My Melody Catcher

What you are about to read began as a suicide note for a blog.  Then I noticed that I was already dead.  I hadn’t written in Lipstickeater for twelve months, left it (my digital-textual body) in a vegetative state.  I left it for dead. 

But if in this state, I suddenly wanted to compose a suicide note...it must mean that I am not dead after all!  Suicide notes cannot be posthumous.  Joy!  I am not going to kill myself, but I am still a little suicidal. 

When you are unhappy with living and discover the notion that you can actually end your own life, it is scary but ironically, it returns to you a sense of yourself that everyone else wants to steal only so they can destroy.  In fact, there begins to gather a glamour about it in the very etymological sense of the word “glamour”: a dark haze over light.  Suicide becomes dangerously glamorous when you are ten years old and suddenly kids in the playground begin to torture you because you are obsessed with My Melody.  The years drag on from there as you get tortured for being homosexual before you know what homosexual is.  Then you conclude that all you want to do is disappear from the tangible world. 

As a sullen teenager, I was a stereotype of a suicidal kid.  The world hated me and I hated the world right back.  I was literally the kid smoking under the bleachers while the student government led a pep rally for the football players and popular kids in Guess jeans.  Decades later, as I figure out my place in my professional world—which is the rarified and small one of academia and then, even smaller and more rarified queer academia—I found out that I am still the kid smoking under the bleachers.  It sucked.  It sucked and it hurt.  And hurt me so much that I wanted to kill off the textual body that was ignored and belittled by my professional world. 

Sooner or later you discover Sylvia Plath, and you discover the idea of being suicidal. Plath is more than the gleaming frighteningly blond head stuck in an unlit gas oven.  In life, as a suicidal girl before she performed the act of suicide, she was a fiercely intellectual and doggedly emotional writer who used her pain as material and tool of her art.  What stopped the teenaged me from going on and through with suicidal attempts was the glamour of Plath the Suicidal.  “Being suicidal” is an identity that requires you to be alive.  It is characterized by a constant and nagging obsession with one’s own death, but one in which the death is also infinitely postponed, for if you go through with it, you are no longer suicidal; you are just dead. If you are “suicidal,” it means you are constantly haunted by thoughts of killing yourself, but you are living through it.  You write through it.  You remain “suicidal;” you don’t commit suicide. 

This week, fifty years ago, Sylvia Plath committed suicide.  Last week, I found myself listening to Britney Spears for hours even though I never listened to her during her ubiquity in the early 2000’s, even though I didn’t actually own a single album of hers.  I must be a true vintage whore because most things feel sweeter and brighter when they are at least five or six years too old.  (Britney circa 2001 or 2003 is now truly “Vintage”!!)  History is softer, more yielding, more yielding to one of my favorite feelings, yearning.  So it is with Britney.  Another blond who had suicide on the horizon.  I think of her as always just about to burst into another breakdown, but only just so.  Unlike Plath, Britney’s good at the teeter-totter of living.  She makes dull soulless dance music, where “soulless” means not a lack of interiority but SATANIC!!!  Satanic as in: the refusal of a dogmatic definition of inner life.  The voice that combines a satanic spirit and a temperamental computer.  It takes a lot to soften that voice into something vulnerable, but when it happens it might be really sweet.  Her face is just this side of excessive inbreeding.  Enough makeup (a lot) and she can tread between white trash rough diamond and plastic doll.  I’ve been listening to her 2003 album In the Zone on repeat while struggling through some academic prose on embodiment.  Obviously she doesn’t have the gift of language that Plath had, but In the Zone is kind of like Plath’s Ariel.  It is high-gloss style confessional music that simultaneously signals the end of confessional music.  Music that is all about you yet nothing about you.  I purchased remixes of “Toxic” on iTunes and it sounded so right for the story I was working on.  I wrote the following lines:

Afterwards, I went on ebay and found exactly the same old tour t-shirt I made my character wear. My character isn’t me, but after I wrote him to life I wanted to bend my flesh closer to his outlines.  I get nervous.  We’ll see.  We’ll see.  

this is me...then (Black Mistress Tina)

            I’ve been working out my body.  Not as in the 90s, when I believed that the thing to do with my femininity was to bury it under mounds of unnatural muscle.  No, these past twelve months have been about living in the 90s that I should have lived: working on getting my body to be the performative connector between my identity as girl and that as writer.  I am in the process of leaving Joony Schecter behind for a new identity that I’ve already begun building: A hausfrau and BDSM dominatrix of the emotions: BLACK MISTRESS TINA.  

