s departure, not to mention him pillorying Troy when the latter kept making mistakes in rehearsals. The image supersedes the man. 

What does Chad see in Troyella? I’m not really sure, given that he bills himself as the hard, unsentimental type. Clearly that isn’t the case, given his admiring and supportive smile in the wings during HSM III when Troy is performing “I Just Wanna Be With You”. I suppose, deep down, Chad has a very simple philosophy: if it makes Troy happy, then he won’t interfere. Deep down, Chad can be a true, supportive friend when he wishes to be. But with such good intentions comes the requirement of regular concern and support, which Chad simply does not provide, even when faced with staggering evidence of problems in the Troyella relationship. It’s outrageous that we are never shown Chad’s reaction upon discovering, somehow, that contrary to following his “man up” advice, Troy had gunned up his engine and driven off to California, 1053 miles by himself, seemingly without telling anyone. As I said in my Questions for HSM III series, I can’t see his parents allowing him to go, and I couldn’t see Chad being too happy either, given that he just told Troy to get over the situation not long beforehand. But because we are supposed to see the entire series wrapped up with a shiny bow, no one questions the appearance of the Golden Couple, and everything goes right in the end. Chad applauds and silently approves. 

Meanwhile, he could be constantly there for Troy with a pat on the back, some brotherly advice and concern when Troy demonstrated an increasing inability to think for himself. As Troy’s best friend, Chad should know him better than anyone, and demonstrate deep concern when he sees his best friend twiddling his thumbs alone and staring listlessly into space at school, or collapsing onto his bed, his voice heavy and lifeless. In the Troy-Chad dynamic, Chad is often the motivational partner who can spur Troy to action. This is shown at the beginning of HSM III, where Troy leaves Chad to rally the team so they are motivated to win. Whilst Troy clearly internalizes a lot of his anxiety, by HSM III, the toll of being with Gabriella showed a great deal, and Chad should have been right next to Troy in those auditorium seats, doing what he could to lift Troy’s spirits. Chad should have been alarmed to see Troy wandering around without meaning or purpose on the rooftops, staring at Gabriella’s empty locker, sitting in silence instead of engaging in normal social interaction, because these are all signs of the kind of pervasive sadness that can develop into withdrawal and even depression if left unchecked. He has, after all, known the guy for over a decade, and should be aware of what to do. Instead, he’s chatting with Taylor, and it’s Kelsi, whom Troy has not even known for two years, who knows JUST how to comfort him with a hug and a smile. The irony.

There’s simply no excuse for Chad’s neglect of Troy at crucial moments, despite being fully aware that he is witnessing problems right before his eyes. 

The same goes for the Wildcats. I won’t analyse them individually, but they are supposed to be Troy’s friends. We don’t see any scene where they decide to rally around Troy when he’s clearly hurting after the breakups in HSM II and HSM III. None of them ask where he’d been in HSM III, and why he didn’t show up for prom. No one is remotely interested when he’s struggling with Gabriella’s absence. The image supersedes the man each time. And why is this so ironic? Because the HSM series is supposed to represent breaking the status quo, the hierarchised world of East High that keeps all students trapped in their specific social group, and raises hell for anyone brave enough to challenge such normativity. But actually, what the Wildcats do is ditch one status quo (social prejudice) to replace it with another (Troyella worship). And this status quo ends up being equally poisonous to the social and moral atmosphere, given that it encourages the unhealthy view that “perfect” romances exist (they certainly do not), and means that all flaws are routinely ignored. In this case, it is Troy who is emotionally isolated time and time again, as the Wildcats appear to side with Gabriella more. I base this conclusion on the fact that, as I stated earlier, the Wildcats refused to visit Troy after Gabriella quit Lava Springs, and it is implied that Troy sensed their bitterness towards him, even though they were presumably still speaking with him at that point. “Maybe my friends are right. Maybe I am turning into a jerk with new shoes.” Given the Wildcats’ underhand methods of displaying their displeasure, perhaps Troy had heard them, or suspected they were muttering behind his back. The Wildcats all want their special piece of Troyella cake, want to experience the magic like they’re watching Disney. Troy, their friend and captain, is of secondary importance. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bolton

Now, the fact that Mr and Mrs Bolton are never shown to express concerns over Troy’s rapid deterioration throughout the movie series is not to be assumed as based on a lack of concern for their son at all. Despite notable criticisms of Mr. Bolton’s behaviour, many of which are valid, at the end of the day, Mr. Bolton has his son’s back 100%. So it is mystifying that he is never shown to have questioned Troy’s relationship with Gabriella. Why? Because in HSM I, we know that he is willing to demonstrate his disapproval of Gabriella outright, even based on the flimsiest evidence. “You haven’t missed practice in three years. That girl shows up--” And yes, even though he eventually approves of TROY’S singing ambitions (and learns to refer to Gabriella by her given name), it is clear that his son comes first. So much so that even in HSM II, it appears that he relents on the scholarship pressure when it becomes clear that Troy is really suffering an identity crisis and is genuinely upset.

I don’t think he comprehends the full scale of that upset, because the advice he gives is helpful, but strangely insufficient. In the whole dialogue exchange, it is clear that Mr. Bolton can’t comprehend Troy’s internal conflict. When Troy essentially tells him that the Wildcats don’t want to speak with him, Mr. Bolton just laughs it off, instead of asking why and showing some concern. When Troy tells him that Gabriella quit (and dumped him), he makes no response. He’s certainly concerned, of course, but doesn’t comment on that exact event. I have to assume this is the first time that Troy told his father about the situation between him and Gabriella, which implies that Troy had kept it a secret. But when Mr. Bolton notes that Troy has been in his room for the last couple of days, that leads me to believe that perhaps he didn’t check on him for a while, possibly believing that Troy would get over whatever it was that was bothering him. Again, this is NOT based on a lack of concern, but let’s get back to why Mr. Bolton’s advice to Troy is insufficient. 

[Mr Bolton] “You know what? I’ve known this kid for a long, long time. And I got a lot of faith in him. He looks a lot like you. I’m absolutely sure he’s going to figure out the right thing to do.”

