Miss Margo: This article found at The Exiled online Read the full article there.
Miss Margo: This article found at The Exiled online Read the full article there.
|Gucci Loafers: Preferred Footwear of the Oppressing Class|
I remember furtively snapping this photo with my cell phone when he stepped out of my bedroom to retrieve the syringe from the refrigerator. Freshly groveled over, the brown suede was still wet. The protective metal plate underneath the toe tasted like a penny.
After I received what I was administered, he and I had a long talk. I don’t remember that part very well at all, though.
I had terrible dreams last night and woke up feeling upset.
As always, though, I came across something on Craigslist that managed to lift my spirits. Check out this ad that some wit posted:
Since graduating college, I have worked in a number of educational and administrative positions, which apparently makes me look to prospective employers like a job-hopper with a personality disorder.
I am seeking a corporate douchebag(s) to use and abuse me for menial office chores, serving coffee, and the occasional sexual favor, which is all a lowly liberal arts student apparently has any right to expect in this economy.
I will literally work for peanuts. You can chew them up, spit them in my face, and laugh at me, and I will thank you for the privilege.
Note: I wrote this a while ago and posted it for less than 24 hours before I took it down. I was ashamed. Well, after thinking about it, I decided to re-post it. My policy is not to remove or significantly edit the content of this blog unless my privacy or security is being threatened. Transparency is a regime value.
The Surgeon gives me a call, inquires about how I’ve been, when we might be able to get together. Just normal chit-chat.
He’s at the store, I can hear the sounds of the shoppers and the electronic beeping of the cash register at the checkout line over the phone. He says he’s just picking up a few items before he goes home.
“What about you? What are you going to do for dinner?” he asks me.
“I’m not sure. I’m not particularly hungry. I had that cold and I’m still taking DayQuil.”
His voice, which was previously distracted and casual, becomes suddenly sharp and focused. Now he’s paying attention. “You haven’t been eating much…? So, you’ve lost weight…?” His tone is bright, affirmative, hopeful. Encouraging.
I feel the shock of the pain as I grasp the implications of his words, and then a sort of clammy horror: What on earth have I done to myself with this person? After that: I shut down emotionally, like an electronic that’s had its plug yanked out of the wall.
What can one say about a man who encourages me to be ill? Not just slim, but underweight? He likes me best when I’m hard and greyhound-thin, and my eyes take up half my face. I am 118.3 lbs this morning and I menstruate, and he doesn’t like it.
He’d rather I starve. The way that he starves me.
Is that evil? I don’t know, but I think it’s definitely sick. The Surgeon is a sick man, and his relationships with others–especially women–are motivated by hostility. I think that a part of him wants me dead. If he was slightly more introspective, I think he might be actively dangerous. I know his secrets.
Might be actively dangerous, Margo? Really? He’s dangerous right now, isn’t he? Don’t delude yourself. There are many varieties of violence, as you well know.
Seven months ago, I decided that I wanted to get off the fucking crazy train. I’ve been cooling it with the Surgeon for months, plotting to leave him. He’s picked this up on his radar a few times, but I’ve managed to hide it pretty well (or maybe he’s just been unusually self-absorbed recently)–he hasn’t done the freakout controlfest behaviors he’s done in the past when he senses that I’m making a break for it.
When to do it, though? Am I ready to do it? Because I know it’s not going to be easy. He is not going to cooperate. I am going to have to peel him off like gum from a shoe. It’s going to be stressful.
Maybe I should wait a little while, until I’ve secured more employment and get ahead of my bills. Maybe I should see if I can stay with friends for a few days after I break the news.
Don’t know. Overwhelmed.
I got the tutoring job I interviewed for last week. They also told me what they were willing to pay me. I sat down and crunched the numbers three different ways, and it simply isn’t going to work for me. The hourly wage isn’t bad, but when one factors in the many hours of preparation I’d have to do…I don’t think that it’s worth it.
I need the money badly. I could take the job anyway, and then quit when I find something better. It seems like it would be in bad faith to take the job knowing full well that I intend to leave it in the foreseeable future. My students would be given a teacher to replace me, but it’s crappy to leave them hanging before midterms. Also, in the event that I seek work at that institution in the future, even in another capacity, I don’t want to burn any bridges. Lord knows I’ve burn enough of those in recent years.
I think I’m just going to tell them them the truth and see if they can offer me more money.
I also need to consult a specialist and modify my resume for public service-related employment. It’s campaign season, and that means politics jobs will be heating up. Lots of opportunity there.
Which brings me to another problem. A big one. I cannot keep my secret job if I want to do anything even tangentially associated with any sort of campaign work. No way, Jose! The break out into cold sweat just thinking about it. I could be a volunteer envelope-stuffer for the lowliest pol in New York, and it wouldn’t be safe. This isn’t grandiose fantasy on my part–the local media has repeatedly demonstrated that it would be happy to publicly lynch the dogcatcher at the merest whiff of scandal.
I have to make changes. Soon. I can’t keep living this way; I’m not supporting myself. I’ve never been this broke in my adult life. It’s absurd.
I saw this ad around the 14th St. subway station a while ago. RAD!!!
I remember a film I watched about Beethoven called “Immortal Beloved.” It was good–not spectacular, but definitely worth seeing. One of the things that struck me the most was the sets and art direction–the attention to details, like fruit on a table. Some scenes looked just like paintings.
One of my favorite scenes–the one I’ve always remembered–is the scene where Beethoven says that “the power of music is to carry one directly into the mental state of the composer. The listener has no choice. It is like hypnotism.”
