Profane Exegesis: A Day In the Life of 'The Girl Who Was Death'

8/14/2019 Profane Exegesis: A Day In the Life of 'The Girl Who Was Death'

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Profane Exegesis: A Day In The Death of Rollins and Fan.

The ideal state of affairs is to be doing what it is you can do. When I

was growing up there was always the negative voices, the naysayers whowould scoff at the notion you might be capable of doing anything at all

outside the role they had designated for you; a talentless loser. What they

really meant of course is, as that was how they wanted to see you, they

wanted you to see yourself that way; to buy into the lie, and take it on board

without giving it a second thought, so you would come to believe in that

loser roll they had slyly foisted on you with the purpose that it would eat

into your psyche and sense of self, so that your lack of enterprise, of

achievement, become a vicious circle, a fulfilled prophecy, proving the lie a

reality. What better than to sweep it aside? to burst into song and I dontmean like the Count in Woody Allens Love And Death to paint, to dance,

to preserve the sense of wonder about the world, to always be interested on

and curious about people, and to know that as spirit, we are indomitable,

eternal.Nothing better than expressing the best part of yourself, of getting

high on your own talents and abilities. Then theres little anyone can say to

the contrary. They will of course, they might even kill you, but theyll

know it will always be a lie, that nothing can change the essence of who

you are, and talents are only a pale reflection of that. But if you can, if you

get enjoyment form it, then do it anyway. Then they might learn they were

always capable of it themselves and their energy might be better spent in

that rather than facile and destructive criticism and trying to put others

down.

I meant to mention Henry Rollins again. A bloke who does what he

does and you have to respect that. Im not sure how much of it appeals to

me as I have a pretty piecemeal acquaintance with his ouvre, but I did finish

Black Coffee Blues. I think the last piece, I Know You, was truly excellent.

It speaks to Goths, and narcissists, and aliened non-conformists in general.

I think he has a deep compassion that can be obscured in the blitzkrieg of

social and psychological horror he describes, He has some great turns of

phrase as I mentioned. It isnt affected, but comes from the heart. On

saying that, he can be very writerly. You can see its part of a tradition, that

he has very much in mind; the poetry and style of Bukowski, Ginsberg,

Kerouac. Sometimes its all a bit hip for me. Some remarks, phrases,

observations, thoughts, I can find quite absurd, however poetic, or perhapsbecause of that, but probably because I find it nihilistic. You get the feeling

death, in all its forms, permeates everything for him, that its ingrained in


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his perception. This is confirmed for me by his admission he thinks

frequently of killing himself. A thought that goes through most of our

minds during periods in our lives. But its almost as if he doesnt have an

alternative vision. Like his writing, its all very rock in a way. All a bit

macho as you would expect from him, if youve seen him. All a bit

adolescent and juvenile in its way, emotionally. You get the feeling he useshis lifestyle, the hours spent on the road going from country to country, the

emotional intensity of his performances, to keep people at a distance. He

emphasizes the importance of being alone and its certainly his preference

as described in the book. But sometimes he comes across as simply moody

and anti-social, as when he agrees to meet up with a woman in a hotel room,

then has nothing to say to her. It sounds almost like a cry for help, as if he

wants others to fathom his deep need for emotional intimacy but is

incapable of admitting it or expressing it. Its obvious hell resent anyindication of dependent on their part also. That hes frightened of feeling

strong emotions for anyone as its only another way he can be hurt by them.

He mentions a couple of times that he avoids getting close to anyone as it

invariably drifts into an abusive relationship. He seems compelled to attack

them, presumably emotionally and psychologically. In short, he functions

at an efficiently professional level in his artistic life, which gives him the

independence and prestige he needs, but in psychological terms, he can

think and behave like a typical narcissist. Hes perceptive, mistrustful, and

as much as he claims to abhor too much attention, revels in being at thecenter of it; then he has the ego-satisfaction of having no time for them. As