            Black Mistress Tina is a hausfrau and BDSM dominatrix of the emotions.  The name is an homage to Debi Mazar’s character in Spike Lee’s 1996 film “Girl 6,” which is herself homage to Bettie Page and to the hard romantic pragmatism of a femme.  I have fallen in love with a man and we decided to cohabitate.  He is also a wonderful electronic musician.  One of his early gestures of winning me over was listing me as his “muse” in the description of a piece that he produced last summer.  But because my man Roddy is a modern man, he views “muse” as consonant with “partner.”  Historically, “muse” has been understood as a pure and passive body that exists solely to submit to the authoritative genius of the “artist.”  Of course, this history has been also used as a tool of the patriarchy, in which “muse” equals “woman” and “artist” is “man.”  From the beginning, Roddy saw me as a muse because he understood my femininity, but with a definite anti-patriarchal stance.  (This is partly why I love him.) 

I then worked as muse on his “Violets,” a nine-minute sound piece in which all the samples that Roddy used as raw material came from me.  I was a traditional muse insofar as I was literally objectified: Roddy recorded my grunts, whoops, hisses, wails, and even humming Culture Club’s “Miss Me Blind.”  This process made me feel simultaneously troubled and elated; I was cut up into voice samples, made into a thing.  It was cutting of a different kind.  I saw my body fluttering helplessly on the cutting board and watching Roddy transplant a different pulse into it made the heart still in my own body beat hard and happy.  A piece of my body—my voice—was ripped from me and snipped and pieced together like a rabbit fur coat. I just snuggled in the luxuriousness of it all.  And when it came for Roddy to present the piece, he insisted that I be given credit as a collaborator, and asked me to come up with a bodily performance to go with the piece.

            Which led to “The Rabbit Catcher.” This time, the work began with me: I’ve wanted to write a mourning piece for Whitney Houston ever since her untimely death last year.  But whenever I sat in front of my computer, all I could say was nothing.  I had the same reaction to her death as Mariah Carey: “I’m almost incapable of talking about it.”  So “Mourning and Melancholia: Whitney Houston” sat unfinished but for the quote from Mariah.  In the meantime, I got an idea to adapt one of my favorite poems, Sylvia Plath’s “The Rabbit Catcher,” as a performance piece.  I became fixed with the gesture of singing a song while eating my own hair.  I wrote a score for it, and Roddy and I set about thinking about what sound should come out of me. My job was to again provide Roddy with a stockpile of sonic raw material.  Immediately, I felt that the sound should be a recording of me being possessed by Whitney Houston.  I decided that I would transcribe in textual form all the sounds—including not only Whitney’s voice but the instruments—in the epic 10 minute remix of Whitney’s cover of “I’m Every Woman.”  Roddy would record me doing a “flat” reading of those texts, which he would re-cut into what he calls an “aural bed” in which the audience—and I—can luxuriate.  As he played his sound piece, I would then perform live another version of the transcribed text.  We performed a sketch version of the piece this past December at the Apexart.  We’ll perform an expanded and fully formed version in May.  But in the meantime: enjoy my new body, al dente.  

The Rabbit Catcher from Roddy Schrock on Vimeo.

