We Feed Off Of Each Other

Update 8/21/11  5:10 AM:  I might add–the Surgeon was leaner than he was the last time I saw him.  Definitely leaner.  I remarked on it after I’d unbuttoned his (very beautiful) shirt, removed it, and placed it, folded, on top of the dresser.  

      I ran my hands down his side, over his ribs and his hips.  My brow scrunched up.  “You look like you’ve lost weight.  You’re thinner.”  

    The Surgeon says: “FINALLY!  I’ve been waiting for you to say something.”  

       Oh Jesus

        *              *            *                    *               *          *  

     The Surgeon is at my house, and I am letting him do things to me that I seldom allow him to do these days.  Engaging in these behaviors is dangerous for me because they are intimate and personal, and because they are at the heart of my compulsions.  The Surgeon isn’t safe for me to share this piece of myself with.  It’s a very bad idea for several reasons: every time I do it, it binds me to him; it reinforces and re-affirms the compulsion itself; and finally, it’s just plain nuts to be emotionally vulnerable around a person like The Surgeon.  At best, you will be disappointed.  At worst, you will be mercilessly savaged.  

    But, but, but…but it’s been a long time, and I need it.  Or, I think that I need it.  It’s not the easiest desire to have fulfilled.  Not just anything can do it for me, unfortunately.  

    The Surgeon has always done a perfect job.  Always hits the mark.  Fucking always.  The man gets me fixed.

    Why?  I’ve had sex with the man a million times by now.  There is no reason why the sexual attraction should remain this intense.  Especially given my growing alienation from him.  

     There are a few explanations.  The attraction is obviously subconscious; irrational.  Our dysfunctions line up perfectly.  And while it pains me to admit this, I can identify with the man.  He has a lot of my bad or neurotic character traits, magnified to the Nth degree.  That is why I know him as intimately as I do and he does not frighten or repulse me.  How could I?  I understand him.  

       Now my hair is wrapped in his fist and I am physically pinned against the bed and the wall, and he is biting the hell out of my back.  He bites when he gets very excited, and we are not talking love bites here.  Bites that leave prints.  Bites that could be used to identify dentition.  

       When he’s not biting, he’s talking.  He’s using the opportunity to emphasize a few key points.

     “Sometimes it’s hard for you.  Sometimes, it won’t work out for you.”  FYI, he is referring to our relationship here.  “But, that is just the way it is.  That is the way it has to be.  That’s life!  It happens.  I happened to you.  I happened to your life, and that’s just the way that it is.”  

     And here it is, The Awful Truth.  This is it.  And it doesn’t matter that it is nonsense–absurd on its face; it doesn’t matter that it’s abusive and negligent; it doesn’t matter that it means an eternity of suffering for me.  

    “You will belong to me FOREVER!  I NEED YOU!  Don’t you know that?  We need each other.  We feed off of each other!”  

      For the Surgeon, this is a tremendous insight into himself and our relationship.  He has never expressed it with such clarity before.  

     And me?  Well, for the time being, I am off in Lala Land.  I’m getting fixed.  Obliterated.  

    Let’s backtrack a bit.  Remember this quote, that I blogged about a little while ago?

  She was very clearly a masochist, but speaking to psychoanalysts, they tell you that sadomasochism is always a circle, so the masochist is always looking for a sadist and will force people into that role, and even become the sadist themselves in order to form that circle. So I thought that was really interesting, the manipulation is strangely powerful. At the same time as she plays the victim, she’s creating these situations and manipulating them. 

     When all is said and done, I’ve kept the Surgeon in my life because he is perfect for me.  Many times, I’ve been hurt and confused because he wasn’t meeting my needs.  That is, in fact, the case.  However, like everyone, I have many needs, and some are more important than others.  The Surgeon has, in fact, met some of my needs very well.  Which needs, you ask?  Well, the need to be denied.  The need to be starved.  These are the needs I have given presidency, whether I was aware of it or not.  I’m aware of it now, and that is all that matters.  