Now, there’s piano music and a clarinet to fool you into thinking that this is a pivotal point for Troy, and his father has just delivered a motivational speech. But actually, what’s the message here? After hearing that his son’s girlfriend broke up with him, and his friends won’t talk to him, what Mr. Bolton advises as a solution could be summarized at best as “You’ll figure it out.” But clearly that’s not the case. By his own admission, his son has been lying in bed for days, won’t eat food, hasn’t received any social calls and seems unresponsive to any encouragement. This is not the kind of person who seems ready to figure it out. HERE is where Mr. Bolton could have shown a strong, fatherly presence and advised Troy on how to navigate his next step, instead of chucking down a photo of Troy dressed in East High colours (thus referring to the dreaded Pedestal and perhaps causing Troy to throw back his head in exhaustion as though he has heard this lecture before), and leaving him to his own devices. Furthermore, Mr. Bolton makes absolutely no mention of Troy and Gabriella’s breakup, and we know from HSM III, that he will ask after Gabriella. Earlier on in the film, he shared an amusing anecdote about Troy’s devotion to Gabriella: “You know whenever she calls, he just, blushes.” So he knows the relationship means a lot to his son. And yet no comment about her quitting? No comfort? No asking why? 

Again, please don’t assume that Mr. Bolton doesn’t care. He does care. But perhaps he too has too much faith in Troyella to fully appreciate the extent of damage that Gabriella is causing. Not to mention, of course, that Troy internalizes so much anxiety and rarely confides this, except very often to the wrong people, like Chad and Gabriella. His faith in Troyella seems predicated upon his faith in Troy’s decisions, without necessarily evaluating whether those decisions are good decisions. So if Troy is with Gabriella, and she apparently makes him happy, then he approves of Troyella. The problem is what has to happen for Mr. Bolton to realize that Troyella is a problem? This is why we HAD to see his reaction to his only son driving off into the hinterland for a girl who had just reneged on her commitments. I think that would be a sufficient breaking point, because unlike many other characters, Mr. Bolton has more loyalty to his son than to Gabriella, and would somehow draw a line. We needed to see Mr. Bolton, with his good old-fashioned, masculine reasoning, tell his son a few hard truths about being in a relationship and show some concern about Troy’s increasing despondency. Being Mr. Bolton, he may not have tackled this in the most constructive way, but as a father, he sure as hell would have tried at some point. 

Which brings me to Mrs. Bolton, who is woefully underused throughout. Mrs. Bolton is an admirable matriarchal figure who keeps everything in order with calmness and style. She is surrounded by men, but she’s the one keeping them in line. They can be in charge on the court, but she’s in charge in the house. “Woah, woah, woah. Can we all redirect this energy by bringing in the groceries?” To which the people say “Yes, Mrs. Bolton.” Her will be done. This lady is not someone to be crossed. Her love for her husband and son is enjoyable to watch (take note, Troyella fans; the Boltons have a PROPER relationship), and she appears to treat Chad like a son too, if the prom suit scene is anything to go by. “Aw, you did good!” She does relent sometimes, like at the beginning of HSM I where father and son are in the middle of shooting hoops. But throughout, she very clearly wants the best for Troy, and Troy appears to have a much easier relationship with his mother than his father: he can persuade her easier. 

Again, referring to HSM I, he manages to convince her to let him shoot one more basket before heading to the kids party. Given this obvious affection, it is inexplicable that nothing was made of Mrs. Bolton’s visible surprise, dismay and disappointment when the fragments she heard of Troy’s conversation with Gabriella in HSM III. Indeed, the film almost treats her reaction as an aside. Having been, presumably, the first parent to see Troy’s prom suit, having been gushing and proud of him, having been eager to see Gabriella wear the ordered corsage, having seen her son almost giddy with excitement for the first time in possibly WEEKS, WHY does Mrs. Bolton all but disappear from our screens when Troy is at his lowest, only to reappear when everything is seemingly going well again? Because out of the two parents, Mrs. Bolton would have more constructive advice for her son’s relationship problems; women and mothers often tend to be more intuitive in that sense. Obviously, Mrs. Bolton would have discovered that Gabriella wasn’t turning up for prom, and whilst Mrs. Bolton evidently approves of Gabriella (although isn’t fooled by her-- that “Hi Gabriella” kind of sounded like “I know what you’re up to/I know you’re up there/You can’t fool me”), her son comes first. She would be right there, trying to comfort him and perhaps offering him some help. Perhaps, were she even more intuitive, she might be asking questions about the kind of girl who builds up their boyfriend only to drop kick him at the last minute. She might connect the dots between Troy’s lifelessness for the past couple of weeks, to his excitement at seeing Gabriella, to his despondency when Gabriella disappoints him for the nth time. We don’t know. But the airbrushing of Mrs. Bolton except when it comes to dancing in the crowd is shameful and inexplicable, making the Bolton’s seem like unconcerned parents when clearly they are concerned. It’s just not possible that they wouldn’t be. 

Ryan Evans

Another inexplicable example comes from Ryan Evans, who is either very forgiving or a diplomat. Remember that the biggest howler in HSM II came when Gabriella twists Ryan round her little finger, buoying him with flirty compliments in an attempt to humiliate Troy. Because Ryan is an honourable and decent person, he has no intention to carry through with this plan, hence why he extends a friendly welcome to Troy and passes on a compliment from his father. But this does place Ryan in the prime position of seeing a glaring problem in their relationship; that Gabriella is willing to manipulate and punish Troy. If you watch this scene carefully, you can see Ryan’s initial confusion which melts into awkwardness when he catches Gabriella’s expression and sees something akin to coldness and vindictiveness there, directed towards Troy. Furthermore, he hears the awkward silences and realizes something is up that he finds embarrassing. However, Ryan’s general reaction is that they will both sort whatever it is out themselves; he looks like he’s dodged a bullet when he makes his hasty and awkward exit. This is fair enough. But it seems far too light, given Troy’s expression, plainly betraying hurt and jealousy and humiliation, is plain for all to see. Then again, Ryan tried his best to diffuse the situation and ended up being cut off, so when he runs out of ideas, he leaves. 

