Profane Exegesis: Pride of Plath.

8/14/2019 Profane Exegesis: Pride of Plath.

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Profane Exegesis: Pride of Plath.

An oddly frustrating day. Difficult to put my finger on it exactly... Maybe

the girl in the bookshop... shewing me her cleavage. Desire without a suitable

object.... so to speak. I probably feel frustrated due to feeling slightly guilty for

buying yet more books, and I spent over 30 on them, a fair whack. Acombination of remaindered and new. Im not going to name them all, but

theyre all interesting. Mainly non-fiction, but a couple of novels also, one Im

thirty pages into, called Mammals, by Pierre Merot, being touted as better than

Huellellebecq, and funnier. I cant judge yet, but Im enjoying it and it is of

course, very elegantly written in contrast to its unpretentious content about a

proverbial 'loser'. He drinks, likes women and books, has no children etc. Its

the French version of me, if not quite as I dont drink much or smoke at all,

perish the thort, and this bloke is addicted to both. I have no idea where its

going to go and neither should I be reading it when Ive still the Amis' and Peel

and others to finish as well as keep my mind on Philip K., while some of other

memories are relatively fresh, however vague; that and I want to touch on an

essay on him by Colin Wilson.

I actually felt some relief to see that Mammals is written with little dialogue.

Its all interior monologue of sorts, written in the second person. Dick used the

method of splitting himself in two as in Valis and Albemuth, written earlier, for

much needed perspective as he put it, even saying in the novel, Valis, that he and

Horselover Fat were the same person. Arent they all, considering other peopleare only projections of ourselves and every novelist can only write about how he

interprets the world. For me to have stated all of this long in advance only gives

the game away in a way. But to discover the world is an illusion has more than

enough psychological and metaphysical permutations to hold its own. What

brings it alive for me is the interlinking connections and synchronicities over a

lifetime so far, where the penny slowly begins to drop as suspicion sneaks in and

what was formerly solid and real takes on the quality of a repeated story, a dream.

I went out earlier, it being a Saturday, and typically, come back with a pile

of books as I say. I did stop of at the burger joint for a milkshake it's just liquid

ice-cream and to watch the talent from the front window. It can be a fine art

meeting and avoiding the looks. When youre inside it seems ridiculous, almost

pathetic just how curious people can be, as if the sight of someone eating a burger

or drinking a milkshake in a burger joint is the strangest, most outlandish thing

theyve ever seen. But when Im on the other side of the glass any glass, my

first awareness is that people in cafes and restaurants use it as an excuse to stare

of course; watch other people passing. And when you look in and meet their

stare, the territorial instinct comes into play and they treat it as if youre invadingtheir space; Whats he/she looking at? when the sense of entitlement is all


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theirs. On the inside I both try and be somewhat subtle and inoffensive about it

or Ill smile, or least as best I can. Some days Im quite good at it, especially

from a distance. And its better to smile than unsettle or freak them out with what

could be taken as cold, Martian-like interest, though Im my own favorite

Martian, and the aliens are so easily alienated after all. If Im passing a caf, but

especially a restaurant and I see some confident bald businessman or playboytype or just about any bloke at all anticipating me about to have a good look as

I'm going by, when the looking is all about himself of course, and I might not

have noticed him or his comely wife or mistress or whatever, Ill keep looking

straight on, only with a fixed Herman Munster-like, but humorless grin on my

face, from ear to ear; like a crazed Whatsername (Heck, I went to see Erin

Brokovitch three times, though it was on a membership ticket)? Only a fraction

of the psychological subtlety needed for the most trivial of days. Oh and a slim

girl in a lowish top sensed me looking at her I think, and came over, this in

another cheap bookstore, but I didnt want to be standing there obviously eyingthe nice tits in case I was mistaken, so I turned to the wall shelves behind and she

came by me, and slightly in front, and sideways, showing of her small-size

cleavage; she was anything from 19-22. I She had a friend around in the shop

somewhere. Then a bloke moved into the gap and in front of me a bit as people

will, so I moved away from him, and it was amusing to see her look sideways at

him, slightly surprised and less pleased, assuming I was still there. Her mobile

went off, and it was for her friend. She couldnt seem to find her. Ive only ever

approached women on their own; not true, but Ive never attempted to pick up or

expect one to dump their buddy. Im far too self-conscious for that, and Id feel

for the other girl. Why come between them, even potentially, no pun intended.

Id thought there might be a remote chance of getting some painting done

on Sat; its now very early Sunday morning, and no, Im not living the healthy

life but have yet to go to bed and will after a bath and a stretch, though not in that

order. As I say, I prefer to paint in the daytime, and theres no getting away from

that, then all I want to do is go out and get some exercise, whatever that might

entail, whether its a combination of book-browsing and groceries or even taking

in an exhibition. Invariably, by the time I get back, a combination of browsingwhat I bought, with a cup of tea, shitting, or food, takes me up to whatever I

Want to see on TV. Earlier it was the third installment in this updated version of

Stevensons Jekyll and Hyde. Its been quite interesting. Is he a split personality

or a clone of himself? I dont know as I lost track of the plot. I let my mind

wander too much. I blame it on MTV myself. I expect it to come together next

time. The story of my life. Later, I watched Man on Fire, starring Denzel

Washington. This was gripping if flashy. The fancy filmic effects, or gimmicky

visual touches had the effect of reminding you that youre watching a film;

though rather than come up with the usual easy objection that this only gets in theway, I found it made an interesting contrast to the brutal realism of the story.