       “You are the only woman in my life I’ve ever wanted to keep,” he tells me afterward, in all sincerity, as if he was giving me a great compliment.  I guess in his mind, it is.  

     Soooo…instead of being loved by a man, I have chosen to be the object of a narcissist’s obsession instead.  For little Margo, that’s as good as it gets!  What else could I ask for?  

     I gotta get rid of this guy.  Definitely.  That should be interesting!   

     But getting rid of him won’t be enough.  Because as long as the need remains, there will always be another Surgeon to fill it.  

     I have to fix myself.  

Occupy Wall Street VII (#N17 Actions Tomorrow…and What About Gov’t and the Cops?)

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     I’m not working tomorrow so that I can attend the Gathering and Foley Square and the March Across Brooklyn Bridge.  I do have a meeting at noon, but I should be able to leave in time to also Occupy the Subway at 3 PM.

     I intended to post a blog about my suddenly ambivalent attitude towards the police (NYPD in particular), but after three hours of writing, the essay is overlong and still unclear.  I’ll share it if I can tighten it up.  The sentiments I’m wrestling with are important and, I think, worth discussing at length.

     For now, suffice it to say that, for the first time in my life, I have an attitude problem with the cops.  It’s not antagonism or blanket hostility.  More like a crisis of confidence, if you will.  I have a big problem with this picture:

A New York City police officer scuffles with Occupy Wall Street protesters after they were evicted from Zuccotti Park on Nov. 15.  Image: Don Emmert  AFP/Getty Images

This one bothers me, too:

New York Police Clear Zuccotti Park–NY TIMES

       You see, I’ve never had a problem–personally or philosophically–with the police.  I’ve had major misgivings about various societal and cultural institutions since I developed a political consciousness in my adolescence, but cops–the idea of their function--never concerned me, even during the brief and unhappy times when I was the (deserving) object of their scrutiny.  If anything, I felt empathy towards them–they provide crucial services, and their job is not easy.  One of my beloved family members was a police officer.  Whenever there’s a story about police conduct in the news, my impulse is to give the cops the benefit of the doubt and wait for more information.  I never thought I would last long in their role–and not because I tend to think too much, or because I’d feel conflicted about doing their job.  Quite the contrary, in fact.  I’d be worried that I’d blow a pimp or incorrigible drunk driver to smithereens, and that would be all she wrote for little Miss Margo.  And as I’m sure we can all agree, we can’t have cops doing something like that!

Protesters Return To Zucotti Park/Todd Heisler- NY Times      http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/11/15/nyregion/20111116_Zuccotti_GoBig.html?ref=nyregion#7
Brent Schmidt, of Brooklyn, was arrested near the Occupy Wall Street encampment. Mary Altaffer/Associated Press  

      That said, I think we have a major problem on our hands when government–or whoever is running the show–dispatches thousands of police to monitor, bully, intimidate, and arrest hundreds of average non-criminal American citizens.  Demographically average people just like you and me–effectively poor, precariously employed, indentured servants fucked for life by the credit bureaus and criminal banks who ran the economy into the ground and got filthy rich doing it.

      Occupy Wall Street is logistically, at most, a pain in the ass nuisance for the City to deal with.  But you can see with your own two eyes, good reader, just how seriously and intolerantly the regime deals with it, and the respect to which it is accorded.  

      The police were not sent to swarm or forcibly vacate the offices of Goldman Sachs.  

       Seven hundred protesters were arrested while peacefully walking over Brooklyn Bridge on October 1–how many white-collar, Wall Street lawbreakers have been arrested for their role in crashing the economy?  

      I don’t know about you, good reader–but it’s enough to really make me think.  About priorities.  And loyalties.  And to what and whom deserves my respect, allegiance, support, time, and cash.  

     Consider:  what values does OWS preach, and what do they embody and practice?  

     Now: what about Bloomberg, the Fed, and the financial institutions that did this?  Yes, the ones who charged you $6 in fees today for using the ATM at the drugstore, said you didn’t need a fixed-rate mortgage (when you still had your house), and kept your young son in Iraq for two tours more than his contract stipulated.  What values have you seen them demonstrate?  What priorities?  