he says, no one who lives the same way, spending all those hours on the

road, and the havock that can play with any notions of long-term intimacy,

can understand it. Fair enough; but people are always using their

experience as theyve chosen to set it up, as a means to justify never looking

upon it differently. Yes, its his chosen way of expressing himself and no

doubt making a good living so clearly, it works on these levels. And its

his life. But for all his intensity and sincerity, maybe he should be less

concerned with the image of himself hes made, professionaly and

psychologically, and try and step out of the mold of sensitive macho with a

heart, and be less concerned about his literary legacy and concern with

being seen as a serious and seriously intelligent artist, and surprise himself

in his reading material once in a while, or find the time to watch a few good

weepies to tug at the old heartstrings. On the other hand, he is surrounded

by people, and will want to keep them at a distance on the whole as it may

well be the only way to survive and keep a sense of oneself as a separate

being. He could have a rollercoaster ride of emotions as well as sex, Iimagine, if he wanted to and likely does sometimes. And all the time you

have to keep coming back to work, in one form or another, because people


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are self-centred and fickle and if you spent all your time on them, not only

would they appreciate it even less, but youd have nothing to show for it.

He doesn't put it like this, but he does discuss it. Any artistically oriented

person comes to feel the same, and even more so if youre a bit of a

machinelike male. Its inevitable in a world that sets litle store in

intangibles, such as interpersonal skills and everything in terms of financialsuccess. Thats something nobody can deny, and worse, people are so

screwed up, you can spend the rest of your life trying to please them and

theyll despise you for the very effort made on their behalf. Give up your

goals and dreams, and when the time comes, let them throw it in your face

like the fool they would have you believe you are. I can certainly tell where

hes coming from. He abhors regretting the past he says, and hes right of

course. Nor would he want you to put yourself out for him in any way, or

have you feel beholden to him and vice-versa and so have cause for regret.Its circular, but it makes sense if you happen to be dealing with a bit of a

narcissist like yourself, preferring to keep others at a distance. He recited

the usual narcissistic mantra. That people using one another is no bad

thing; quite positive in fact. He means it in the sense that theyre not

pretending or bullshitting each other. Hes surely talking about sex. He

means he wants no emotional involvement, no promises, no ties. And no

lies. It might be a step above the usual mutual bourgeois conventions and

bargains, but Its still BS because its emotionally static and facile, and on

the level of an adolescent because of that. It stems from seeing the world asan hostile and dangerous place. Whos to say hes wrong? It was much the

same perception, if more unconsciously, that stopped me from taking up

with the love of my life as a kid and even into adolescence while she was

still around. My environment was far too unpredictable and threatening,

and I would still concur with that perception of the period. If anything, I

was more disturbed by my apparently pathological shyness. More than

pronounced in the presence of certain individuals, but seemingly out of my

conscious volition as well as control in the presence of a group, namely,

when in class...

The Passion of the Christ was on again. Laugh? I nearlyNo, ir was

a harrowing business. Lay on the suffering and histrionic poses Mel. But

its very affecting all the same, in spite of this. Apparent the blood libel

against the Jews is repeated in this movie, but as I was flipping channels

during the ads blasphemy! I think I missed it. Funny thing BBC 6

Music was featured music on the 4AD label, and one of the first songs was

Bauhaus cover of Bolans Telegram Sam. It always reminds me, as does

the original, that he sings Bobbys alright, hes a natural born poet, hes


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just outta sight. which was a real lift back in the early 70s when it was

originaly released, what with me and my well screwed up image of myself.

The classic distortion was when my mother would say call me by that name

she never called me Bob, and certainly not Robert (or Rab as my

Granddad did). Id already outgrown it by my teens. The name it seemed to

me was us much of her choosing as her distorted perception of me. Worse,it sounded like some cutesy endearment, a term of affection almost, that

emphasized her normality and harmlessness. But her most common

emotion ranged from tolerance to hatred. It made my name sound like a

living lie to myself. I would feel like shooing it back down her throat. But

in truth, I was rarely sure of how I felt, except when I was angry. Life was a

series of events that conspired to separate me from knowing who I was and

see life through an ever shifting kaleidescope of mixed emotions. So it was

great to hear Bolan, friend and contemporary of Bowie, to repeat my namein Telegram Sam. Like seeing yourself in the reflected gaze of a friendly

face, if from a great distance, but closer to me in a way, however indirect,

than my everyday life and existence, from a world I intended and expected

to join one day. It was there on the other side of school, and the prospect of

the great unknown after it, like another world, running ever parallel to this

one, there and waiting for me when I was ready for it.

