Posts Tagged ‘Indonesia’

Dollhouse Jitters v3.1


03 Mar

mysterious-ways

Mysterious Ways

samplex

Breathing together elbow to elbow on the couch, we were finally alone and ready to explore the next phase of this mildly racy psychodrama that I'd a zillion privacies ago secretly escalated into my flagrant private war. After a few minutes of jostling for favored logistics in reading and mutually editing the WordPerfect data file stored on the spanking-new IBM laptop her parents had given her for Christmas, I was quite anxious to filter the single-paged coverletter Jennifer wanted to include in her application for poor grammar and redundancies. Regular post-graduate status at Cornell was absolutely imperative. Her one year of special study in the Indonesian language curriculum would end soon, and once completed, she would have nowhere to go since she had failed to secure grant monies that would allow her to conduct fieldwork among the volatile social upheavals of Indonesia itself. I had read some of her academic writing before, and knew some of her tendancies, and here they were again. This was not a very well written piece. I read the whole thing once, but then hemmed and hawed in leveling any sort of critical assessment. There was much to do in every paragraph.

"Well, your vocabulary is quite strong, and you seem to make your points adequately clear and concise enough, but..."
     "Well, what?"
     "I don't really know what to say. As I said to you and many others before, I really don't like being critical of other people's writing. I'm a writer, not a critic of writing. Now, character flaws, that's a whole other..."
     "Well, what is it? I wouldn't have asked you for your opinion if I didn't respect them and want them. Spill it baby..." she commanded in sultry vox crypto-doll she played so well. Know the rules, break them only if you can persuade others that this rule or that rule must be the first to go (with the flow, or against the toe). We both knew that game.

My defenses were slowly melting away. Of course, knowing how much psychotopology had rushed under the bridge in these past few months between us, I was trying to keep from hurting her feelings with unnecessary criticism or insult since I was worming my way closer to her, my confidences balanced by fear of driving her beyond my reach, especially in light of the catastrophe of a few years ago when my brother Chaz suggested I critique this Atlanta woman's poetry. She was the sister of his ex-fiancee, a mother of three teenagers, she about my own age, and a devotee of G-d, which of course meant that she was brimming with Jewish false pride, sparring with vowels. But she certainly could not write a phrase remotely resembling modern poetic seasoning. Not an single original thought or sentence pattern made it to the thirty or so pages she mailed me.

Dead vocabulary of the eighteenth century romantics, or more precisely, the mock language of a junior highschool sensitive emotional type was etched into her perfectly typed double spaced pages. She broke up lines into short fragments of three and four words imitating Cummings I suppose she thought (or worse, she'd never even READ ANY 20th century poesymakers), or else longer lines consisted of three or four of these fragments separated by a double-space. Floating like penguins on a small iceberg of whitespace each fragment began with a preposition or conjunction. Well, there WERE the few fragments which started with the personal pronoun, you or I (no he's or she's). Her pathetic attempts at corrollary were as flat and indistinct as a penny plucked from the locomotive railing just after a long slow-moving train had rattled by, page after page after page. Dozens of pseudoinspirational references to Gee dash Dee marred the reading.

I think I was married to her in another lifetime. But that's another story. One thing she did add which offered me the way out I needed to survive this holocaust with my artistic integrity intact. She said that Chuck had told her that she could be sure of one thing. That I would be “meticulous and bluntly precise”. Those were her exact words. Saved by the bell! Now I could really get into the guts of the matter. Within a week the slim package arrived.
So how was I going to break this news to her? Well, I stepped into every buffalo chip imaginable on the path to righteousness, honesty, and critical inertia. After a long-winded conversation on the phone trying to escape this lose-lose situation she pinned me down, insisted I critique her work as it existed. Honest opinions. Hold nothing back, blah, blah blah. I took her to task, very politely mind you, knowing that I was dealing with a very naive but controlling woman on many levels. This was a woman who had tantrumed my brother out of her family for not being Jewish because no sister of hers was going to marry...

