Me and Mr. Jones

The first time I ever stopped to look at a Playboy Magazine was my sophomore year in college. I’m sure I had flipped through a couple before that time, but never with any interest and usually with a mild disgust. But once I became aware that Playboy was one of the first magazines to publish interviews and stories by the likes of Vladimir Nabokov and Kurt Vonnegut respectively, I began to seek out old issues to satisfy my literary cravings. To say that I now read the magazine exclusively “for the articles” was both ironic and completely true.

But that’s not to say that I didn’t look at other magazines exclusively for their pornographic pictures; I did. It just happens that Playboy contrives its images to appeal to those readers who have sexual desire for women. And as such it only publishes pictures of women. And, needless to say, I wasn’t interested in them. When I was sneaking into other people’s hidden stashes of porn, I usually looked for the titles like Hustler magazine that included sexually aroused men in their photo spreads. Sure these men were focusing their attention on the women in the picture, but that did not stop me from focusing upon them. And luckily, my older cousin and my grandfather, both of whom had large stashes of magazines that I was lucky enough to discover, had plenty of copies of Hustler along with its more “prestigious” counterparts.

But this isn’t really about porn, well, not entirely and not yet. So let’s turn our attention away from the above attention-getting picture and anecdote and think about art, it’s value, and our subterfuge.

First up is the new Ang Lee movie, Brokeback Mountain. I heard about this film 6 months ago, and it is still 3 months from being released, and yet I see film stills, outtakes, and discussions of the movie almost daily on many blogs that I read. (yes, occasionally it is okay to read something other than Tony. BUT ONLY OCCASIONALLY!!!!) What is the all the hype about? Well, more than likely it has something to do with the fact that the movie features a gay relationship between cowboys, and that these cowboys are played by Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal. AND, in my opinion, the fact that many people are anxious to see those two actors kissing, hugging, and doing many more things naked together. Some people are willing to admit this freely, like Trent from Pink is the New Blogwho had the opportunity to attend a private screening of the film. He said that “The love scenes are brutally honest … and believe me … they are hot as well.”

And then there’s Andy from Towleroad. He describes, beautifully, the artful and powerful way that Ang Lee tells the story in an honest way in order to make an important social point: “That is the crux of this movie, an epic, slow-moving, genius film that is not so much a film about the taboo nature of gay sex as it is about the pain that will no doubt prevail when one is forced to hide one’s true sexual proclivities behind a veil of secrecy.”

However, he then underscores this point by spending several paragraphs describing, what else, the sex:

“And then there’s the sex. For the first time, two young A-list actors rising in their careers have taken on roles that require them to not only sell an audience their affection toward one another, but also their overt sexual undertakings.

Consider me sold.

The two actors make out hungrily, wrestle around, intimately embrace naked by the golden light of a campfire, and if you’ve read the Proulx short story you’ll remember this bit:

‘Ennis ran full-throttle on all roads whether fence mending or money spending, and he wanted none of it when Jack seized his left hand and brought it to his erect cock. Ennis jerked his hand away as though he’d touched fire, got to his knees, unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down, hauled Jack onto all fours and, with the help of the clear slick and a little spit, entered him, nothing he’d done before but no instruction manual needed.’

Those who come to Brokeback expecting Falcon video’s Buckleroos will no doubt be sorely disappointed. But Ang Lee’s visual shorthand does Proulx’s erotic storytelling justice. There was more than enough sex for me in the context of this story, because the emotional tension makes the small moments count for so much. Those intent on seeing full nudity will see it in a less charged context as well — Twist changing by a lake, del Mar skinnydipping in a river.”

I’m freely willing to admit that I look forward to these scenes as well. And I think that is the point. Even a potentially important film which makes a statement in support of people who must face discrimination is overshadowed by its titillation quotient. Which has lead me to wonder how often our tastes are actually driven by our desire. I think my youthful attraction to sex is still (obviously) alive and kicking. But whereas I used to feel comfortable in indulging my desires by sneaking peeks at hidden magazines, now I find more socially approved of venues to achieve the same satisfaction. If the sex comes with some literary or artistic merit then I am free to enjoy it. Right?

And I am not alone. I feel that most older people are similarly submerging their adolescent longings into prettier packages. And my first witness to support my case is John Cameron Mitchell. Who, in case you don’t know, is currently in production on a new movie: Shortbus . And what is this new movie’s main attraction? That’s right…sex.

