"And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat." Where Angels Fear To Tread, page 118
My repugnance toward my former fiance must have stimulated the last of my energies, but I regret allowing him to penetrate me anally with the fingers of his one remaining hand. Either I dislike anal sex or realized I had more esteem at the time than annihilation would warrant, and have forgiven him in his child-like misogyny. Frank is an imbecile, but one of the rewards of fucking imbeciles is applying pressure. Glutton guilt does the rest.
I can write this, write the post I wrote yesterday with its searing brush burns of emotional scar tissue, and yet seriously question the morality of Forster's sadomasochistic enthusiasm, fully aware my battle is over before I sound the bugle. The very act of signing, to couch it in Calvino's referential playfulness, is subversive, and sparks anticipation-- yet Forster is an early 20th century black marketeer. He makes the pain of sodomy seem like a lucrative enjoyment. (I can hear Salon's sexually active contributors laughing at me. I am also considering submitting a column to them about the hostile environment I experienced at both disability center locations), draws his readers in better than any pornographic centerfold, and was one of the first modern homosexuals to promote colonial to native homoerotic courtships. E.M. Forster was "aggressively" gay, to echo Chuck Hagel. Aggressively gay before apes through HIV transmission created *unsafe sex* practices.
Sue Davison had a theory about homosexuality. "The whole world will turn homosexual eventually," this offered up nonchalantly while she glammed me up in the kitchen one day, before college. I do not know, recalling the memory, if she was sounding me out or just being a dumb bitch, but she always tried to help me build my esteem. The make up, objecting to my body hatred of my legs and buttocks. The only person who ever truly succeeded in helping me to take pride in myself, that I'll leave as the obvious and unstated.
Showing posts with label em forster. Show all posts
Showing posts with label em forster. Show all posts
Monday, June 23, 2014
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Keitel's Mumbai, Florid
"Pakistan is no ordinary country."-- Benazir Bhutto's last preface.
One thing neither John Irvin nor his screen writer Ken Solarz answer for is the underlying cowardice of Stephen Dorff's character Skip Kovich in their latter day City of Industry. Dorff’s motivation for icing the heist crew put together by Timothy Hutton, who is seemingly in the preliminary stage of getting his lead role on Leverage, this woebegone every American kid of Taps and the brittle, frightening scenes in Ordinary People, invisibly axed in a jump shot by a snow cone Dorff, this flinty indifferent spree killer with scant principle to speak of, we’re to presume he fears Elliot Gould’s muscle, given the carnage that burns through the reel beyond the brief back story putting the figurines in place? He certainly fears being outnumbered.
Irvin’s transition from ensemble to allowing for the aging Keitel to absorb the weight of the lead and the pursuit remains intriguing, as is the relationship he develops between Keitel and Janssen in her role as the vulnerable brass tacks widow. The film itself is also transitional, between then and now. Not wholly a procedural of the past, with a signature detective rectifying matters, nor quite a gut wound graphic, such as we might see with The Following, or in Bryan Fuller and David Slade’s dark aesthetic. Little is left to the imagination, but the gore isn’t quite so pronounced as it would be for Tarantino.
The punishment that the elder Egan absorbs is a puzzling ambiguity, even somewhat fantastical, with Roy hovering between life and death as he fractures Skip’s skull. The agony Keitel projects is the only Dionysian passion he allows Roy Egan to have, as one wonders if he does die and is in fact reborn, miraculously defying his chest wound in these muted enclosures, Hutton’s fatal optimism dappled in Florida sunlight, with Roy’s pursuit of Skip moving in gradations from shadows to the expansive danger of a post midnight world. Does Irvin’s denouement suggest an escapism similar to Morrison’s hymn for her ravenous ghost?
Fantastical flights of fantasy can reinforce narrative meaning, as they do in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or they can make the moral gratuitous, as happens in Beloved. City of Industry wobbles on a balance beam between unifying impact and lack of responsibility for its glamorization, but it‘s worth examination.
Pakistan exists as a weak and marginally governable state because the British administers in Asia did not heed their literary masochist, EM Forster. Thanks to his novels the western hemisphere is a homosexual police state. If you know how Pakistani and Indian differ ethnically feel free to cue me in.
One thing neither John Irvin nor his screen writer Ken Solarz answer for is the underlying cowardice of Stephen Dorff's character Skip Kovich in their latter day City of Industry. Dorff’s motivation for icing the heist crew put together by Timothy Hutton, who is seemingly in the preliminary stage of getting his lead role on Leverage, this woebegone every American kid of Taps and the brittle, frightening scenes in Ordinary People, invisibly axed in a jump shot by a snow cone Dorff, this flinty indifferent spree killer with scant principle to speak of, we’re to presume he fears Elliot Gould’s muscle, given the carnage that burns through the reel beyond the brief back story putting the figurines in place? He certainly fears being outnumbered.
Irvin’s transition from ensemble to allowing for the aging Keitel to absorb the weight of the lead and the pursuit remains intriguing, as is the relationship he develops between Keitel and Janssen in her role as the vulnerable brass tacks widow. The film itself is also transitional, between then and now. Not wholly a procedural of the past, with a signature detective rectifying matters, nor quite a gut wound graphic, such as we might see with The Following, or in Bryan Fuller and David Slade’s dark aesthetic. Little is left to the imagination, but the gore isn’t quite so pronounced as it would be for Tarantino.
The punishment that the elder Egan absorbs is a puzzling ambiguity, even somewhat fantastical, with Roy hovering between life and death as he fractures Skip’s skull. The agony Keitel projects is the only Dionysian passion he allows Roy Egan to have, as one wonders if he does die and is in fact reborn, miraculously defying his chest wound in these muted enclosures, Hutton’s fatal optimism dappled in Florida sunlight, with Roy’s pursuit of Skip moving in gradations from shadows to the expansive danger of a post midnight world. Does Irvin’s denouement suggest an escapism similar to Morrison’s hymn for her ravenous ghost?
Fantastical flights of fantasy can reinforce narrative meaning, as they do in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or they can make the moral gratuitous, as happens in Beloved. City of Industry wobbles on a balance beam between unifying impact and lack of responsibility for its glamorization, but it‘s worth examination.
Pakistan exists as a weak and marginally governable state because the British administers in Asia did not heed their literary masochist, EM Forster. Thanks to his novels the western hemisphere is a homosexual police state. If you know how Pakistani and Indian differ ethnically feel free to cue me in.
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