Conversion was not an option. No good enough for her sister. Chaz had no choice but to hit the road. But here she was two years after that aborted marriage, two years after my brother had weathered one storm this high-strung princess had tossed, maintaining a friendship with the beloved younger, again begging for applause, and as I learned later in a rebuttal letter, as a gentile, I was commanded by Gee dash Dee to give it to her, straight from scripture, chapter and verse, applause. I had TRIED to be gentle. I suggested she package her poems to give them and read them to her forthcoming grandchildren. I counseled her on the abuse and redundancy of prepositional phrases, marking them with colored marker on the pages. And finally I suggested she treat her writing like she would her bedroom. Vigorous, sweaty, acrobatic language was far more powerful than langauge that just flattened out on the page. Modernize, use real life images, not staid boring recycles from the past, I urged her, writing these comments out along the margins of specific chunks of floating icebergs...

To nobody's surprise but her own, this fiendish Jewish woman was neither amused, nor inspired by my biting criticisms. Well, hell, on a whim as I wrote this I checked my database and sure enough I found traces of the events I described above from memory. Let's check the record:

Finding a piece of mail dated April 21, 1989, in my file cabinets where I kept records of every copy inch of correspondence I had alphabetized, running the eighties and nineties, I am now swelling up with geek pride, geek pride in my record keeping. In the shallow absence of a sporting life I'd changed in a twinkling of a cobra's eye into an information inker ruthlessly chained to the same pride and energy an old school baseball statistician had for esoterica and scorebooks.

The letter is a killer in the trees. To add to the irony, I received it while in jail, serving time for a DUI. I had been laid off from my party chief surveyor's gig, and was collecting unemployment. Excellent time to experience and experiment with the Big House. Sure beat hauling butt into Baltimore once a month for a year's worth of unoriginal horror flicks and dry lung lectures. About two months before I was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs bound straight for jail, I received a phone call from a strange woman donning a thick Brooklynese Jewish clip asking to speak to me. I had been recommended to her by my own brother "Chuck". I had to think for a moment before I realized that I did indeed have a brother, who in some circles, might be called "Chuck". See, my entire sibling generation has one by one fetishized name-change operations. We wear out one name, then try on another for look and feel. She introduced herself as Barbara Kosmal. She definitely sounded like a Barbara...

I said hello. It would be the last time.

Her line was this. She wanted me to critique her poetry manuscript. I was quite flattered, but told her that I was not comfortable in the role of critical voice over someone else's work, and like the chicken hawk that I sometimes pretend to be as I try to avoid the social butterfly net, I tried to back out. I could criticize anything under the sun, but by whom was I now justified to insist she write to my own tastes.

And yes, I still despise being forced to wear the mantle of “objective” critic, so as I shut my eyes, imagining the warmth of death (although I hear it is chilling), the words of Goethe echo through the broken alleys like gunfire the gangs incite, “More light, more light!”
Yes, I was sure she was troubled kettle, a disgruntled gerund, a flea in a sand castle, a foul ball, a called third strike, a soggy mess in a hard shell just waiting to be opened up like an oyster. She insisted that I look at her poems after I confessed to that common ground of "writer's urgency". She laid bare the dangling facts that although she had not found a publisher for her creativity, she had received several very "personal" replies from several New York houses admonishing her continued efforts, but no, there was not a slot for her at this time.

The fact that Kosmal was for all intents and purposes a cunning, sweet and sour, pretentious New York to Atlanta transplant, all of which with a few minor changes, spell bitch in any language, did not leave me much of a choice—reject her plea for my accommodations, reject her poetry as the undernourished junior-high saccharine joke it proved to be, or lie through my wolf's teeth hacking off a few greasy superlatives just to be "nice". The third option had early on been written in stone cold spaghetti as being against my religion, as was the first. So I agreed to see the manuscript. I mean, any numbskull illiterate enough to classify a work of serious intent as a cross between e.e. cummings and Rod McKuen, had my attention! Hell. I had even been known to toss off an easy, "well if you really need to know, I feel my work is a dress hybrid T.S.Eliot & Allen Ginsberg style and content..."

But those words had rippled off my tongue when I was so much younger (& a lot less crass), with frank eyes to the ivory tower crowd. Ms. Kosmal stated that she was a fortysomethingish mother of three teenagers. I think I was married to her in another lifetime. But that's another story. One thing she did add which offered me the way out I needed to survive this holocaust with my artistic integrity intact.