     OCCUPY WALL STREET THIS THURSDAY!!!  If the cops don’t do it, WE WILL!

     I will be there to march across Brooklyn Bridge.  I’ll follow the rules and I have no intention of antagonizing law enforcement–but I am prepared to be arrested.  Arrest, for doing this, carries no stigma for me.

    Their respect and esteem are no longer prizes that I covet.  

7:00am — Shut Down Wall Street
We will gather in Liberty Square at 7:00am, before the ring of the Trading Floor Bell, to prepare to confront Wall Street with the stories of people on the frontlines of economic injustice.
3:00pm — Occupy the Subway
We will gather at 3:00pm at 16 central subway hubs and take our own stories to the trains, using the “People’s Mic”. Details here.
5:00pm — Take the Square, Festival of Lights on Brooklyn Bridge
At 5:00pm thousands will gather at Foley Square in solidarity with laborers demanding jobs to rebuild this country’s infrastructure and economy. They will encircle City Hall and march across the Brooklyn Bridge, carrying thousands of handheld lights, as a festival of lights to celebrate two months of a new movement to reclaim our democracy.
Resist austerity. Rebuild the economy. Reclaim our democracy.

Hard Vanilla

      This afternoon, I had the good fortune to be hired by a fellow who wanted the services I specialize best in.  He wanted them in the worst possible way.  This guy was the real deal (like me).  There are not too many out there like him.

       I landed on him like a ton of bricks.

       We made quite a racket.  I talked a lot.  He made…interesting vocalizations.

     After I showed him out (he limped down the stairs, clutching the handrail like a feeble old man), my two African-American coworkers stared at me wide-eyed, perched on the edge of their chairs.  They looked at me like I’d grown a second head.

       “Oh my God!” one of them said.  “I’m surprised that guy walked out of here!  It sounded like you were putting him in traction! ‘Confession is good for the soul!’ All that stuff you said! Oh my God, you were hard!  I’m going to start calling you Hard Vanilla!”

      I started to laugh as I snapped on a fresh pair of surgical gloves and fetched the bleach and mop bucket.

Some of That Weight Came From My Heart

     I gained 3 lbs and have retained it.

     I hope at least a little of it went to my heart.

     You know, after I taught myself how to not eat, I sought the advice of a professional who specialized in dispensing advice to students who don’t eat, or eat too much, or reject what they eat after they’ve eaten it, or otherwise get freaked out about the idea of eating.  I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, gentle reader.

    (One of the things we talked about was the Minnesota Starvation Experiment.  Voracious bookworm that I am, I read that baby forward and back, backward and forward.  If you can get your hands on it, I recommend it highly.)

     Anyway, one of the things this professional told me was that when a person loses weight so quickly, that weight comes from multiple sources in the body–water, fat, muscle, and on and on.

      It came to me that my heart is muscle.  And I kept thinking:  I’ve lost weight off my heart.  Some of that weight came from my heart.  I kept thinking of it–it’s poetic, you know, like thinking about how we are compositions of carbon, just like trees.  How, if a person was burned to ash subjected to the right conditions of heat and pressure, they could become a diamond.

      I’m so sick of starving my heart.  Literally sick of starving my heart.

     It is true that I grew up in hunger, of sorts.  But now, I am the one who starves myself.  I abandon my friends and isolate myself.  I pick men who are incapable of nourishing me.  When I find one that could love me, I reject him.  I have become my own abuser.

     Now that my mind is clear, and I have perspective, and I have my power back, I have a choice.  I get to decide.  The freedom to accept.  The freedom to refuse.      

The Skin I Live In: Torture Me Please, Mr. (Dr.?) Banderas

Update November 9, 2011:  FINALLY saw this film last night.  It was preposterous in the extreme, but if you accepted that going in, it was very well done and entertaining.  The use of nonlinear timeline as a plot device usually strikes me as a gimmick, but it served its purpose well here.  I also forgot that Antonio Banderas was Antonio Banderas (try that with Robert De Niro or half the leading men in movies today and see how that works out for you).  He was great!  Especially when hosing down captives in the basement.  Hubba hubba!