Having just witnessed a very ugly side to the girl who, just moments before, was praising him to the heavens and assaulting him with sweet smiles, why does Ryan (and Kelsi) think the solution to Troy and Gabriella’s later breakup is a musical reunion between the two? I mean, I commend him for trying his best in this regard, and I suspect that his aims were simply to create a pleasant surprise for Troy, whom he perceived to be having a hard time. These are honourable aims. But I just can’t comprehend his lack of criticism for Gabriella’s crystal clear manipulation. Not only does he see Gabriella’s vindictive behaviour in this scene, later on, he is STILL hanging out with her! Because Ryan is not given much relevant dialogue apart from either pandering to Sharpay, or engaging in that silly macho contest with Chad, or saying a few things here and there later on, we don’t know whether Ryan addressed the issue of the LAUGHABLY obvious tension and discomfort between the alleged Golden Couple. Most likely he thought they would patch things up. Of course the fact that he gives Gabriella a hug is based on being friendly, not upon being Don Quixote. As I write this, perhaps there IS a reason. Gabriella went out of her way to speak with him (for the first time), and at this point, Troy had not yet done so. Furthermore, the circumstances that Gabriella created, made things awkward for Ryan, whereas Gabriella continued to show him (ostensible) friendship. Furthermore, Gabriella was actually the reason for his popularity with the Wildcats, whereas beforehand, it is implied that they may have mocked him. So he is actually grateful to her on that count. As a result, he thinks that they couldn’t sort whatever “it” was out, so I’ll cook up something nice and maybe that will fix it. He has no hard feelings towards Troy, he has no hard feelings towards Gabriella (even though she clearly used him), all he needs to do is write a nice song, get Kelsi to play it and everyone’s a winner. It’s an extremely naiive, although clearly well-meaning approach. I certainly wouldn’t criticize him for it, given that he still possesses some measure of awkwardness and is keen not to draw negative attention to himself. He is also keen to stay on good terms with everyone, even jocks who may or may not have treated him as a laughing stock. So he isn’t going to rock the boat. Perhaps he is a diplomat. In HSM III, he’s impressed with Troy and Gabriella’s performance, and ends up congratulating the both of them. There’s no hard feelings. Like everyone else, he has no criticism for Gabriella upping and leaving for California. Unlike almost everyone else, he does show Troy support, so he obviously isn’t as immune to the problems in the relationship as are so many others. But when they all appear to get back together in the end, he approves on TWO occasions, despite the breakups occurring in similar circumstances. The musical will fix it! :D *shakes head* 

So there you have it, folks. Six concrete reasons why Troyella is a horrible central pairing. Granted, there are many offshoot reasons that I considered, such as the poor communication, lack of realistic aims, Troy’s immunity to Gabriella’s faults that I could have added into the series, but I think that many of those are already covered throughout the piece. We have a couple who are supposed to share an interest, but don’t. A couple who are supposed to have at least a few significant other things in common, but don’t. A couple who are supposed to respect each other equally, but don’t. A couple who are supposed to be in love with each other, but aren’t. A couple who are supposed to be equal, but aren’t. A couple who should have at least fostered some objective outside perspectives, but don’t. A couple that leaves Troy Bolton, the most likeable character of the lot, broken, diminished, full of self-doubt and lonelier than ever before, whilst Gabriella gets into her Freshman Honours Program and has a bright future ahead of her. By the way, have you noticed that I haven’t criticized any character for not attending to Gabriella’s emotional needs throughout this movie? Because she rarely ever seems upset when her relationship takes a downturn. She might shed a few compulsory tears, mope around at home and pull a few sad faces, but she’s right as rain not long afterwards. Watch the latter half of HSM III if you don’t believe me. Not long after dumping Troy over the phone, she is SMILING, people. Clearly, her mental well-being is in NO danger. Furthermore, she NEVER shows one hint of remorse about what her actions do to Troy, and neither does anyone in the movie series tell her, because they all believe that Gabriella is beyond reproach. 

Troyella is therefore illogical, untenable, disturbing, almost immoral, and a direct affront to everything this movie is supposed to stand for. 

Guess who thinks this relationship is perfect and so romantic?

:D Oh dear. 

I weep. I really do. 

We will dissect Kelsi’s romantic interests in the next installment, including analysis of why she latches onto Troyella with such blind fervour, and what this means. 

More analysis upcoming. 

[aaroncutler]

Sunrise as Comedy [by David Kalat]

June 11th: The following text was written by film critic and historian David Kalat on the occasion of this year’s F.W. Murnau retrospective at the Brazilian festival Olhar de Cinema. Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans screens in the festival June 11th and 12th. More information about the retrospective can be found in English at http://olhardecinema.com.br/2017/en/2017/retrospective-f-w-murnau/ and http://olhardecinema.com.br/2017/en/screenings-2/#.retrospective, and in Portuguese at http://olhardecinema.com.br/2017/2017/olhar-retrospectivo-f-w-murnau/ and http://olhardecinema.com.br/2017/filmes/#.olhar-retrospectivo.

Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau’s Sunrise is the dictionary definition of a classic film. It won (for all intents and purposes) the first ever Academy Award, has been placed on the National Registry, and was the first silent film put out on Blu-Ray.  It routinely places in “Best Of” lists, it’s a picture whose artistry is intended to be accessible to mass audiences.  It is conventionally beautiful, conventionally narrative, conventionally stirring.  It needs no apologies or excuses, it’s just excellent in every way.  

But did you know it was a comedy?

Consider the basic premise: Sunrise presents a sexy, vampish “Woman of the City” who invades a rural idyll where her very presence corrupts a naïve young man.  In order to pursue this temptress, the young man comes to believe his only escape from his existing small-town romance is to kill his girl, which he utterly fails to accomplish, and thereby sets in motion the plot developments of the rest of the film.

Just six months before Sunrise hit theaters, American audiences saw the exact same plot in Harry Langdon’s comedy Long Pants!