She said that Chuck had told her that she could be sure of one thing. That I would be "meticulous and bluntly precise". Those were her exact words. Saved by the bell! Now I could really get into the guts of the matter. Within a week the slim package arrived.

My advice to you is that you had better be more discreet when making statements about the Jewish people because you do not understand the truth in G-d’s laws and statutes contained in His holy word. You’d better find out just what your boundaries are for you as a gentile.
The sad shame of her lack of depth in vocabulary and vigorous metaphor was too much for me to bear without the sarcastic mean streak of my own rabid frustrations edging into my critical voice. I played hardball, sticking it to her with little pity. I casually (without prior comment) showed the poems to an associate, who likewise panned the woman's attempts at serious work as mere self-delusions, mediocre schoolgirl mumblings. I suggested to her that she retain her work to read to her grandchildren. Her language was ruthlessly barren, too many repetitive prepositions blocked the cross pollination which may have occurred if only there were even a pair of remotely active buds to work their magic on the reader's mind. (Or in deference to her supposed attachment to the style of the poet, e.e. cummings, the reader's eye.) But there was no evidence of her having even read cummings, other than the unwarranted clustering of five or six words to a clause, a few open spaces, and then another cluster of preposition, adverb, adjective, noun. This format continued across and down the page. Except for her naive feelings of spiritual superiority spred thinly across the white innocence of virgin paper, no one ever exposed to a single page of poetry would mistake Kosmal's act of writing as art. On second thought perhaps she considered the contraction "it's" where the possessive "its" was appropriate, as her contribution to poetic license. Throughout the entire manuscript she made that mistake—some fifteen or so times. Vague, uneventful adjectives filled her page. The same five or six. Beautiful, good, happy, pretty, great, wonderful. The work cracked "immature" like dry mud splitting under the rule of equatorial sun. Her uninspired usage of dime-store adverbs left her praying but unredeemed. No galvanizing imagery but old, worn-out, romantic imitations in sterile congealed forms breathing no more vitality than I possessed while reading them. Regretfully I have no copies of Kosmal's compositions to share. I would publish at least one to assert that indeed I care not to make such editorial judgements in the name of the linguistic freedom I embrace without diamond-studded proof.

However, I lament sometimes that I had not been a "kinder and gentler" critic to this poor "poet". After all, the woman had done me no visible harm. And my own efforts at the poetic task have hardly set the world aflame. But I reported my opinions to her. Her reply speaks for itself. Yet I must remark further on what she labeled [my]"filthy language". In trying to transmit the essence of my rejection of her stuff, I drew upon the sexual metaphor of one's behavior in bed. Does language just lie there, stiff, emotionless, uninvolved in the special act of enchanting communication? Poetry is like sex, I scratched in the margins. It must scream, caress, impose friction. I suppose I now know the answer to both questions. Vulgarity was not my intent. In fact, I never used a single expletive, as they say. Nor did I criticize her Jewishness. I merely questioned her incessant repetition of the g-d rendering of her Lord's name. But I cannot supply the wealth of information I have at hand to rebut her reply here. Read the lamb's bleat, bless her heart.

April 28, 1988

Gabriel,
     It is sad to me that I had the misfortune to have to deal with you and that such an unkind, inconsiderate, immoral individual crossed my pathway. You are a very unhappy, frustrated and miserable excuse for a human being. I truly feel sorry for you and everyone who has to come into contact with you.
    As far as my style, technique and abilities in the writing field are concerned, one thing you pointed out strongly in your critique is that you are NOT a critic. Anybody with half a brain would never have used the filthy language you used to tell me you did not like my writing. You really ought to re-establish your relationship with your family because one thing I remember about them is that they are sweet-natured, considerate and sensitive, all the qualities which you lack. You might be able to learn these important lessons from Chuck.
     As far as my religion is concerned, Jewish people are not allowed to write the name of the Lord; thus G-d. Gentiles are free to pursue their worship of G-d in any way they see fit. It's again, unfortunate that you chose the name Gabriel, as human beings are supposed to aspire to their names and you have clearly exibited deficiency.
     You instructed me to do whatever I wanted to do with your work, so, I threw it away, simply and easily, along with your insolent and prudent remarks contained within the borders of my poetry. Just remember that in Scriptures G-d defines for the world: "Them that curse you, I will curse and them that bless you, I will bless." Genesis 12:3. This passage means clearly that: those who curse the Jewish people will be punished and those who bless the Jewish people will be blessed. You are free to accept or reject this allegation, but it will not in any way change the truth.
     My advice to you is that you had better be more discreet when making statements about the Jewish people because you do not understand the truth in G-d's laws and statutes contained in His holy word. You'd better find out just what your boundaries are for you as a gentile.