MacArthur Park: Jennifer Ehle in "Zero Dark Thirty"

Let’s lay things down sharply: “Zero Dark Thirty” is pro-torture propaganda.  The director Kathryn Bigelow, writer Mark Boal (who are also the film’s producers), and lead actors Jessica Chastain and Jason Clarke have all come out in ill-informed and illogical defense of their film.  They misunderstand the critique of the film as endorsing torture as only responding to their depiction of torture.  But the film doesn’t condone torture because it visualizes torture.  In fact, its depiction of torture, and in particular, waterboarding, is actually too softballed in this age of wild filmic violence—there are worse, more disturbing scenes in a “Die Hard” film.  To make a critique of torture, these scenes ought to be in at least Abel Ferrera land.  Furthermore, the film’s lead character participates in torture with no verbalized or bodily remorse; it is clear that she believes in its efficacy.  In fact, in two separate sequences, the screenplay actually puts into words this sentiment: a detainee practically begs the inquisitors to ask him questions, to which he vows he will answer truthfully because, he says, he wants no more torture; a CIA top gun informs his boss that all the information about the location of Osama Bin Laden (which turn out to be correct) were “obtained from detainees.”  To make things worse, Bigelow and Boal have contradicted themselves, condescendingly brushing off criticism with the tired old claim that film is fiction, but claiming, both in interviews and in the opening title card of the film itself, that the film is “journalistic”—that it is part non-fiction created from classified information.  A fiction with claims and ambitions to be political fact is creeping fast toward propaganda.

            It is difficult to think about aesthetics of a film that is in fact, not a piece of art but propaganda.  Thus it was hard to see one of my sentimental favorite actresses, Jennifer Ehle, show up in “Zero Dark Thirty” as a CIA agent.  To see my beloved 90s Lizzie Bennett serving the cause of a neo-Leni Riefenstahl!  But I suppose the mark of a truly great actress is her ability to reveal the limitations of the filmic material with the force of her body.  It is work that is not done by most of the cast.  Take for instance, its lead actor.  Jessica Chastain, as CIA agent Maya who says she “will kill Bin Laden,” doesn’t so much interpret a role as embody every patriarchal quality that is currently valued in America: bullheadedness, cultural and historical myopia, emotional numbness.  Her Maya is sorority girl as American hero.  The scenes in which she displays her supposed toughness—screaming shrilly at her boss, referring to herself as a “motherfucker” in front of a government top dog—are laughable.  It is hard to take this character seriously when her method of getting what she wants is to whine as loudly as possible, and even more so when she discusses serious matters in a Delta Delta Delta Can I Help Ya Help Ya Help Ya vocal cadence.  Why have so many people claimed her as a feminist hero?  A feminist is not a just a human being with a vagina.  A feminist is someone who uses her mind, soul, and body to exert revolutionary force against patriarchal traditions.  A character like Maya is no different from Margaret Thatcher, Sarah Palin or Michele Bachmann, women who have claimed personal agency and institutional power by becoming lapdogs of the patriarchy.