In this context, it’s worth remembering that Langdon’s film crossed enough taboos (or do I mean tabus?) that some audiences didn’t find it funny at all.  Meanwhile, Murnau does pitch Sunrise like a comedy, and its contents are not very much distinguishable from what constituted comedies of the same period. For example, Sunrise’s main characters go on a date to a carnival, where they run into money problems and an out-of-control animal (see Harold Lloyd’s Speedy), and the film climaxes with a catastrophic storm (see Buster Keaton’s Steamboat Bill, Jr.)

The young man (George O’Brien) rows out to the middle of the lake with his trusting wife (Janet Gaynor) where he intends to drown her.  But when push comes to shove, as it were, he loses his resolve and rows mindlessly to the opposite shore, where they board a trolley car.  And in one of the most astonishing sequences in all of cinema, the shell-shocked couple gather their wits as they are transported from what might as well be a medieval village straight out of Nosferatu through a forest to an industrial patch and finally arriving in a futuristic Metropolis, all in the span of a couple of minutes.  There is no such trolley ride anywhere in the world—this thing might as well be a time machine.

The transformation is absolute.  The opening scenes take place in a silent movie world of exaggerated gestures and portentous symbolism.  But the city reveals more naturalistic acting, more observational in tone.  And the city scenes are obsessed with the details of the setting—the cars, the clothes, the architecture, the store fronts, the people-watching, the traffic.

Dramas do not often get bogged down in such observational fascination with their setting.  Although it happens sometimes (as with the semi-documentary approach of Billy Wilder’s People on Sunday, or perhaps Robert Wise’s Star Trek: The Motion Picture), this is a technique more familiar from comedies, where the observational detail is part of establishing the ironic commentary. Think Jacques Tati’s Playtime, or Chaplin’s City Lights, or Jean Renoir’s Boudou Saved From Drowning, or just about anything by Harold Lloyd.

Murnau introduces two outsiders into this cityscape—scraggly, haggard refugees from a horror film who have stumbled into this world in a state of high emotional dudgeon and will encounter it as if they are visitors from another planet. Again, the parallel is to a comedy’s structure, with the outsider hero(es) providing for a commentary on the world around them.  Charlie Chaplin rarely stumbled into any of his adventures after a botched murder attempt, but all Murnau has done is to provide a context for his protagonists’ alienation where someone like Chaplin uses his costume as a shortcut to the same ends.  Like Boudou or Mr. Hulot, George and Janet are outsiders invading this space.  We will witness its familiar contours through their eyes.

Setting in a film in the juxtaposition of old versus new has been a central recurring feature of many important comedies (Steamboat Bill, Jr., Mon Oncle, Modern Times, Yoyo) and also specifically places Sunrise squarely in the zeitgeist of late 1920s comedy.

For example, consider what happens once George and Janet arrive in the city.  They proceed to stumble from one episodic set-piece to another. In one of these, they crash a wedding ceremony and are overwhelmed by the moment (wedding vows take on an eerie significance when juxtaposed with trying to kill your wife).  George breaks down, begs for forgiveness, and the two stagger into the street in a romantic haze.  In another transformation of setting not unlike the trollycar ride that brought them here in the first place, they lose track of where they are and see themselves in the fields of home—until car horns bring them back to reality.  And what ensues?  Slapstick havoc in the middle of traffic, that’s what—a punchline, just like you’d expect.  Traffic-based gags abound in comedies of this era.  The scene emphasizes the modern tribulation of city streets packed with noisy cars going every which way.

Observations on the comic aspects of traffic are fundamentally the stuff of movie comedy. Thanks to the coincidence of the age of movies and the age of cars, there wouldn’t have been much to say about traffic prior to the dawn of film.  It doesn’t really belong in any other medium.  Paintings can’t capture the movement well; theatrical performances can hardly stage this indoors; no one would write a book about traffic because it isn’t a literary subject--but 1920s comedians put such material into movies all the time. 

Pointedly, Sunrise does not view this transformation from rural life to modernity as a bad thing.  It seems to be tilting that way in its early scenes, the way the evil vamp is called “Woman of the City,” as if her corruption is connected to her sophistication. Once George and Janet arrive in that city, however, what they find is wonder, fun, and welcoming strangers. The city folk are sometimes a little perplexed by the two rubes, but never in a mean way—and no matter what George and Janet do or misunderstand or break, they are greeted by smiles and tolerance.

Sunrise shows how the new world, threatening as it is to the old, doesn’t have to lead exclusively to corruption—it is possible to navigate your way through this modern world and still come out morally whole.  As such, Sunrise is about hope in the face of wrenching change.

As it happens, 1920s screen comedy was itself undergoing a wrenching change, metamorphosing from silent physical slapstick to a new talkie genre of romantic comedy.  The solo comedians of slapstick’s Golden Age had to make way for a new breed of female stars, who took equal footing with their male costars.  The end product of that transformation would be the screwball comedy, whose genre conventions presuppose flirtation as a form of combat, or vice versa.  The stars of 1930s romantic comedies “meet cute” and engage in reel after reel of open combat, before discovering that hate is just a variation on love; you have to really care for somebody deeply to want to fight them that badly.  Fists give way to embraces and the former opponents end up in each other’s arms.

This is, you may note, the template of Sunrise—in which the couple starts off as opposed to one another as humanly possible, and end up as tightly allied as conceivable.

Sunrise is not just structured like a comedy, it is absolutely jam-packed with comedy actors.  Janet Gaynor, the female lead, was a fairly inexperienced young actress whose resume before showing up here largely consisted of comedy work—Laurel and Hardy’s 45 Minutes From Hollywood, Syd Chaplin’s Oh What a Nurse, Clara Bow’s The Plastic Age, Charley Chase’s All Wet, and various and sundry Hal Roach one-offs.

Once she and her hubby/attempted murderer George O’Brien make their way into the city, they spend the rest of the film encountering comic actors: Ralph Sipperly, the Barber, came from Fox’s own comedy shorts division.  Jane Winton, the Manicure Girl, came from such comedies as Footloose Widows, Why Girls Go Back Home, and Millionaires.  Then there are the Obtrusive Gentleman (Arthur Housman) and the Obliging Gentleman (Eddie Boland).  Both Housman and Boland were small-time comedy stars who were brand names in their own right, having top-lined their own respective series of comedy shorts.