Barbara I. Kosmal

Enough said. The woman is neither linguist or bibliophile. But Barbara Kosmal had her say. I honestly wonder if she has found a publisher. She probably went vanity, or self-published. I wish her well, but she as baiting the wrong Gentile she if she thought she had me over a barrel, or would not only recognize her kind, but refuse to play her stupid game of let's call anybody a poet, especially if she's Jewish. And yes, I still despise being forced to wear the mantle of "objective" critic, so as I shut my eyes, imagining the warmth of death (although I hear it is chilling), the words of Goethe echo through the broken alleys like gunfire the gangs incite, "More light, more light!"

GT

Where Good Arguments Always Give Way To Selfishness


28 May

doll

The Sleeping Doll

samplex

Traveling the Geboren circuit this year took us to New York City to peek in on an old friend. "Happy Memorial Day. Hope that you got in at least one war movie this weekend to celebrate your country's ability to kill, kill, kill," writes Landry, our recent emmigrant from DC to San Francisco, this morning the day after. She saw Patton. As fate would have it, I was shown The Year Of Living Dangerously.

Rolling along in a sparsely filled Amtrak train car, my first time as an adult, to visit the lovely Jennifer of subsequent charms, was as fun as travel to New York gets, I suppose. A social anthropologist in the making, formerly of the American University in Washington, now at the New School in New York, Jennifer the sweet, the sour, the sassy, the geisha with one eye trained on Indonesian studies and the other on herself, popped in the videotape—the only one she owns besides Gilbert Grape, oh well, except for a couple of pornos—as Sue snored like vanishing rogue zebras on the savanna sprawled across the floor bed nearby. With me sedentary in the only piece of furniture that could be called a chair in her tiny 5th floor airconditionless Midtown flat, Jennifer settled upon a huge throw pillow I had nestled below my feet. She dropped then snuggled her head into my groin where we watched the television off and on like unsubverted lovers. Some of it anyway. Year depicted the Indonesian coup of 1964 (I think).

Moxy Lexington Avenue girl with the long black hair and bangs and familiar black moles marking her pale body map set up the plot for me, adding she suspected quite a few CIA dollars went into the making and the breaking of the only two Indonesian regimes to hold control since independence from the British crown in the 1940s. Communists threatened to gain control in this 1960's revolution but were successfully thwarted by western influence-peddlers. Linda Hunt won the Oscar for her role as a dwarf male Indonesian photographer and influence peddler himself before plunging to his death when pursued by the failing ruling regime's muscle.

It was strange to hear even these most simple of political words coming from the mouth of my big-eyed punk rock baby doll, rudimentary cocksucker, lover of many, now a snarling scholar, who was intent on going all the way with her mind, and with that quick glimpse into her soul I felt warm inside, grateful she had not given up, since I had been too lazy and only negligibly bright enough to manage any sort of higher learning plus too many hours of sniveling grunt work wrapped neatly into poisonous packages of self-assured destiny, decadence, destruction visibly manifest in everything I had ever done or said since my earliest troubles which I am still working out in poetry and prose. Besides, it's not like I was ever waitron material. Neither was she, she had made clear, but I made the case that she'd had strong parental dollar and sense testimony which was not my case. I just didn't have enough grit in me to fight the entrenching powers of academic hegemony to fling it at the university level like I had done for years when my own powers of memory kept me in the top rung among my small town peers. Despite my past and present love of knowledge, conveying disciplines and social contingencies of school, and the whole spirit of competitive struggle, I'd already shown a strong streak of rebellion which played itself out in bucking weakness that was masked by petty authority everywhere I found it, although let's not play games, the more I rejected folly the more likely it found me, so I thought better of joining Sisyphus on that rock. Better to go off alone. If I was being forced to turn myself inside out, I wanted to make it a solo flight, to make it my own journey away from the herd and the axis of privilege, but each year was proving even to me that I had crashed and burned long ago.