            Ehle’s character is distinguished as an opposite of Maya: she seems at once more pragmatically focused and more easily distracted.  The pragmatism is a matter of representation; it’s written in the dialogue (she tells Maya not to obsess over Bin Laden and concentrate rather on preventing terrorist attacks).  It’s the quality of scattered distraction that Ehle herself brings to the part with her physicality.  Ehle’s trademark is her eyes, which for a white actress are vaguely Asiatic, and always look like they are laughing.  She used them to create an iconic character of steely logic and wary playfulness in “Pride and Prejudice” (1995).  In “Zero Dark Thirty,” the laughing eyes dart frenetically, in direct contrast to the often unblinking, concentrated (and creepy) stare of Chastain.  Ehle’s costumes also mark the contrast between her and Chastain.  While Chastain stays in dark pantsuits and neutral tops, and no jewelry, Ehle wears pearls, skirts, stilettos, chiffony and ruffly blouses, and a variety of hairdos (loose waves, retro beehive bun, and a bouncy Gidget-esque ponytail in her final scene).  I’d contend that Ehle is the film’s sole embodiment of femininity.  When she lands a highly-prized informant, she prepares for the meeting by baking him a cake!  The scene in which Ehle is icing gleefully is a treasure.  She seems to be getting ready for a date with a lover.  There is something simultaneously disturbing and enchanting about a CIA agent who views an enemy contact as a romantic interest.  At least that is the way Ehle plays her: waiting for the contact to arrive, she is all furrowed brows and jittery jibbering.  We feel anxious for her: what if she gets stood up on prom night??!!  She’d have to leave her cake out in the rain!!  When she sees him finally approach, those black eyes of hers laugh again, and well up with happy tears.  She asks the security guys to stand down at the gates because “This is special.”  The special date, though, begins to feel ominous, and all the more so because Ehle’s excitement and giddiness is so palpable.  We know something bad will happen, and it does: the contact turns out to be a suicide bomber.  As he gets out of the car into Ehle’s welcoming, open eyes, the film pulls back into a wide aerial shot and: BOOM!!  Ehle’s punishment (her “Just Desserts,” quipped my partner sympathetically) is for her femininity. The lesson, in line with a particularly American patriarchy, is that femininity should be reserved for the personal realm.  In work, especially if your work involves matters of state and foreign relations, you must be as non-gendered as possible; hyper-masculine aggression if you must.  Ehle’s character doesn’t so much use her femininity in her dealing with the enemy as she simply is feminine. The female character that performs femininity in high-level intelligence work must die, while the one who performs not so much masculinity but anti-femininity, is rewarded with heroic accolades.  This pedagogy against femininity, though, is again purely in the realm of representation: the screenplay sketches out the outlines of two opposing female “types.”  But it is in performativity, the actresses’ wearing those outlines, that the real lessons are learned.  Ehle endowed her character with her individual and charming femininity, and thus sacrificed her remarkable perfomative ability to Bigelow’s violent propagandistic intent, just as surely as her character sacrifices herself for her country’s cause.  I never cry out at scenes of violence in films, but when that bomb went off and I knew that “Jennifer Ehle” had indeed thrown herself onto the landmine of patriarchy, I cried out.  The bomb sound was so loud that it muted my lone loud cry. 

my boyfriend’s rival is fassy/ fassy is my boyfriend’s rival

I am abnormally obsessed with the actor Michael Fassbender (better known to his disciples as “Fassy”). The above is a video tour of the textual sublimation of my peculiarly sexual obsession with Fassy. To narrate the exact provenance of my obsession with Fassy is a bigger textual task. Suffice for now to say that I saw X-Men: First Class in the theatre four times. My fantasy date is for me and my boyfriend to have a double date with Fassy and Zoe Kravitz. And I love that that tiny patch on Fassy’s right upper lip where facial hair does not grow. My boyfriend had patiently borne the hysteria of my obsession with Fassy, and rather than have me bear an illegitimate child of Fassy, suggested that I not only write something about it, but that I turn the text into a holdable object.

We came to call this object a “foldover”: kind of like a turnover: text and art in a flaky buttery shell that can be popped into your brain when you’re walking to work or needing a mid-afternoon sweet fix. The foldover contains two short pieces on Fassy’s presence in the two films (A Dangerous Method and Shame), and an original drawing. It is color printed on vellum, and the covers (whose design is inspired from 90s issues of Interview magazine) have been hand-painted by yours truly. Only 28 have been produced.

The foldovers will be available for purchase at some fine outlets or blackmarket corner in the near future. In the meantime, they will make their public debut tonight at Dirty Looks, a fabulous queer film series directed by Bradford Nordeen (tonight’s event, at Judson Memorial Church in New York, highlights the video work of Charles Atlas). The timing of the debut feels right, as Fassy’s name was not among the Oscar nominations that were announced yesterday.

So in angora soft protest of Fassy’s victimization, my boyfriend Roddy will be representing me and my Fassy foldover at Dirty Looks tonight. My boyfriend is so Lord Warburton from Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady: he has “a kind thought even for a rival.” So if you are in New York, swing by, catch some great queer video work, maybe buy a foldover, and say hi to the only man in my world who is Fassy’s rival.

california glitter manga (la fille du MTA)

The night I became a real Californian I was in Manhattan (of course). My boyfriend and I were at the 66th St. subway station and a metro card machine had just eaten up ten of my dollars. Because there was no attendant station at this particular entrance, we had to climb out and seek out another that held a human being in an MTA uniform. I asked my strident boyfriend to take care of rectifying this situation, since I can barely get on the phone to order a pizza. He walked up to the glass cage and spoke with cute righteousness right into the little slotted metal oval that separated the MTA attendant from the outside world. After listening to his impassioned complaint and looking at my metro card, she said simply: “There’s nothing I can do.”