And now, over 35 years later, in The Passion of the Christ, as theRoman thugs, soldiers and mob alike, are getting laid into Jesus, and Jim

Caveziel as he, collapses to the ground once again falling over the heavy

wooden cross he was carrying, under the whippings and blows from one of

the supersadistic thugs who was there during the earlier and flogging and

scourging scene, another of them shouts his name, telling him to cut it out

cant he see that he cant go on? and it sounded to me that when he shouted

his name, it was Bobby - or something that must be very close to it. Here I

am, as good as invited to hate this bloke only to be reminded he could be

me. But journey to the Crucifiction is interspersed with scenes form hischildhood with his mother, as well as from The Last Supper (fish and chips

please) and The Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus is telling the crowed to

love their enemies as themselves that anyone can love those who are kind

to them, before it cuts back abruptly to the continuation of the psychotic

bloodbath in progress, then someone from the crowd is hijacked into

carrying the cross for the temporarily immobilized Jesus, who inevitably

collapses under the unrelenting weight of the wooden beams and the blows.

His reluctant helper watched this for some moments, then to his credit, hes

had enough, loses it, and screams at the thugs, Centurions, whatever in hell

they are, and our Bob, tells him to get on with it then and get moving, you


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Jew. Perhaps this is director Mels way of presenting a supposedly

balanced and impartial viewpoint, I dont know, and neither do I buy into it.

Nor can I picture Jesus stomping on the snake, as during the beginning of

the film. Nor having all those moments of anguished self-doubt, from first

to last, over his mission and faith in Gods love. Its human, all very

human. As was the excruciating pain he went through during the wholeprocess, along with the mental and emotional anguish of his family along

with others, such as the woman the adultress he saves from stoning.

Pain is always the big one isnt it? Pain and death. Who can have any faith

in love in any sense, that what one loves can be taken away, snuffed out in

the blink of an eye? Something I find hard to grasp now, let alone how

useful the perception may have been if I had known that growing up. But I

see now it was what he was here for. To demonstrate that pain, sin and

death are nor real. To present him as truly forgiving, yet in agony duringthe whole process turns his very massage on its head, making it into the

opposite of what he came to teach. That pain and death are not real, and our

co-called sins are forgiven as there is nothing to forgive as they were never

real. With the true forgiveness he was here to demonstrate, he experienced

no pain, as pain is also based on unforgiveness. Most of us are incapable of

such a level of forgiveness, but thats what he was here for. And in reality,

he wasnt here at all, as the whole thing is a projection of the mind, as is the

belief in sin, guilt, fear and death, because its nothing more than a belief, if

a very convincing one. But thanks Mel, for focusing my mind on myunbelief and lack of faith, through awakening the unconscious terror that

underlies everyday existence. It served to focus my mind on what I do

believe. Mad Max, back on trax. And for reminding me of just how small

the world is, however overcomplicated. Whats in a name? Theres a

Bobby in Ken RussellsThen Jenny Agutter as Bobby in the more

innocent Railway Children, though it packed a powerful emotional punch,

and in more ways than one for me. In my teens the lovely Jenny fit the bill

for anyones notion of an ideal love. Suddenly I could see not only the

actual love of my life in her, but also myself, and her in me. We were

interchangeable, or could be. In reality, we were all the same being. Not

that I could articulate it that way then, that but that was the intuitive

realisation I was coming to. My fascination with extremes of light and

dark; simultaneously attracted to, yet frightened of both. Reading Spider-

man, both on the way to and from school, and the shock of recognition over

the writer's describing Spideys arch-nemesis, The Green Goblin, as a

psychopath. That they would use such a precise psychological term in of

all things, a comic. I had Alan Harringtons book, The Psychopath, havingcame across ii for cheap somewhere, though Id only ever read the first few