Mr. Mitchell’s new movie was featured in an August story that ran in The Advocate, where he explained that his mission was “…to depict (real) sex in as realistic a fashion as possible. ‘I wanted to make a film about sex that had humor, emotional weight, and metaphor all at the same time,’ Mitchell says at his production office. ‘That’s how I’ve experienced it in my life.’ ”

Yes, that’s right, he is making a movie in which the characters are shown having real live sex. A lot of it. Only, its goal is not simply to arouse the audience, it is to reflect the depth of our real relationships, and the importance of sex to these relationships. And to advertise for this film, he had a website with a background of a nude, twinkish man in the midst of orgasm. Real deep.

I’m not being cynical, nor am I denying Mitchell’s artistic intent or inegrity. In fact, after I first read of this project I was excited for days. “Finally,” I mused, “exactly the kind of film I’ve always wanted to be made.” But then I also realized that I was completely aroused by the concept. Because porn by itself is often boring and unfufilling, yet porn with artistic merit! What could be better?!

I know this reaction is not idiosyncratic to me personally. I find it hard to believe that these movies would be made if it weren’t supposed that many prospective audience members and critics have similar impulses. (although they may not admit it.) It’s just, now we aren’t sneaking peeks from hidden magazines, we’re enjoying secret
satisfaction from our critically acclaimed artistic productions.

And so it begins. Six pages to introduce and frame a book. I spent them attentive to the beautiful details, like this:

“The pores of his face are prickling. Emptying his mind–a Commando trick–he steps into the wet heat of his bananery, sets about picking the ripest and the best, holding up the skirt of his robe to drop them in. Allowing himself to count only bananas, moving barelegged among the pendulous bunches, among these yellow chandeliers, this tropical twilight…”

And so Pirate stands, on his roof garden, denying the fact of the V-2 rocket blasting overhead. I can’t help but appreciate the additional banana exposed as he lifts up his robe.

The words are so dense, but the imagery is amazing. The observed world stands still while destruction grows close. I must confess I did not first realize that the throngs of people seen evacuating in the streets below was a dream and not reality, but in the end I do not fear that this will hurt my reading much because the novel’s awake world is so surreal. Pirate wakes up to a man falling and manages to save him with the cushion of his own bed. And the falling man just snuggles up to sleep.

I like the rooftop garden, and its overly potent soil made from years of trash and refuse. And the moment when one denies the inevitable because there is nothing else to do. Casually considering if he should sound the alarm, Pirate opts for breakfast instead. The phenomenon of time slowing down is real–I remember my first major collision while riding on my push scooter. My cousin and I were traveling down a long, cindery hill road. Our speed was too great. My cousin, who was ahead of me, saw a tree branch lying in the road before us and managed to guide himself to the side of the road to avoid a collision. In turn, he threw his scooter out from under him and directly in my own path. The knowledge I was going to hit was infinite, but I just closed my eyes and felt the calming breeze on my face. When I struck the scooter with my own I flipped through the air, over and over for what felt to be an hour. It seemed I never would land.

And so, through Pirate’s dreaming and morning ruminations, great chaos is distant and already at hand. I am already enthralled.

We felt so differently then
So similar over the years
The way we laugh the way we experience pain
So many memories
But there’s nothing left to gain from remembering
Faces and worlds that no one else will ever know

You think you’re not worthy? I’d have to say I agree.

I am all for growth. I applaud your focus, and your resolve. However, I must also deny you your self-rightousness. And your academic obscurity. Both are rather unbecoming. And they bite the hand that feeds.

Your premise is incorrect. You had all the power. She gave it to you, as did I. Yes, imbalance shifts from time to time, and when we first met your singular focus allowed me to remain aloof. But I always appreciated your love and attention, and dedicated myself to you in honor of all I received. And in time, it was you who left me, after cheating on me, and never returned to offer consolation. An eventual apology, sure, but only on your terms, when you were ready or needed some absolution.

And what of her? One canceled check and she is suddenly on trial for murdering your humanity? Hadn’t she already paid enough, financially speaking? Car insurance, vacations, expensive gifts to yourself, whisky, and that is only in a matter of weeks. Who is to say how much you actually took over the years. Yes, it was offered (all except that final $3,000–your fee) but that doesn’t mean you were entitled. Not to mention the love and support and desire for the same from you. It would have grown into friendship if you had actually matured.

Now, I am glad you have moved on, and we all want to see you do well. But you can’t build yourself up by blaming those around you. Many bridges have been burnt, and you held the match. Just consider some of your debts, and try to acknowledge those who always stood by you. From what I can see she was the one who always remained. Even when you punched her in the face (literally) she was worried for your well-being. That is what I love about her, and why I value her as a friend.