I think that is very true. Compared to some, I’m not a huge music lover, but of course I like to listen to it regularly–who doesn’t? Does anyone dislike music? I went to a concert at NJPAC a while ago–the program consisted of Russian composers, I think mostly Romantics. I scored great tickets right up front, so I could see the musicians playing. I loved that. (I love to watch people doing whatever it is that they love to do–I think that is when they are at their most attractive.)
The performance was excellent and I was fascinated with the way the musicians were transformed by their work. The intensity of their focus, and the way they would sway their bodies or tap their feet, even when they were not playing. The way they had tapped into that mystical hive-mentality or emotional state that exists when people are working tightly with each other.
I looked at the conductor. He was transported, almost floating off the floor. The expression on his face was joyous. I really can’t describe it.
Music must do something to the brain. The effects of it are primordial, somehow.
Oh, I looked on youTube–here’s the scene from Immortal Beloved–I guess other people liked it, too:
Last year, I went to a party at a bar in the Flatiron district to see a few friendly acquaintances.
Once I arrived and made the rounds, one of the hostesses asked me if I’d like to keep company with her boyish date while she performed on stage. She was an excellent and established sadist. Her date was young, hazel-eyed, and obedient.
I instructed him to sit on the floor by my feet while we watched the show. After a few minutes, he relaxed, and stopped paying attention. He leaned his body against my leg and put both his hands on my boots.
I turned on him whip quick, stepping away from his body and grabbing a fistful of his hair. I kicked him in the thigh.
“Did I give you permission to touch my boots?” I snarled at him, turning his head up so that I could see his face. I remember that he did not resist–not one whit. It was nice, impressive. I thought: this one is well trained.
He said he was sorry.
“You want to touch my boots?” I asked. I pulled him, by his hair, back and then down to the floor. It had to have hurt him. I appreciated the way that he moved his body where I was pulling. No resistance. That delicious complicity, compliance. Makes me want to do more of it to you.
I had him pressed down on his belly, with his cheek against the filthy floor of the bar. The people around us had gathered to watch. Hungry. I am not inclined towards exhibitionism, but I found the attention exciting.
I pressed the sole of my boot onto his face. Told him to keep the palms of his hands flat on the floor.
Here, now you can feel my boots.
This morning I went to a job interview for a tutoring position. I think that it went well. Then I went to my secret job. Business was crummy and I did not turn a dime. Nobody did. It was crickets and tumbleweeds around there! BOOO! Lame!
I passed the time reading. Since I worked a lot last week and finally had a little disposable income, I spent it the way I usually do: BOOKS and treats for my birds! I went to one of my favorite bookstores in the East Village after an AA meeting (there was almost a fistfight on the street outside! Wow! More about that later) and spent a pleasant hour browsing through the stacks. I love books. It makes me feel good inside just to be around them. My library is really my only material ambition right now. Some of the fondest memories from my childhood are of the time I spent in the library of my rough, hard-luck town. I read everything I could get my hands on. Anything, everything. The librarians loved me. I would’ve lived in the library if I could have.
Books have never let me down. Without a doubt, they have always been there for me. I can always count on books.
They gave me an escape. They don’t call it “The Life of the Mind” for nothing.
I must credit my parents for giving me this gift. Both of them read to me from my infancy, taught and encouraged my literacy, and always provided access to reading materials. I didn’t speak until I was three, but I could read and write very early.
My father was an incompetent and negligent parent in many ways, but he was a relentless taskmaster where my intellectual development was concerned. In retrospect, I see that he did not want to make the same mistakes his father made. My grandfather was, by all accounts, a heinous and violent anti-intellectual thug who would throw my dad’s books in the trash and ridicule his natural (and not inconsiderable) bookish proclivities. My father was merely heinous and a thug, so I suppose that is some improvement.
I cannot remember a time before he was giving me books to read, or reading from books to me. My first memory is the night my brother was born, when I was three years old. Then not much till about five. And then, books.
I have to hand it to him: the man had pretty good taste, and he didn’t leave much out. By the time I started high school, I’d read practically all of the literature and poetry of the English Lit canon. I was too immature to understand or appreciate most of it the first time around (Moby Dick at age 12? Great Expectations? Really, Dad? Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee gave me nightmares and made me cry. Still does. A Tale of Two Cities was pretty awesome, though. The Scarlet Pimpernel was a blast, too. And all those Pearl S. Buck books.). But damned if I didn’t know the plots and content matter forward and back.
Books train the brain. They teach you how to begin to think. It happens by some mysterious, mystical, osmosis-like process. Writing teaches you how to focus; how to apply your intellect. Most people in college can’t write worth shit. I know–I teach them, I grade the essays. They can’t write because they don’t read. By the time they get to college, it’s too late. That proverbial train has left the station, baby. I would never, ever actually say that in my professional capacity–such sentiments are verboten, for various reasons. But that’s what I really do think, and I have seen nothing to dissuade me from that belief. If you cannot write a clear, organized essay in simple declarative sentences by the time you are 18, you will probably never be able to do so. And if you don’t like to read by the time you’re 18, you probably never will, either. It’s a taste acquired early, or not at all.
I’m watching the 1966 film A Man for all Seasons. It is very well-written and well executed. The dialogue is sophisticated and dense in meaning.
It makes me think about greater issues. How our society has organized a mechanism to determine what is just. Why ideas may be subject to persecution. The relationship between civilization and the inherent nature of our animal species. And power, of course–politics is “who gets what, and how much,” but it’s also the ability to coerce and inflict consequences (the law; subjugation). I really wish I was smarter–then I could figure this stuff out. As it is, I think I’m just intelligent enough to recognize genius when I come across it. Sort of like Salieri in the film Amadaeus.
Here’s the trial scene from YouTube (three parts). Enjoy.