I am jealous of her.  Sort of.  Note the way she sits on his lap like a Ventriloquist dummy in this shot.  I have no doubt that this was intentional (to the director/producer).  But God, the intensity of his scrutiny.

*                                                *                                                      *                                                    *        
       OH!!! MY!!! GOD!!!

        Look at the sweet manna the heavens (or Director Pedro Almodovar) have rained down upon me:

        I just found out about the film and I watched the trailer four times!  Then I went to its Wikipedia page , read the full plot, and watched the trailer three more times!  It’s late at night and I should be getting to bed, but I decided it was best to write while still in a frenzy of…well….a frenzy!

        I ask you, gentle reader, could the subject matter be any more perfect?  If you were too lazy (or grossed out) to read the teaser from Rotten Tomatoes, I’ll cut-and-paste it here:

Ever since his wife was burned in a car crash, Dr. Robert Ledgard, an eminent plastic surgeon, has been interested in creating a new skin with which he could have saved her. After twelve years, he manages to cultivate a skin that is a real shield against every assault. In addition to years of study and experimentation, Robert needed a further three things: no scruples, an accomplice and a human guinea pig. Scruples were never a problem. Marilia, the woman who looked after him from the day he was born, is his most faithful accomplice. And as for the human guinea pig…– (C) Sony

        A mad scientist film with an uber-hot leading actor, chock-full of themes of violence, obsession, imprisonment, transformation, collusion, and mental illness!  Oh my God!  Did you see that scene in the trailer where Antonio Banderas was hosing down that captive, frightened guy with the metal chain around his neck?  With a lamp turned on him?  And then tying him down to an operating table?  And the woman with the masked  face and nude-colored leotard being observed on video-camera?  And in black, fighting the man toward the end?  And all those guns!  And the CLOTHES Mr. Banderas was wearing! That catchy, hypnotic score!  The mind reels!  It absolutely reels!

       See this quote from SF Chronicle reviewer Mick LaSalle: “The Skin I Live In” is like a David Cronenberg horror film as made by a director who doesn’t fear the body but revels in it, who is too sensual and amoral by nature to find anything truly disgusting or foreign.

      And I thought Taken had it all!

      It is imperative that I see this movie as soon as possible.  A matinee, a theater as empty and private as possible…I want to be alone with the film and my gleeful depravity.  Alone, all alone!

      Love is a very slippery concept for me, but when I think about it, I think it must be like obsession.  At least a little bit like obsession.  I am familiar with obsession, for better or for worse.

      You know, one of the things that I think of sometimes is that my psychoanalyst seems surprised, and rather interested, in the fact that I am completely and utterly unconflicted with my sexual leanings (that is not to say that she thinks I can probably practice them and live a truly fulfilled life).  I embrace it, love it, pursue it, the way pyromaniacs rhapsodize fire and arson.

      With the same predictable consequences.

Someone Else is Going to Get It

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TyRANTosaurus Margo!
          Woke up pissed this morning (I suppose that’s better than waking up in terror, which used to be par for the course).  I was going to go to the gym to burn off some of the tension, but first (as always), I got on the scale.  Just keepin’ it real, folks: 