chapters, but I knew it was an important subject. And Marvel/the writer


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mentioned Bowie in an issue of Spider-man, having replaced a more dated

name in the original American release for a more contemporary figure

currently wowing the scene. Are you going to see David Bowie at the

Filmore? (or wherever it was). I didnt put it together, but it came to me

years later, when the journalist and novelist Tony Parsons once described

going to interview Bowie as like meeting the girl of your dreams. Hiswords. And I realized, yes, thats what it was. His Ziggy was an archetypal

image that encompassed so many elements in himself, that to all intents and

purposes that is what he represented to many people, both make and female

alike Id venture, only blokes might be more reluctant to admit that, but

could experience it on a more unconscious level, as I did. He filled that

emotional void, and on so many levels. Utterly dynamic; assertive and

masculine, he was also as striking as any women, possibly more so as he

encompassed so many numinous elements in his music and persona; andpersona it was, but he was also a real person, who as I say, represented that

alternative yet very real world of glamor and fame and riches. But above

all freedom. Artistic, creative freedom. He represented an escape. Yet did

it so well, so definitively, there was no hope of repeating it in such a way

and with the same intensity or aura of sheer otherworldliness. I wanted to

be like Superman, he once said, in a magazine I had. And he did it. He

encompassed the best of the superheroes Id been reading, along with the

most uplifting and numinous aspects of the music I had love from childhood

onwards, from Tamla Motown and Smokey Robinsons Tears of a Clown(and a whole lot of others, such as Diana Ross), along with Joni Mitchells

Big Yellow Taxi, though there were as many others that aroused me to a

kind of emotive frenzy, and not in a bad way. Young, Gifted and Black was

another, as mentioned. But Bowie brought it all together, in a way that

made his advent seem almost inevitable. Id never have articulated it in

such a way at the time, but he was like another gift from God. I knew that

somehow I was him and he was me, only a better adjusted and higher

functioning, emotionally stronger version. He surely must be I assumed. I

had every reason to believe it. I could barely talk to any girl I was attracted

to, let alone think of singing in front of a crowd. The gulf between what I

wished and dreamed for myself and the actuality was so wide, so all-

encompasingly intimidating as to be insurmountable. My awareness of my

own inhibitions and emotional limitations, along with my intuitive

conviction of his importance along with his fame and artistic success,

elevated him to a level beyond anything I could be wholly objective about.

It was easy to forget he wasnt the only person comfortable in front of a

crowd and confident enough in himself and his abilities and talents to becompelled to show them to the world. Then the dreams when I was 23,

where I would dream of Bowie, and Lynn from school, where in the dream


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they seemed to represent something far more numinous, the dreams

themselves having a quality of a reality more real than this one. And I dont

mean that poetically, or figuratively, or metaphorically, though its all

metaphor, as its the only way it can be described. Before the emotions I

experiecend metamorphosed into the more intense then indescribable

experience of revelation, of the love of God. Then later, I read some Poeagain, and read his story, William Wilson again I'd read it in my teens

before - and felt incredibly excited, but couldnt quite put my finger on it.

There seemed to be no way to articulate it precisely. The levels of meaning

were too profound, too multi layered. But it was simply the reverberations

of the name Wilson, having read Colin Wilson since I was at school, and he

had echoed and articulated my interest in the psychology of crime, and the

paranormal and much else, and I knew there was a secret somewhere in

what I felt after reading that story, and later, it came to me, after myinvolvement with the death-fixated and narcissistic Lynn many years later.

That having the same name as Lynne at school, who had represented

everything to me, it was easy to project the same on to her, thinking I

might see her in the same way. And she was a woman after all, and

attractive and intelligent; not so like me. With a slight shift in perception

or of mine, we might one day scome to see more eye to eye I liked to think;

only I came to be aware of just how much anger she aroused in me and of

how she pushed all my buttons, and what an uphill struggle it already was.