You just lust after his redwood stature and that ironman voice but you only like SOME of his songs. I reached this analysis after she impulsively slammed on, then clicked past Johnny Yuma, which I liked, and which she called some fucking B-side. I bounced her fuss with facts by saying, "NOT! I just saw a Seinfeld episode last week as a matter of fact where Kramer was pulling his usual Kramerstuff with Jerry, hooklining, "I'm a rebel Jerry....... I'm a rebel." The sinker was Jerry's response,"You're not a rebel. Johnny YUMA was a rebel."
So much for Memorial Day madness. I was however quite pleased with the seating arrangments.

We gossiped about sex, the provocative and various sizes of female aureoles, and the protocols and paraphenalia of B/D while practicing restraint and good sensual instincts, bad links, why Microsoft sucks but is an necessary evil until it's no longer around anymore, the Ramones, since she was a classicist, handjobs, female masturbation, anything she could suggest we talk about to keep the heat going. After all, we were veterans of several past flings with each other going all the way back to the beginning while dithering on that thorny road to higher meaning, I now interpreted as nothing to write riveting vertical novels about, because when I look back even now it all seemed to compare poorly with riding too fast on too many dangerously flat tires at best, lacking lasting impact, uh, except maybe that one time we spelled it out under the bright sun for the rolling camera and monitor while Sue and Chris Ravenholt...

Neither of us were really interested in the movie, and true to expectation, most of it was lost to activity usually associated with the flickering technicolor drive-ins of old.Exhausted, she finally dozed off about three-thirty, two thirds through, and I dozed off about five minutes from its end, with Jennifer again curled around me, a knee, warm and timeless between my legs.

Yes, yes, step right up to the kiss and tell booth, get your tickets punched, win a door prize for the most fetching synonym for making out without benefit of penetration. Hear ye, hear ye...

During the movie we rolled around nearly in tears and spasms, tumbling about, pinching, twisting, pulling each other's nipples about as unmercifully as we could pull but always accompanied by a playful snicker and the stiffening of nostrils, so better to embrace like pernicious darlings only to pull away again, lapsing to a more coy posture than before, submissive, the wooer and the wooed banging the wholesome drum, then dialing the knob all the way back to bashful, as if reliving that Mister Potatohead afternoon when the four of us were trying to guzzle off a keg left from the night before after a party we hosted back in the days of North Carolina Avenue. But that was nearly a decade ago. While affections were obviously still running high or obligatory, we kept home plate isotopes to the minimum zero on this NYC weekend, and our cameras rolled only after two wayward dogs scrapping in Central Park, blahdy, blah, blah (as Jennifer would growl in one of her more hostile voices).

Thankfully we weren't dragged into loud spaces. Saw no bands, went into a bar only twice. Only the second one counted. That was @Café in the St. Mark's quarter of the East Village. Squandered nearly a hundred bucks sucking suds and surfing the Internet. Showed Sue and Jennifer my web presence, downloaded a Windows JPEGviewer to upload to her home PC so she could view some bondage pics she wanted put on floppies. After a few bumps and grinds Jennifer gave of herself plus a few the Windows environment gave MacTekkie Sue, most of the 4.1 MB were finally made viewable on Sunday. Lapsitting gyrations were all she wrote during this particular mood, so there's little to read between these lines.