We have lived a lifetime in the last 10 years. Hopefully, we are better for it. I, like you, value the past and try to make sense of all these memories. But I believe it was you who said to me that I ought “choose real people over your own feelings, don’t fear a healthy resolution, and remember that relying on the stories we’ve always told ourselves (those pathetic words that make us feel whole) is as much a prophecy as it is a gambit.” Life is a series of self-delusions, and I hope you are able to see beyond the blame you place on others.

The doorbell just rang. It was a man, we’ll call him Henry, who was going door to door telling people about his christian belief system and inviting me to reserve my place in heaven. Henry was acting as a representative of a First Baptist Church located in the next city over. He probably talked for a full 7 minutes, telling me all about why he wanted to go to heaven, and why he wanted me to come with him. He prayed, gave me a brochure, and asked me a series of questions. He caught me off guard. He smelled of aftershave, something relatively common and inexpensive but still pleasant. About 3/4 of the time he stood at my door, I was trying to figure out if it was the same aftershave my father used.

I hate to admit it, but I faltered twice. Once when he asked me what I thought happened after we died, and once when he asked me if I would ever go to his church. The first question caused me to think about Tim Burton’s “Corpse Bride” in which the title character carries a magot around inside her head who occasionally sings. After stifling a laugh I only managed to say, “Um, I’m not sure. It doesn’t really concern me.” which was a trite response at best. To the second question, about attending church, I really wanted to say “Hell no!” (which seemed apt considering our conversation) but instead I only managed “Not likely.” Why did I hesitate? Why did I not want to offend this man who was slightly offending me by spreading his faith-by-threat-of-hell all around my peaceful street? Some of it was simply laziness on my part, and the realization that just as nothing he could say would mean anything to me, nothing I could say would really enlighten him. Also, I thought he smelled nice and was enjoying the distraction.

So, dear Henry, wherever you may be, you should know that I wasn’t trying to be rude by dismissing you so callously and not pretending to be more frightened by your threats of eternal damnation. I just didn’t want to waste our time, especially since my boyfriend was napping upstairs and I was anxious to join him. I’m sure you understand…

Tony dreams. Often. Sometimes I am sure he fabricates them or at least adds a little enhancement, but other times it is just too fantastic not to believe.

When he was really young there was the witch nightmare. Perhaps influenced by the Wizard of Oz or that crazy banshee from Darby O’Gill and the Little People, it featured some ominous figure in robes who cackled and chased the poor boy. The setting was some large office building. He was hiding in one of the offices, underneath a large wooden desk. The witch had cornered him and was walking toward his hiding place, only her feet visible, and she was calling his name: “Oh Tonyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

So far it’s a typical nightmare, right? Well, the kicker is that she was trying to catch him so she could steal his back. Yes, she wanted to steal his back, spine and all. I don’t know what this means nor how it would actually play out, but he was petrified of having some gaping hole between his neck and his butt.

And then there were the series of murder dreams. In which he was the murderer. One featured Tony with a machine gun standing in front of a line of people, shooting them “BANGBANGBANGBANG” one at a time. One. At. A. Time.

The worst of these, darker dreams, was the puppy massacre. Tony was working an assembly line. Only, he was actually disassembling. A conveyor belt ran in front of him, and on this belt were little puppies. As each one reached him he would pick it up in one hand and stick it with the syringe he held in the other. The syringe was filled with poison, and when he stuck the poor defenseless puppies they bodies would twitch and they would expire. And he’d set it down and wait for the next one to come along. When he told me this one, I couldn’t stand within 10 feet of him for days at a time.

I don’t often hear of positive or happy dreams, so perhaps he doesn’t have them or perhaps he doesn’t mention them because they don’t support his image. However, this morning’s recitation was a sort of revelation:

“Intelligent design is just creationism in a cheap tuxedo. All of this shit about school districts trying to incorporate ‘intelligent design’ theory into their biology classes, offering disclaimers before they teach evolution, saying its only a theory! Bullshit. I talked to god last night, for real, like burning bush stuff, and he even said it was all crap.”

“Wait, Tony, you talked to god last night in your dream?”

“Yeah.”

“And he told you he didn’t create the universe?”

“Well, sorta. We just had a conversation in which he confessed that it is all in our head. It was like one of those moments when you are stoned and all of everything makes sense. Only, we were at the table sharing coffee and discussing the phenomenon of projection.”

“Projection?”

“Yeah, how we see things and look for the well-designed aspect of them, how we expect them to make sense and so they do. Oh. And god was actually Michael Stipe.”

“Michael Stipe is god?”