That in a way, I saw the murderous history of the world encompassed in herslight physique and deeply mistrustful outlook and razor-sharp mind.

Always on the offensive, never letting down her guard, ever-inquisitive,

chronically judgmental, though she would deny it in the very process of it, I

could see how the Nazis came into being, or any fascist-minded group. It

was simply a process of extension, or rather, multi-projection of enough

like-minded individuals. On a personal or individual level, I realized she

brought to mind not so much the luminously alive Lynne from school, but

the few psychopaths I had ever had the misfortune to have to be associated

with, namely the bullies and would be bullies. But more specifically, the

serial killer Kurten, who I had read about since buying some of the

partwork mags, Crimes and Punishment, edited by Colin Wilson, this in my

early and later teens when it was reissued, then many years later when

another partwork called Real-Life Crimes was published in the 90s, where

Kurten was described in more contemporary terms as a narcissistic

psychopath. I had been reading some paperbacks during this period by the

Reichian therapist Alexander Lowen, who focused on narcissistic patients,

though it was all very Freudian. Previously, Id read Colin Wilsonsbiography, the Search For Wilhelm Reich, when I was twenty-two. There

was an interesting section on what he termed body armoring, and this had


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struck me as very significant. But its as true to say I saw much of the same

in myself, and that was the most disturbing or unsettling aspect. I had yet to

come to the specific awareness that we are all one and the same being,

literally projections of each other Its as true to say it was her emphasis on

the fault being mine when I would pick her up on her psychological

manipulations and guilt trips, that brought me to the opposite realizationand perception of the situation. And she would often remark that I had no

idea just how angry I made her sometimes. Not that I was blameless;

anything but. Slow to pick up on the depth of her fear and mistrust, I was

prone still to playing the Jack the Lad, the player, the potential seducer. At

best, we could be equals, in life and love, and other such cliches. But no,

she might or could even come to heal me of the sense of loss over L, if

not wholly replace her. I couldnt see how anything or anything could.

Now I see I couldnt wholly replace anyone for her, as she would have meknow, even though she had succumbed to the tell-tale emotional abuse of

giving him shit, as she put it, a previous bo. This in her late teens, so were

talking teenagers here, if like me, intelligent ones. Sex and death and the

intelligent teenager. And a few years older now, when I met her, at an after

hours class on psychology at the university. Shed been very quiet, and I

never once caught her looking at me. She was an enigma. I had made a

quick exit, so /I could take off after her yes, follow her, until I caught up

with her just as it had started raining. She had her umbrella up. Typically, I

didnt have one. I walked her to the bottom of the street, saying I was onthe way to check out the bargain bookstore in Princes Street. I offered her

my number, probably in case I would be embarrassed by a refusal on her

part if I asked for hers, but she offered me it anyway. Now I know shed

have never rung otherwise, and she knew that. On the face of it, we seemed

to have much in common. I was thirty, and she mentioned Robert Anton

Wilsons Cosmic Trigger (1), a book I had picked up in paperback cheap

somewhere, but hadnt got around to reading yet, Later she would deny I

had ever mentioned having it, and claimed not to believe me. The attempt

to distort my perceptions of my own experience came to be frequent. I

could never be wholly sure if she meant it or it was a combination of some

sort of test of my veracity, or genuinely didnt believe me. Now I see it as

topically mischievous and a reflection of her unconscious and pointless

destructiveness. She seemed to live to waste time and yet could be

perceptive of how others might waste their time, or say the most ludicrous

things, as as she would put it, sad,such as when a reviewer had talked

about this is that movie being an acceptable away to pass the time. I agreed

with her. But what was sad was how she mixed the false with the true tokeep others at a distance, or more specifically, me. I didnt know hoe she

interacted with others, though she was of course keen to emphasize just how


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swimmingly things were with everyone else, independent and bit of a loner

as she was and liked to emphasize when it suited her. Her biggest pain in

the butt could be me it seemed. Eventually you come to realize that for all

their intelligence, and perhaps because of it, some people are always going

to use it as a means to turn everything on its head; that theyll always be

crazy and impossible in their way because thats how theyve chosen to beand there is no going against someones will and what they want for

themselves, and neither would you want to, unless youre as insane as they

are. Worse, you become the means to furthering and improving on that end;

in affect, a form of target practice through which theyll feed that ever

voracious ego. Yeah, theyll have insight to that also, and even

empathetically, but only mention it to ensnare you with all the more.