On top of all the comic actors, there are actual jokes: the wedding reception mistaking the peasant couple for the bride and groom, the business at the photographer’s and the headless statue, the comic misunderstandings at the salon, and a drunken pig!

This is a “silent film” in that no dialogue is spoken, but it has a synchronized soundtrack that includes sound effects and music, and sure enough the various slapstick punchlines get their little “boing!” and “wah-wah” music cues just like you’d expect. 

Murnau’s allegiance with the world of comedy continued in the follow-up feature to Sunrise, City Girl (whose title, a riff on “Woman of the City,” signals from the outset its agenda vis a vis Sunrise).  City Girl opens with a scene in which a rube on a train unwisely reveals a fat bankroll and his own unwary attitude towards his money, rendering him an easy mark for the attention of a grafter.  And once again we find Murnau pulling plot points from the films of Harry Langdon—in this case, the short Lucky Stars.

Murnau stuffed the cast of City Girl with comedy veterans, too: Eddie Boland is back (briefly); Guinn “Big Boy” Williams was a regular supporting actor in silent and talkie comedies (including the brilliant Ladies Night in a Turkish Bath with Jimmy Finlayson); David Torrence earned his slapstick comedy credentials a few years after working with Murnau, in the Laurel and Hardy film Bonnie Scotland; and Richard Alexander was on the front end of what would prove to be a wildly varied career that included Harry Langdon’s See America Thirst, as well as Laurel and Hardy’s Them Thar Hills and Babes In Toyland.

Finding such comedy references in a Murnau film may be jarring to those who think of him only in terms of Nosferatu and other grim fables.  That may be a sizeable contingent, I realize.  It is generally the tendency of critics who write about Murnau’s films to identify the comic elements as something imposed on Murnau against his wishes by the studio in an effort to Americanize and popularize his films.

The primary English language text on Murnau is Lotte Eisner’s The Haunted Screen — the very title of which signals its preoccupations and prejudices when it comes to Murnau.  And so in her fealty to those prejudices, Eisner skips over, dismisses, or otherwise brushes under the rug any of Murnau’s works that don’t fit the bill.

Lotte Eisner suggests that all these tawdry jokes were inserted into Sunrise by Fox gag men and Murnau was obliged to go along with them.  Hey, but wait a minute–Sunrise was famously made without studio interference, and even after his falling out with Fox, Murnau never said that Sunrise was anything other than a work of total creative freedom.  You can’t have your cake and eat it too—you can’t say Murnau had total creative freedom but he also had to tolerate jokes inserted into the script against his will. If Sunrise was Murnau’s vision, his vision was prone to flirt with comedy.

Now might be the time to note, ahem, that The Last Laugh has its own comic elements, in which a bleak story comes to a tragic end, and then reboots itself as a comedy for its final reel—inspiring the English language title.

For that matter, Murnau made The Finances of the Grand Duke, a mild action-comedy about a master thief that in many ways anticipates similar lighthearted fare along the lines of Arsène Lupin or To Catch a Thief or a fair chunk of Steven Soderbergh’s back catalog.

The magic of Murnau is that his genius was not limited to vampires and demons—the man was also gifted with a deft comic touch.  Sunrise is Murnau’s comedy masterpiece.

[phidiaspickle]

For @beas-knees

LEO  NOBILITY POWER LOYALTY PHILANTHROPY WARMTH PROTECTION ARROGANCE SELF-SATISFACTION VANITY TRYANNY PROMISCUITY IMMODESTY

PIG  SCRUPULOUSNESS GALLANTRY SINCERITY VOLUPTUOUSNESS CULTURE HONESTY CREDULITY WRATH HESITATION MATERIALISM GOURMANDISM PIGHEADEDNESS

“I will”   Fire, Sun, Fixed

“I civilize”  Negative Water, Yin

This fiery and conscientious soul will always leave you laughing. Even in the most tragic circumstances, when the chips are down and Leo/Pigs seem to have reached an emotional nadir, from out the shivering bundle of despair will shine one little quip, one last pun or smart remark to bring a smile to your lips. Leo/Pigs cannot help it. They’re funny people. It must be the Leo sun shining on the Pig’s sincerity meter. Or else it s the Pig’s honesty infused with Leo’s philanthropic side. Whatever causes it, this person’s sense of fun will be capital.

Excess is the lurking temptress for Leo/Pigs. Not only do they love to make wry jokes, but Leo/Pigs adore everything sensual in great gobs and bunches. Food, sex, ease, work, love, comfort, conversation and luxury. Do these people ever like to wallow in luxe! Opulence is the very stuff of their lives. They need gorgeous, sumptuous, scrumptious surroundings; and they are willing to work hard to get them. They like to fetch home their foodstuffs from the best shops and open markets. Their clothes are always “Oh, this old rag” from Yves Saint-Laurent’s most recent collection, in which, despite his eternal uphill struggle against midsection spread, your average Leo/Pig looks positively stunning. How else can I say it? Leo/Pigs have class.

They also frequently have a lot of loot. They are generous and sharing, magnanimous and hospitable. They’d give you the silken Christian Dior shirt off their backs. And the next day they would show up in a little cashmere number from Givenchy. So openhanded are Leo/Pigs that they are sometimes accused of wastefulness. What saves them from this last, however, is their major preoccupation with security, home, hearth and the well-being of loved ones. Leo/Pigs look out for their own, are reliable and responsible and exude a special shimmering sort of brightness and warmth that is very convincing. When you are in the company of a Leo/Pig who is paying attention to you, you feel that you are the only person in the whole world, that their happiness depends on your next breath and that you are indeed just what the doctor ordered for your Leo/Pig interlocutor. “I’ve missed you so, my sweetheart,” my Leo/Pig friend Monique always tells me. Now, I am sure that this woman hasn’t really thought about me in weeks. She’s busy and active and beloved and sought after by her friends and family. But the way she tells me, “My little chou chou, I’m so happy you called,” well, I don’t know about you—but I melt.