“Well, sorta, yeah. But doesn’t make sense? Haven’t you always expected it?”

“So this was your epiphany?”

“No, it was what I dreamt about last night. But I believe it is true. That’s why science is so in to dissecting things, because smaller things are easier to project upon. Whereas natural disasters are more difficult, which is why it causes people to question their faith. Or scientists can’t yet find their grand unified theory. Get too big and it doesn’t work. You have to fit it in your mind.”

“And not everyone’s head is as big as yours.”

“Whatever. Get out of my face or I’ll have Michael smite you.”

If one does not hesitate in the things she likes, is she a hedonist? She may show discrimination in her tastes, but she doesn’t discriminate against any of her tastes. And some may be “common”, while others are “elite.” But, she cannot think of a single thing that she is embarrassed to enjoy. Not pop music, not trash television, and definitely not plot-driven literature.

So, again, is she self-actualized or self-indulgent? And does it make a difference?

Literally, I should go to bed at 10pm, but I’m being naughty…

This is going to take some serious getting used to, this working life, that is. I’m sure I can really get used to it when I’m hanging out all summer and getting paid for the privilege. And over fall/christmas/spring break. Or during the two-hours every morning that I don’t have students. Or in the evenings when I get off at 2:45pm. You know…now that I’ve laid all of my cards on the table, I suppose I’m not going to get much sympathy from the readers with this one. And, truth be told, I probably don’t deserve it.

Okay then, it’s off to bed I go!

so, i just re-read my latest blog posting and wanted to remind myself of its genesis. it actually began with this photograph of primary colors and natural beauty. the title, apt as always, reminded me of hedwig’s musical prodigy “Tommy Gnosis”. I then simply reclaimed the name for my own ward, Tony. however, this didn’t leave me with anything to write about. so i continued looking at pictures and mused on the wonder of photography, and thought of this lovely exhibit of Edward Teske i had recently seen at the art institute of chicago. the images by this gay artist mesmerized me, and so i looked for some on the web. and found the one of the boy in the water. from there, water became my muse while its erotic potential remained my theme. and so Tony Gnosis.

“What is the significance of water? At what point do we simply stop drinking and dive in? How much of our life have we been immersed?”

Welcome back, Tony. Full of prophetic nonsense and questions. He’s been on “sabbatical” somewhere in the Far EASTSOUTHNORTHWEST. Meditating, marinating, and smoking everything that grows. He arrived this morning wanting coffee and a blowjob. Upon satisfaction, he began his soliloquy on all things wet:

“I mean, it begins in the womb. We live inside a wet bubble and yet drink from our mother’s straw, our mouth closed to the world around us. And then we bathe. Stewing in the filth of our bodies. There is nothing profound about this–it’s just gross. And our summertime pools, or winter saunas, springtime showers (which isn’t the same thing but there’s water involved), and then the dry, dehydrated fall (because I’m out of ideas to finish this thought.)”

God bless Tony. I have no idea what he’s talking about but I do think he is right about water. I am mesmerized by its ability to render me weightless when I swim and refreshed when I swallow it down. Most of the profundity of my remembering involves some element of this fluid. From the still unsolved mystery of that time I was a baby and bathing with my friend Craig. Our mommies put us in the tub together and something happened but she won’t tell me what. Or the torture of early swimming lessons in ice-cold pools with angry instructors. And then when I got older and stood for hours in the shower fantasizing that I was standing next to some boy whom I loved and we washed away the dirt of our days while delighting in the deeds of our desire. And finally when fantasy became real and I spent that evening lying sadly in the tub with the boy who had introduced me to the art of love.

Michael Stipe referred to all of this as “The recklessness of water.” Well, no, he was actually referring to an evening of skinny dipping. Escaping outside to some lake or pond and swimming naked with friends. I really only went once myself. It was my sophomore year of college and a group of ready and willing friends drove to a state park with large lake. We swam for awhile, despite the cold, and then four of us moved off to the side, away from the light. Two girls, two boys. Mitch was the first to remove his suit and I was soon to follow. The ladies as well, only I must confess they were swimming in the periphery of my consciousness while I floated next to this beautiful boy. It was my first public act of nudity, exposed in all of my insecurity and delight. We held our suits above our heads to prove that we weren’t wearing them. And that was all. It lasted minutes only. But that was enough.

Tony is still talking, peforming his latest tribute to some abstract concept. He just said something about some toy he had as a boy, a shrunken brain, which he put in a pot of water and watched it grow for days and days. He thinks this is a testament to the infinite wet, to the nature of existence. As for me, I have no idea, but I sure am glad he has returned.