'Denze' plays an alcoholic ex-government agent/operative whos hired as a


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bodyguard to protect the young daughter of a rich industrialist in Mexico City.

Shes played by the endearingwhatsername... fortunately its in the Radio

TimesDakota Fanning, who was also excellent in Spielbergs remake of The

War of The Worlds. He Washington, is emotionally guarded and quite severe,

but she wins him over. Shes kidnapped, and hes badly injured in the attack and

goes out for a ruthless revenge when told shes dead, by buddy, ChristopherWalken, and after much bloodshed and great set-pieces, finds out shes still alive.

Which is exactly what we want to hear of course. There are many clever twists

and turns to hold our interest, or certainly mine, though I had the inkling it was a

set-up when a police chief insists on being involved through the higher

authorities as two corrupt cops were killed during the kidnapping; they just

happened to be there on their day off in full uniform as the resident female

journalist points out during what I took to be a press conference.

Well, enough of this. I was beginning to feel a bit queasy at the end when,

after giving up his freedom for her release, hes in the hands of the gangsters, a

willing choice on his part, but alls well that ends well in death. As always in this

ego-world, it has to be one or the other. A life for a life, as the extortionist says.

One of the good-guy older cops and friend of the journalist gets to him in the end.

The film, released in 2004, was made by Tony Scott, brother of Ridley, he of

Blade Runner and Gladiator. Swapping himself on behalf of the girl presented

the question; how far would you go or be willing to do the same for someone you

loved? Or professed to love. The situation with Burton/John Hurt as Winston in

the movie of Orwells 1984 comes to mind, when, about to have his face eateninto by a rat, he screams for them to put her in his place.

That explains Sylvia Plath's lack of faith in anyone or anything right there,

with her head mind full of Nazi horrors... medical experiments on kids,

women eviscerated alive. It's there in her poetry and the extract on the BBC

Open Uni prog I watched a few times. But a study of the Gita and the

Upanishads as I did when I was 23 would have told her the world is maya,

nothing more than a dream. I'd take off for walks on Arthurs Seat, knowing I hadto get some time alone or I'd go crazy. That and to tighten up my brain... follow

some intuitions... (Standing at the edge of a rock, facing into the wind and rain,

looking across over the town, playing the role of the eternal artist, Plato's

philosopher king via Bernard Shaw and feeling unexpectedly light, laughing at

my the silly concerns of the hundreds and thousands of little people and their

little concerns, but as much at myself for thinking that and being there). But you

forget that when the chips are down or that's how it looks, and pain is the big

solid block to integrity and good intentions, its easy to lose ones moral,

motivation, then the plot if you're not careful, and the insidious part is as much

that pleasure is pain in disguise... but what is pain but fear and projection, based

on forgiveness? And many people have described a cessation of pain under


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torture, the increasing presence of a healing light of love etc. And you don't need

to have a mystical/numinous experience to read about it. You only need to pick

up a book and read with a relatively open mind. A bit less writing and a bit less

selective reading perhaps. I see I have her Letters Home too. Another 500 pages

for godsakes. I wrote a lot of letters in my mid-20's.... must be about the same or

not far off... and mainly to the same person, two years older than me. It was goodto be in love, but painful too, under the circumstances. But as usual I came to

feel she didn't understand the complexities of the situation. Neither did I. The

'vulnerable'; the poor me look how I've been treated all my life purveyors of....

victim consciousness, the 'fragile', are a whole lot tougher than they make out; it

can be as much just another form of controlling, of manipulation. That was

always my problem. Or part of it. That I bought it. And the crisis in conscience

was in never seeing it for what it was; almost pure self-interest in the guise of

love. If I had recognized it was hatred that underlay it I could have dealt with it

sooner and more decisively, instead of this silly and agonizing vacillation... butwhen you think someone else's intentions are blameless, however tedious, you

tend to blame yourself; it isn't their fault for being boring or static or insecure or...

a million other excuses. So you let your life be subtly, gradually circumscribed,

because you 'don't want to hurt their feelings'. When the safest thing you can do

is look after and pay close attention to your own, because otherwise, you're on

the slippery slope to not even making mistakes on your own behalf in the process

of leading your own life; then it just becomes a part of their insane story,

childishly distorted. And that's the road to hell, from which you might never

extricate yourself. In short, don't let anyone make you feel guilty about pursuing

your dreams; if it's real, you'll grow into it, and if it isn't, you made your own

mistakes, not theirs, and another will form itself in any case. Nor do they have

your particular talents, intuitions, specific life-experience. No one can tell you

what's good for you, you have to find it out for yourself, and no one can do that

or knows that better than you. And if they love you they'll still be there; as long

as they know you love them. But if they don't if they think hatred is love, it

will never work out, whatever the circumstances and compromises. And standard

notions of affection, loyalty, fidelity, become meaningless; more self-deception,

bargains, and compromise and projected guilt-trips. I've got a bit carried away...

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Interestingly there was a similarly humiliating epiphany presented in

Jekyll, where a biker humiliates him/James Nesbitt, in front of his wife, the

exquisite Gina Bellman; he humiliates both of them, his biker buddies in tow

behind him. And needless to say, he comes to a gruesome end at the hands (and

teeth) of Nesbitt/Dr Jackman in Hyde guise later. There were hints he might slip

into his Hyde persona during their earlier ordeal, and we longed for it of course,

but they drew it out. That, and his alter ego was locked in a fancy electronic boxat the time, which is probably where I got lost. I tend to be in only a half-

interested state as I watch, chaffing at the bit to read or write. Which why I have


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Profane Exegesis: Pride of Plath.

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