The magnetism of Leo/Pigs very often ensures their career success, too. Leo/Pigs hardly ever have trouble getting jobs and keeping them. They are willing and able, and so amusing, too. But they feel that climbing, scratching and clawing their ways to the proverbial top is beneath their dignity. If Leo/Pigs really “make it big” in a public way, it’s always thanks to their careful hard work and sterling abilities.

In adversity the Leo/Pig is courage personified. Of course, no self-respecting Leo/Pig would agree with that. “I’m not brave,” he will tell you. “I’m nothing better than a jellyfish when it comes to grinning and bearing it.” The Leo/Pig is not only courageous but he is also modest. He doesn’t want praise and applause. Now, now, none of that clamor please. Quiet down! But secretly he needs to be hailed and looked up to and admired. He may be a pure-of-heart gallant and honest Pig. But he’s still a vain old Leo underneath.

Love

When it comes to affection, the virtue of the Pig enhances the warmhearted Leo side of this character. Albeit Leo has a tendency to gad about preening, and from time to time harking to the enticing sirens; here the Pig’s reserve and discretion do come to the fore. This subject may be a gadfly, even a shade promiscuous, but he will never be indiscreet. You won’t receive an invitation to an exposition of his infidelities. Such things are, for the Leo/Pig, to be kept under one’s (very chic) hat.

One-on-one the Leo/Pig requires an unflinchingly faithful and loyal lover. As he may have many setbacks and moments of discouragement in his life, the Leo/Pig also needs to choose a mate who can portage him and his wry sense of humor from safe harbor over some of the rougher patches of jungle and onward to the next haven. Leo/Pigs take love seriously and are deeply affected by its implications. They are responsible people. It follows that they don’t take other people's feelings any more lightly than they do their own.

If you love a Leo/Pig, be prepared to exhibit qualities of intelligent devotion and sobriety. Should your Leo/Pig binge out on a whole smoked salmon and a kilo of Russian caviar at one sitting, he wants you to call him to order. “Hey, what’s this suicide I see going on around here?” is a safe line. Or, “You seem to be hell-bent on ending up in the hospital.” Keep it light. Leo/Pigs don’t like to feel they are being policed. But they do favor mates who promise to keep them on the straight and narrow. Buy an ornate medieval lock with a golden key and install it on the refrigerator door. Leo/Pigs favor the traditional in decor.

Compatibilities

As humor (the blacker the better) beguiles them, you will do best with Aries, Gemini, Libra, Sagittarius or Capricorn/Oxen, Cats and Goats. You like to be comfortable and warm but you don’t want to be smothered, so steer clear of Snakes—especially Aries, Taurus, Scorpio and Aquarius/Snakes. For you, happiness is a Gemini/Dog who knows how to cook.

Home and Family

And they will stop at nothing to see themselves ensconced in surroundings of good taste. The Leo/Pig is always the person with the prettiest garden, the most enormous prize roses and the vacation plan so luxuriously unusual and lavish as to make your eyes water with envy. You see, Leo/ Pigs spend a lot of time on luxury. They cannot lie down in a bed that by day does not wear velvet and by night antique satins and laces. Oh, I don’t mean that if pushed they cannot be good sports. But mostly, no. It’s not a good idea to take your Leo/Pig brother to a rock concert in the park in the rain. He’s not going to like freezing his duff off just for a shred of the strains of “Yah Yah Baybee” wafting over the ether. He’d much rather be home in his leather armchair listening to his high-quality stereo set and drinking a glass of champagne.

In family matters, the Leo/Pig is both serious and sardonic. He has an individual way of dealing with disappointment with mates or kids or in-laws. He bypasses his hurt feelings with humor. “Well, Judith never did like foie gras,” says the Leo/Pig about his daughter, who has just failed her final exams. Yes. Leo/Pig is disappointed. But he’s also ever prepared for others to be less than sincere, not quite so gallant nor so loyal as he. He doesn’t have a superiority complex. He’s really superior. (At least that’s how it feels to be a Leo/Pig—or so I’m told.)

If you have a Leo/Pig child, don’t leave him alone to grow up willy-nilly and hope for the best. True, he will seem extraordinary right from the cradle. He’ll be reserved and profound—a deep thinker. He may seem slow. And he surely is exceptional. But the Leo/Pig child needs desperately to be guided, gently prodded and shown how to apply his talents. Otherwise, when he grows up, if he hasn't developed his abilities, he may fail miserably. Only a Leo/Pig can fail so dramatically which only makes him feel more inadequate. Yes. He knows he’s funny. But for the Leo/Pig with his lofty goals and serious sense of duty, funny is not enough. He wants to shine in all his endeavors.

The Leo/Pig is gifted from birth with standards so high, for himself first and foremost, that he must achieve a high degree of excellence in his field or else give up (long before anyone else would). The Leo/Pig deplores mediocrity. So go heavy on the music lessons and enroll him in the poshest, most academically rigorous private schools. Junior Leo/Pigs need (and love) good training.

Profession

A Leo/Pig friend of mine always tells me that his burning ambition was nipped in the bud very early on in life by an inner-directed cold shower of laziness. He claims to be so lazy that no serious project ever really tempts him for more than five minutes. Of course, I know this person’s achievements are many, and projects that would daunt Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart, Jacques Cousteau and Superman, are but meager deeds to this talented Leo/Pig character.

The lack of belief in self, shall I say, or the bitterness based on repeated disappointment in coworkers or superiors (the Leo/Pig would call them “inferiors”), may cause the honest and credulous Leo/Pig to give up before he begins. As I have already said, this subject will not stoop to conquer. Either they give him that super promotion because of his merits, or they can eat cake.

A happy Leo/Pig is one whose talents flower due to some curious turn of fate or wise choice of colleagues or mates. The Leo/Pig can work wonders in the proper ambience of emotional security, encouragement, free expression and hunger for money.

Famous Leo/Pigs: Carl Jung, Henry Ford, Lucille Ball, Alfred Hitchcock, Anne-Marie Peysson, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Cantinflas, Catherine Langeais, Fred Durst, Jeff Gordon, Pete Sampras, Tom Green.

