two summers ago; i actually smiled.

It'll be two quid, mark

today i’ve been thinking a lot about “Peeping Tom”, made in 1962. Completely perverse & brilliant. So brilliant it ruined michael powells career. Which im sure he’s greatful for now. When your career is ruined, in years you become a genious to critics everywhere. And thoes critics shame the critics before them who called your work rubbish. They called it rubbish, we call is genious. However, theres always a fine line between the two.

So Mark, the main character in the film, carries around a camera. He shoots whatever he sees. The film opens with him filming a prostitute who advises him “it’ll be two quid” for her services. Once alone with her he reveals that one of the legs on his camera stand is actually some sort of ice pick. He slowly leans into her and as this is going on she can see the fear on her own face in the mirror attached to the top of the camera. Mark has made it so the last thing the victims sees before death is their own face frozen in horror. He continues this throughout the film and is eventually brought down. However, this is not whats important about this or any other film. The importance of peeping tom lies in the creation o Mark. The reason that this film ruined micheal powells career was NOT becasue it was perverse and women were being brutalized and killed. It is because unlike the myth created by a white supremist society, the killer in this case was an extremely likeable, sweet, handsome, talented guy. In 1962, this couldnt be. There were specific threats on the world and they did not include the composit character that would eventually become mark. The Haunting (1963) and Psycho (1960) symbolized perfectly what 1960’s audiences were to be afraid of: “ghosts” and the unstable “cross dressing” killer. These are extremes. The 1960’s audience lived on extremes, not that the person next door could be a threat.

I’ll keep thinking, but i know there is something more to this. When was the rise of the serial killer? Was it psycho? Or is that just wishful thinking? I know how much everyone loves to credit hitchcock for EVERY horror film tool, but i like to explore.

This weeks Films:

Rebecca (1940)

Aliens (1986)

The Night of the Hunter (1955)

i practically live in this car with this person :)

Good morning, Sangria.

Woke up at 4 am, a little earlier than normal. But still strange. It has now been 4 months of sleeplessness.  I find myself tossing AND turning all night. without interruption. Then i wake, suddenly, my eyes wide open! No chance of dozing off again.

To my Grandmother - - at her death

Wrapped in something intoxicating
It is here she finds peace
Underneath her is salvation
And maybe that’s what her lover is looking for.
Underneath her lover is glory
What she has always longed to have
And beneath them both is serenity.
In the chaos of them, is the dignity of “us”
And in the dream of her is the mirage of love
Together, they form something exalted.
For her lover there is nothing short of dignity in her touch
And she lives to find tranquility when their fingers lock

Anointed by daylight they lay in lust.
Only to be fooled by eternal sunshine.
It is here that they wait

In all of this however life is simple
It’s about a woman, her lover, and the ties that bind them.

Spoon (part 1)

Note: this is a piece about my father. its like facto-fiction

I remember he went missing a lot. One Christmas he actually came home, lugged his duffel bag into the back room, and emerged with an arm full of gifts. He was a playful and affectionate father to my sisters and I -- when he wasn't alone with his needles. I remember something made him sick. Something made him shake and sweat, I just didn’t know it was called heroin. He would do anything for heroin. He would rummage through the kitchen at night looking for a small Grey box where mom kept the money. When he got sick like that all he could think of were his needles, and what it would take to fill them. Late at night I remember laying on the beam of light the spanned across the carpet. I stayed close to the wall. I watched him. Even when he had tantrums like this I couldn’t stop watching him. I remember hiding things from my mother that only met my fathers’ ears. I trusted him, and in many ways he was the only one I kept secrets with. His late night rampage through the kitchen was one of those secrets.

I could see the spoon. It was sitting on the table after being thrown down by my fathers’ hand. I could see the needle, clear and unmarked. It was in better shape than our ghetto home. The bedroom was dark, and had blue curtains drawn closed, that never parted to allow sunlight in. I could see my little toes stretched in the doorway directly where the line of light and dark began. I saw my father sitting. I wouldn’t call him a small man. He seemed like he was 16 feet tall, and his hands seemed out of proportion to even that height. They were heavy looking and solid, with square cut fingernails. They looked like hands that had done a lot, I remember thinking they were hands I could trust. What I paid more attention to was his face. Long and narrow, it was, with high cheeks and a bold nose that fell in a sharp angle from his brow. His chin was stuck out a little, and made a little dimple in either side where it fell into his jaw line. His eyes were bright and darting. They could never focus, always jumping around in his head. His hair was curly, like mine, it stood on end. It spiraled towards the heavens and so I thought he was an angel. The aura I saw around my dad was usually bright orange and bounced off everyone else. Today he had no aura. I could see him sitting on the edge of the bed. Each bead of sweat took residence on his skin and held on for dear life. I could see the needle go in, and I saw the liquid draw itself out of the syringe’s frame. His face, that’s what I’ll never forget. His pain ended and all I saw was pure pleasure. I stared hard at him. The giveaway was his body, vibrating like an idling car. His jaw spun and his eyes were darting blots. I didn’t need to see the needle again, I knew. My hands clenched at my side, I said nothing. My mouth hung party open as I watched him. Even when he was high, he still mesmerized me. He still hadn’t seen me. I emerged in half shadow, deeper into the room now. My father laid on his back in plush pillows and blankets. Almost like he was sinking, almost like the bed was eating him alive. But he was just high, like always. Slowly I raised myself limb by limb onto the bed. I leaned in close to make sure he was breathing. He was. As I leaned back my silver necklace caught up with a tiny span of light coming through the curtains and caused a high shimmer of light. This shimmer waved across my fathers’ eyelids, but left him undisturbed. I leaned in again to check on his breathing. He was fine. Since I was crouched on the bed on all fours my lower back began to crumble. I could not stop watching my father.

Pieces of You

I’d like to see you,
maybe standing next to my bed.
I’d paint you in obscene colors,
bathe your back.
I’d like to drop you,
Nestled between two valleys,
Where ivory can clothe you.
Sparkle you with greens and whites of desert sands.
I’d like to dissolve you.
Let all the salty sweet of your skin indulge me.
Glow on my lips, and rest on my jealous tongue.
I’d like to touch you,
Maybe run my fingers down your side.
Trust you with my ear lobes.
I want you down underneath my speech, naked to all lies and grievances.
I want to see you
Glowing, glowing in these blankets.
- -Trust me- -
I want every piece of you….