So I again, this time more quietly, upbraided this "sweetie on the side" just to be clear, educating her about the illustrious first family of hillbilly music, pointing out in fresh adjectives and unresisting adverbs that the Carter family is to country music what the Kennedy family is to American politics. And Elvis is to pop rock.
Besides the online Gabriel tour, always PG-Rated, I narrated in the East Village, I imagine the second favorite string of hours I managed was Saturday night when Jennifer and I made out like teenagers in heat beer after beer and Johnny Cash song after Johnny Cash song. She said she couldn't believe I liked JC. I said the same about her, although I later amended my assessment to: "Yeah right, you don't like Johnny Cash. You just lust after his redwood stature and that ironman voice but you only like SOME of his songs. I reached this analysis after she impulsively slammed on, then clicked past Johnny Yuma, which I liked, and which she called some fucking B-side. I bounced her fuss with facts by saying, "NOT! I just saw a Seinfeld episode last week as a matter of fact where Kramer was pulling his usual Kramerstuff with Jerry, hooklining, "I'm a rebel Jerry....... I'm a rebel." The sinker was Jerry's response,"You're not a rebel. Johnny YUMA was a rebel." The sinker was Jerry's response,"You're not a rebel. Johnny YUMA was a rebel." I had laughed agaga when Sue and I first heard this Seinfeld line and followed that up by terrorizing Sue with a string of childhood memories growing up in Georgia on country music.

Reveling in this small order of synchronicity, I repeated all this to Jennifer, pop pop pop. After all, she claims Seinfeld devotion, and I'd hoped she'd recognize the validity of my argument. A New York Jew had heard of and thirty years later was recalling for a new generation that same Johnny Yuma ballad. Whether it was Jerry Seinfeld or Larry David surely something here would stifle her protest that this was some obviously forgettable B-side. And yet she bitched out, splashing around in muddy discourse as most of us are wont to do after a dozen beers or so, leaving me my assessment. Jennifer Connolly was simply not a first tier Johnny Cash fan like myself.

But as writing goes, she's as hip as any dark-spirited retro-70s doctorate candidate goth chick on her way to Cornell I've ever had the pleasure—just for grooving to any Johnny Cash. Yet her glimmering hipsterism was further tarnished with rude remarks about June Carter. So I again, this time more quietly, upbraided this "sweetie on the side" just to be clear, educating her about the illustrious first family of hillbilly music, pointing out in fresh adjectives and unresisting adverbs that the Carter family is to country music what the Kennedy family is to American politics. And Elvis is to pop rock. I mean, I'm just a fan of the music, the man, the woman. That's it. Pitching thoughtless blasphemies into the mood while gyrating her half naked still intoxicated nearly blacked out body politic against my flickering frames at four o'clock in the wee of morning as I struggled against the mat, failed to keep me from any old friendship duties I would face that night with Jennifer the stray kitten, not because Sue was still starched, still smack dead drunk, still asleep on the bed where she cracked emeralds for eyes and blew ex post facto dreamy white bluffs along the hard roads of her own deeper relationships, kissing the parabolic name now cloaking her painful lack of confidence, her wrecking ball illiteracies, her tip of the iceberg struggle against lifelessness while crumbling in dutiful acceptance of it all.

Two women, three studies in deliberate behavior.

And despite my highstrung needs for acceptance at any cost almost anywhere I can find it I can state the following: Love is a trainwreck. But also know this: Life is a gooey five dollar ham & cheese sandwich lifted from the café car on that trainwreck just after the crash.
I am glad to be back home where is is no chance to get laid, blown, or titillated by a sweet talking college girl. Frustration of that sort has ebbed. The absence of our mindmeld brings its own anxieties, however, as the excitement of New York begins to fade into the kaleidescope of another lost weekend spent dallying with fire while dousing it with indifference. Yes—I love Jennifer today exactly as I have always loved her, and yet fate has been cruel to me. I can't have everything. Especially when I never make the first move. And I love Sue dearly, and in that "what if you could" challenge would not trade her even up for Jennifer with her crazy ride through hell, not that either would sink to such a grotesque role of Gabriel's choice, but that's what the "what if you could" game is all about—idle speculation, creepy imagination, human, all too human desperation.

But Jennifer and I do love each other on some level among men and women, despite the spikes and the sputters and the rules of the land, sea, and hells of both, and do for each other in ways we have always known we can. We are quite alike, our intelligence, our moods, our metallurgy configured so similarly as to render us equalities in the equation for trouble where arguments always give way to selfishness.

After a morning spent gridlocked in a malingering after-flirtation depression I am beginning to feel better I think. Writing this has helped evaporate a few inches of psychosmog. And despite my highstrung needs for acceptance at any cost I can state the following: Love is a trainwreck. But also know this: Life is a gooey five dollar ham & cheese sandwich lifted from the café car on that trainwreck just after the crash.

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


Top

Login