I gave up viewing Blindness at all, and took a shower, which is the only bit of drama remaining in relation to my own control of my life, my ability to set my own parameters. I have some things to do this week, not many, but some, and need to do my best with this unfortunate body, the battle with hygiene over its age and contortion, but I do not look like a woman worth fucking, except to black hustlers, and when they take aim at me, I grin behind glass, drive on. I would never sleep with one of them. With white trash, you can picture the hand wobble gesture that goes with "mmm, iffy." My mother picked up such men like hopping lice, one louse after the other. I have a hard time forgiving my mother for her licentiousness; it led to so much danger and violence for her children. I have lost count of how many times I was threatened with, or subjected to sexual assault, terrified that Stuart, my pathological stepfather, would kill my real dad, which is why I think the three of us, me, my estranged sister, deceased brother, never went to our father. It was not simply his pain and the emotional void of his ruined marriage. I believe we the children were trying to shield him, and it is why I have such a difficult time mourning for my mother, forbidding myself. I do not mean coping with the shock of the initial grief. Most would be hit hard, writers, failed writers, even my father. I mean mourning after that torrent is cooled. I do not allow myself certain things, like loving her memory, hating it. I know she was sick, and of course, I see some of her symptoms in myself. Her younger sister, me, Stephanie, we are a milder continuum. The added burden of my brain damage (sigh). I suppose we have been through my self-righteousness and justifications in two years of posts, but my mother's illness involves a great deal of repression; when she was alive, it erupted. My sister would say my face went purple and I should have my heart checked. Death has not staunched the wounds. Nor therapy. Nor drugs, nor the longing for jubilant abandon in the arms of a good man, to paraphrase the Brigitte Bardot of Contempt.
New Wave fascinates me, I fear, and some of you say to yourselves that I cheat my topic; this is both true and false. False in the sense that when I look at A list material it is with the view toward deeper deconstruction. It slipped my mind that Bardot is still alive, and turned into a reactionary crackpot, but in researching and finding myself back at Alberto Moravia's doorstep, I recalled Bardot's anti-Muslim stirrings in the news. What does this aging diva live on? I almost find myself pitying her. I am falling apart after 27 years of horrible struggle, and I feel sorry for Brigitte Bardot, her loss of relevance.
Contempt fails in its conscious structuralism, unlike the 61 Goodbye Again, for which I have a passionate abandon, and Bardot is indolent more than anything else, but it is, none the less, sending what cognition I have left on a hopeful romp.
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