[dcbbw]

Drake. Singing "Jolene" in the shower. Please please pretty please. xoxoxo

Hahahahahahahahahaahahaha, BURNS!!!! Hopefully I delivered what you were looking for.

To provide context/background to whomever reads this, @burnsoslow and I have random late-night convos that cover a whole range of topics. The other night, we were discussing Drake Walker’s taste in music. I see him liking old-school country and 70s rock (think The Eagles and Fleetwood Mac). Then I got this image of Drake in the shower singing Dolly Parton’s Jolene, a song about a woman pleading with a temptress not to take her man.

Well, then the question became which Drake? The answer is below the cut.

Song lyrics are from Jolene and are the property of their respective owner(s). Forgive me, Dolly for taking liberties with some of your words, but Burnsy came up with the BEST name!

Thanks to my bears for pre-reading!

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Answer has hints of lemon. 

Driam

Drake Walker was in the shower, his fingers working shampoo into his thick, brown hair. As suds bubbled over his scalp and transformed his mane into a white, soapy cap he sang.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene I'm begging of you please don't take my man Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene Please don't take him just because you can

Your beauty is beyond compare With flaming locks of auburn hair With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green Your smile is like a breath of spring Your voice is soft like summer rain And I cannot compete with you Jolene

Liam joined him, the hot water pelting his body as Drake began the second verse. Liam’s heart twisted at Drake’s song choice. Coronation was mere hours away; Liam would be fully duty bound to Cordonia and her soon-to-be Queen before the night was over.

“You have no competition, love,” Liam murmured against Drake’s wet skin as he stepped behind his lover, his arms encircling his waist, hands splayed across Drake’s hips.

Drake stopped singing. “Hey, Li,” he said softly.

“This Jolene is not an apt description of Lady Riley. She sounds more like Duchess Olivia,” Liam frowned as his hand began stroking Drake’s length.

“Ha! Never made the connection, but I suppose you’re right.” Drake’s eyes closed in both bliss and hurt at his King’s touch.

“I swear on everything Drake, Lady Riley won’t come between us and what we have. It’s just a temporary situation.”

Drake stepped closer under the shower head, letting the water rinse the shampoo; rivulets of soapy water rand down his back, causing Liam to release his hold from Drake.

“Did you hear me, love?”

Drake nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If his lips parted now, he would tell Liam the truth and he had promised Riley she could be the one to tell Liam.

Liam’s choice would refuse his proposal. Because she had chosen Drake. And they were leaving for America in a week.

It broke Drake’s heart, but he and Liam would never be together they way they both wanted and deserved. Everyone was free to love the way they wanted to except the King. And Liam would never, could never give his country the attention it needed if Drake were in the picture.

Already, he was planning to divorce a Queen he hadn’t even married.

Drake would say his goodbyes to Liam after Riley broke the news. He wondered if he could ever say goodbye to Liam. The man was ingrained in his mind, his skin, his very soul.

He had to. It was for the best. It was for Cordonia.

Commoner’s Wife AU Drake

The Duchess of Valtoria blearily opened one eye, letting out a loud groan at the time. 9 am. Her head hurt and her mouth was dry from consuming too much alcohol and not enough food at the charity gala her Great House had hosted the night before. She had been too busy being the dutiful wife and gracious hostess.

She sipped whiskey with her husband, Drake, as they made their rounds; their smiles were wide, and their questions sincere as they networked with their fellow nobles. She drank wine with the ladies of court while the men smoked cigars. She had flitted from table to table during dinner, making sure everyone was full and happy, with a martini in her hand.

When she finally sat down to eat with her husband, the orchestra had begun to play, and the Duke and Duchess led everyone in the first dance.

The entire evening, her eyes constantly strayed to the King, who had escorted Duchess Olivia to the soiree. Riley’s eyes narrowed whenever Liam’s fingers touched Olivia’s. Her jaw clenched when she saw the King and Duchess dancing, his hands placed just above her buttocks and her slender, pale arms snaked around his neck.

Her husband saw it all.

Riley rolled onto her back, her head sinking into her pillow. She had already decided she wasn’t going to do anything other than hydrate and pop ibuprofen. Her phone buzzed; her hand reached out to grab it.

Liam:  Last night’s gala was magnificent, yet pales compared to the shining jewel that is you. The Crown’s contribution is forthcoming. I miss you.

Riley deleted the message and tossed her phone back onto the bedside table. Fuck you and Olivia.

She had just risen from the bed to use the bathroom when she heard the shower turn on. Drake. She decided she would kiss her husband good morning and plead hangover to get out of any plans he may have made for them for the day. What good was being a Duchess if one couldn’t take a day to rest and relax?

And sulk over one’s lover being lovey-dovey with someone else.

Riley entered the bathroom, hearing Drake singing. She raised an eyebrow. Two things Drake didn’t do: sing and dance. She listened to his voice, a deep bass, singing an old Dolly Parton tune. But the words were wrong.

She talks about you in her sleep And there's nothing I can do to keep From crying when she calls your name JoLiam

And I can easily understand How you could easily take my girl But you don't know what she means to me JoLiam

Riley’s hand covered her O-shaped mouth. Did Drake know?  The twisting in her stomach was not so much about being caught; she did have enough love for Drake to not want him to be hurt. It just wasn’t strong enough to overcome her need for Liam.

She hastily coughed to announce her presence; the singing stopped.

“Brooks?” Drake called out.

Riley stuck her head in the shower; the spray lightly peppered her skin. “Good morning,” she said softly.

Drake grinned. “Good morning.”

“Hey, how about waffles for breakfast? And that thick cut bacon you like?”

Drake looked at her in confused surprise. “Are you up for it? You had more than your share of liquor last night.”

Riley kissed Drake’s wet lips, slipping in a little bit of tongue. “You’re my husband! Of course I’m up for it. And anything else you may want to do today.”

Drake looked searchingly over his wife’s expression. “Are you sure?”

Riley nodded, a bright smile on her face. “Positive!”

Drake soaped his washcloth. “Brooks, are you happy? With me?”

Riley swallowed over the lump in her throat. “There’s no one I’d rather be with,” she lied.

She left the bathroom to cook breakfast before her husband saw the truth in her eyes.