Somewhere along the line, she was subjected to her herself or is this my

way of rationalizing something that developed of its own accord? Amaladjusted way of being in and interpreting the world? Whos to say shes

wrong? I thought. Perhaps she only reflects the way the wolrd is and its a

better way to survive emotionally, than most people seem to be aware of? I

was aware that at her age, I was relatively pretty nave. That I still was in

many ways. The experience, the relationship, for what it was, was a

learning process or curve. I found out about myself, and it was often

anything but pleasant. And I had to seriously ponder the thought that if I

had met her where we were both the same age whether now or earlier a

wholly hypothetical scenario I would have went the same way as herprevious boyfriends, one way or the other. Secretly, she believed she

represented death that she was jinxed as she put it. I knew this to be

absurd, but guilt did seem to have a kind of deathgrip on her mind. She

believed whole heartedly in it. I was as fallible, as vulnerable as the rest. I

could be destroyed, whether emotionally or literally. Everyone had their

breaking point, as she had once put it. She would never let up trying to find

mine, I came to realize. It took a while, years, to come to fathom any of

this. To put it together during the process of her trying to take me apart.

But neither was she heartless, And I dont want to give that impression.

There was one instance she was getting to me, I was allowing myself to be

sucked in and was reacting and feeling a bit sorry for myself, and she

relented. Whether I really was, or was partly playing the part, I can never

be wholly sure. Whether inspired or a survival mechanism of my own, or

an indication of the same mindset, your insight is as good as mine. As I say,

you find out about yourself. But neither would it have did her much good

to turn into an emotional wimp, a mental wreck. She was mental enough

for both us. My little joke. I was funny, or could be. I was cool, or couldbe. I could open up emotionally without being emotional or embarrassed

about it, or if I was, I could keep it under control, or slink my way out of it


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if I thought I should. Or she would keep me at a distance anyway, claim

disinterest she didnt want to know then surprise me with some deeply

personal revelation of her own. I would feel very close to her. It had taken

hundreds of hours of conversation to get there. Or had it been tens? before

she offered up some psychological tidbit to hook me in, and get me to open

up about myself, before offering another deeply felt anecdote, months andyears into the involvement, such as it was? Now Im Here. Queen. Here

and there and everywhere. And then there was the question of what I

should be empathizing with exactly, though I didnt articulate it in such a

way, then. This is where what are described as inner recourses came to

the fore. Analogies in order to illustrate some point, whether to disagree, or

be cajoled or provoked or just plain asked to explain myself at tiresome and

inordinate length over something we had covered before, whether ten

minutes or ten months earlier. Memories others, of friends, of perceivedenemies and oppressors, of experiences I had long forgotten about, or never

saw any reason to come back to, until they drifted into mind as if in contrast

to the rigid mindset of this frightened and death-obsessed individual too

intelligent to be a mere Goth, too defensive it seemed, to ever see any

means of finding a way out of the ego-prison she had enmeshed herself in.

I couldnt see any way around it either. The circular arguments and logic

the lack of logic, exhausted me and occasionally my patience with her. Im

no saint, nor was I then. But I knew it was logic of a kind for her. That she

was the victim of her own limited perceptions, which stemmed from astunted view of herself and others. In her scheme of things the conviction

that information equaled power, so keeping your cards close to your chest

and your business under your hat was the way to go, along with your

emotions and also the fact the body offered no protection for anyone at all

it was the only way to be. And to all intents and purposes, she was

accurate in her assessment. It was the story of our lives. Only her story had

been more extreme, and at an age where....

Profane Exegesis: A Day In the Life of 'The Girl Who Was Death'

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