This was the dreaded and expected reply. I thought maybe her metro card reader could magically see that I had stuck $10 in it, but apparently not. She could give me a complimentary entrance, but otherwise, the only thing we could do was fill out a complaint form and mail it to the MTA Office and wait for the big fat refund check to be mailed to me. “You have to go get the number of the machine that took your money though,” she instructed. My Brooklyn-dwelling boyfriend has a thing against the MTA anyway, so this was a welcome last straw. He went all fire-and-brimstone on the MTA agent: “Are you serious? I know it’s not your fault, but this is just ridiculous.”

As he ranted more, I just kind of stood off to the side, mutely watching the MTA agent. She was a small, thin-faced African-American woman of middle years. She was bundled in a grey fleece and she looked tired as all hell. Her face was tightly closed against the brief but broad range of consumer’s fury my boyfriend was unfurling on my behalf. But while she met my boyfriend’s gaze dead-on, her look was not unsympathetic. Her hair was pulled back into a tidy bun, with an elegant, almost Victorian middle part. I stepped forward, tugged at my boyfriend’s sleeve like a little wife and said, “It’s OK. Let’s just go get the number of the machine.” I skipped up to the attendant myself to receive the complaint form and self-addressed prepaid envelope. I thanked her and then we were off.

The whole time I dragged him up and out and back into the first subway entrance, my boyfriend was grumbling like mad, but I weirdly felt all daisies and buttercups. I felt something come out from that MTA booth and wind snugly around my feelings. As I explained to my still indignant boyfriend, it was almost midnight, and that lady was probably not thrilled about being trapped in that glass box, her hands tied by the MTA corporation that didn’t give a fig about her, either. I cooed at him and practically danced the both of us to and fro, from the attendant box, to the offending ticket machine, back to the attendant box. My boyfriend said afterwards that I was “bouncing around like My Little Pony.”

The MTA lady was waiting for us. “What’s the number of that machine?” Her inquiry held fatigue, but also an upward lilt: it was not aggressive.

I skipped to the counter. “1733,” I chirped, sounding as if 1733 were a winning lottery number.

The lady nodded and wrote the number down. It could have been her grocery list for all I knew, but I appreciated the official quality of the gesture. She then waved us towards the turnstall. Her voice was, again, not friendly, but not unfriendly, either. “OK. Both of you go through the first entrance.”

“Thank you!!” My voice was so cheery it was almost a shout. I skipped and collided into an unyielding turnstall, but I bounced right off with an unsinkable “Yeep!!”

“The first gate.” The lady called out. Gently, I think.

“Oh, the first one! Thank you!!” I then bounced right through the right gate, harp tunes popping out of my pores. As we were waiting for our train, my boyfriend expressed his amazement at me. He told me that my unusual bounciness had melted away not only his own cynicism and grumpiness, but, he deduced, that of the MTA lady. “I think you shocked her. She didn’t shut down on us, which is the norm. She’s so used to all these grouchy aggressive New Yorkers. You brought a little California glitter to a hardened MTA attendant.”

It is an understatement to describe myself as not the sunniest gal in the room. I learned how to be an adult by reading Sylvia Plath, and deep in my heart, I am still a depressed teenage girl. But that night, I felt like covering that grey metal and Plexiglas box with iridescent fluorescent hologrammatic stickers of hearts, rainbows, and unicorns. I know I’m not powerful enough, but I hope I had turned that MTA lady’s eyes into wide glitter starry manga eyes.

There are some things I could attribute to (or blame for) my uncharacteristically puffy amiyumi behavior: the cheery opera we had just left (Donizetti’s La Fille du Régiment with a heroine styled after Lucy Ricardo and Pippi Longstocking); the glasses of champagne inhaled during intermissions; the superfestive glittery Isabel Marant sweater I wore to sit with my boyfriend in plush blood red balcony seats, we the junior opera queens. What all of those factors did was open up the airwaves for the call of the wild, the call of California. Pack me in a pink box and call me Malibu Hello Kitty Barbie.