Upstate AU Dramien

Heavy rain poured outside while Drake Walker and Damien Nazario lay in bed watching the Saved by the Bell reboot on one of their many streaming services. It was 10 am, but with no lights on their bedroom, the room was as dark as if it were still 6 am.

“Thank GOD we cleaned out the gutters last weekend,” Drake commented.

“Hmmmm”, Damien responded absently.

He wasn’t the house person. He liked the idea of home ownership: It represented adulthood and was a great investment, but the work it took to keep up the house and protect it from unnecessary problems? The tree pruning, gutter cleaning, keeping sewage lines clear? Drake took care of that or found folks who would.

“You know, it doesn’t get dark like this in the city when it rains,” Drake observed as they watched Lexi shy away from kissing Jaime because he really liked Aisha.

“The lights from all the stores and office buildings penetrate the cloud cover.” Damien shifted in the bed to pull more sheets over his body. His eyes were glued to the screen. “Why does it not surprise me that Zack Morris is an absentee father?”

“I wonder why Jessie is still hanging in there with her loser husband. He’s having an emotional affair with a character from his book!”

“And now said character is pregnant.”

Drake shook his head as he grabbed the remote to turn the television off. He glanced over at Damien. “Breakfast?”

Damien nodded. “I’ll cook if you wash the dishes.”

“I cleaned the gutters so we don’t have to worry about it raining on our heads. You cook and do dishes, and I’ll take care of dinner.”

“Deal”

Drake climbed out of bed. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”

“In our new manly bathroom?” Damien teased.

“It was PINK! ALL OVER! Like a teenage girl puked up everything Pinterest in there! Even the toilet was pink.”

“I like pink!” Damien argued.

“You like everything I don’t.” Drake gave Damien a quick kiss on his lips and padded into their master bath.

Alone in the bed, Damien stretched before getting up and making the bed. He then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The sounds of the shower and Drake’s singing greeted him.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene I'm begging of you please don't take my man Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene Please don't take him just because you can

You could have your choice of men But I could never love again He's the only one for me Jolene

“Why are you begging Jolene to leave me alone?” Damien teased as he stepped into the shower with his lover.

“Why aren’t you cooking breakfast? Drake countered.

“I missed you,” Damien replied as he grabbed his washcloth.

Drake looked at him knowingly. “You think I’m going to do the cooking as well as the home improvements.” He shook his head. “Not happening.”

“Jolene would happily do it.”

“I’m not Jolene. And she needs to stay 50 feet away from your ass.”

“I love it when you’re jealous.”

Drake grabbed Damien around his waist and pushed his back against wet tile. “How about some … dessert before breakfast?”

Damien kissed Drake deeply. “Always down for dessert.”

“But only if you’re making it with me,” Drake clarified.

“Jolene only cooks breakfast.”

DC AU Drake (Issa throwback)

It was the morning after Drake Walker had broken up with Riley Brooks inside of the Columbia Heights Target. He hadn’t slept a wink and was hoping a hot shower would soothe his red, burning eyes and relax him enough to get some type of rest.

Or wash away his guilt.

He stepped beneath the water, wishing there was someone he could talk to, but he didn’t even have an explanation for what had happened. He wanted to call Brooks and see how she was holding up; they had been friends too long for it to just end that way. But Drake had no idea what to say to make it better, and she was hurting enough.

As he shampooed his hair, a memory came to him.

Drake was in the shower, his hair filled with suds and his conditioner bottle in his hand, his mouth to it as if it were a microphone. He was belting out Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5, and so caught up in the song he didn’t notice that Riley had slipped into the shower behind him.

She stood, her hands crossed over her chest as she giggled. Drake turned quickly, dropping the bottle; he grinned at her sheepishly. “You heard that, huh?”

“You’re missing the boobs and hair, but you kinda nailed it.”

“Ya think?” Drake picked up the conditioner.

“I didn’t peg you as a Dolly Parton fan.” Riley stepped in front of him to let the water wet her body.

“She is ICONIC, and we do not deserve her!” Drake began to shampoo his girlfriend’s hair. “Did you know rumor has it she wrote Jolene and I Will Always Love You on the same day?”

Riley squirted her rose and peony scented bodywash onto her washcloth. “Really? Homegirl was going through that day.”

“But she’s been married to her husband for over 50 years,” Drake pointed out.

Riley turned to face him. Her hands pressed against his shoulders. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t have problems.” Her eyes looked into Drake’s, the slightest hint of uncertainty in them. “We’re good, right?”

Drake looked at her, puzzled. “Why do you ask that?”

“I just don’t want to be hurt. Or killed.”

Drake pulled Riley closer. “You’ve been watching too many Lifetime movies.”

“Maybe.” Riley laid her head on his shoulder. “I just … “

“Shhhhhh,” Drake interrupted her. “You’re it, Brooks. We’re good. We’ll always be good.”

Drake wiped a soapy cloth over his torso. He shook his head, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Brooks deserved an apology, an explanation. But he had to find the words, because right now it was looking like he was thinking with his dick.

And Alyssa Devereaux was so much more.

Devereaux. She deserved the truth.

Drake had to find a lotta words.

Fuck!

Another Dolly Parton song popped into his head and in a cracked voice, he began to sing.

I had to have this talk with you My happiness depends on you And whatever you decide to do Jolene

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene I'm begging of you please don't take my man Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene Please don't take him even though you can Jolene, Jolene

Tagging:  @sirbeepsalot @jared2612 @katedrakeohd @jovialyouthmusic @hopefulmoonobject @amomentofsinclairity @ao719 @burnsoslow @bbrandy2002 @janezillow @marietrinmimi @annekebbphotography @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @indiacater @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @bebepac @zaffrenotes @liyanin @liamxs-world @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @sanchita012 @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @hopelessromanticmonie @amandablink @cmestrella @iaminlovewithtrr @cinnamonspongecake @lifeaskim @starrystarrytrouble @liamandneca @liamrhysstalker2020 @alyssalauren @ladyangel70 @yourmajesty09 @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71

 #long post #dcbbw answers #Jolene ask #very slightly, lightly ns*w #drake walker