click to enlarge

            I’m physically healthy.  My hair’s not falling out.  My teeth are fine (and try those Crest Whitestrips—they really work!).  Control freak that I am, I bought an expensive fertility monitor, and it indicates that I am ovulating (today, in fact).  I still menstruate.  I’m still sub-clinical, in other words. 
        And let me tell you something: I have never, ever received as much appreciative attention from males as I have recently.  That’s a fact, and I’m not bragging about it; I think it’s fucked up.  I know you’re thinking, “Miss Margo, they’re staring at you because they’re appalled and you look like a hockey stick with hair.”  But no, I’ve been hit on since I was 14 years old, and I’m telling you, I get stopped on the street, I get passed business cards, I get invited to dinner (hardy-har-har),  I get modeling jobs even though I’m past the modeling expiration date, and The Biz—should I take it up again this weekend—is booming.  I found photos of myself that my (good) boyfriend took of me when I was 20 years old.  There is no comparison.  Today, it makes me full of hatred.  But it’s okay.  I think it’s healthy. The hatred, I mean.  In the proper context, hatred can be therapeutic.
           I have learned, from my neo-Freudian analyst, that in a sense, opposites are the same thing.  Instead of a spectrum, from right to left, they are more like a circle that unites underneath. The desire to murder and the urge towards suicide are the same thing, the same energy.  For the first time in a long time—maybe one of the first times in my life—I feel full of rage.  And I feel very, very dangerous.  Power, directed outward. 

         I am preparing to go to war with an institution whose organizational structure and political culture is not unlike that of, say, Bulgaria.  I will get what I want—I will earn what I want—and I will not stop.

Think About What I Mean to You

     The hotel is sumptuous.  The most luxurious I have ever stayed at is the Dorchester in London, but this one is pretty damn impressive.

     I had a little trouble checking in, even though my reservation was pre-paid.  I regarded the clerk from across the marble countertop.  She was my age, pretty, with (presumably) fake diamond studs in her ears.  You don’t belong here, either.

     In the Surgeon’s suite.  You are so skinny, I can’t believe how good you look, your face looks so beautiful…whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!

    “I don’t look sick, do I?”  I ask.  The Surgeon sees a lot of naked people.

     “No!  No!  Beautiful!  And your hair!  More red!”

      My BMI this morning was 16.7.

      I straddle his torso as he lays on his bed, his arms tightly restrained at the wrists.  I slap the palms on my hands down onto his chest.  It makes a loud noise, like a gunshot, in the room.

       He grimaces; turns his face to the side.

       “Do not turn your countenance from me,” I say, I command.  I am serious.  Serious as a heart attack.  I like to see their faces.  It is one of my favorite parts.

        “It hurts,” he says.

         I slap him across the face–not hard enough to leave a mark; he has to lecture–and grab his hair, shaking his head like a terrier shaking a rat.  His eyes are closed tightly.

       “Open your eyes.  Look at me.”

       He does.  And even though I know I don’t love him anymore, even though I know that a big part of him hates me, there is still an electric moment of connection.  This vulnerability from him.  I feel so protective and so loving.  I wish that he could feel that way toward me for more than a minute or two, or an hour at most.  I could have loved him so much.

     I tell him something I’ve never told him before:  “Nobody else in your adult life has ever seen you this way, as you are for me now.”

      He whispers No.

      “Tell me how much you need it.”

      “I need it,” he whispers.  His voice is hoarse with pain and desire.

      “Say it again.”

      He does.  I know how difficult it is for him to have to admit anything.

       “Open your mouth for me,” I say, and put my fingers into his mouth, running them across his teeth, his gums, the bumpy surface of his molars.  I like to penetrate his mouth with my fingers.  It feels intimate; invasive.  I know he likes it. He tries to suck on my fingers.

      “In ten years, you will remember this.  This very moment,” I say.

      “So will you,” he says.

     I smile, shake my head, no.  “Look at me.  I accept you.  I know exactly what you are, and I loved you anyway.  The good and the bad; from the first to the last.”

      I take myself off his body.  I put my dress back on and pick up  my handbag.  In only takes ten, fifteen seconds.

     “I knew you would leave me,” he says from the bed.

     “Oh, Surgeon,” I sigh, putting on my leather jacket.  “How it becomes you to speak the truth.   You should  do it more often.  I’m here through (date).  Think about what I mean to you.”  

      I’m sitting in my hotel room right now, crying.  I don’t sob, really.  My face doesn’t move much.  I cry like a dude.  I just leak tears.  Leak leak leak.

      I remind myself that I could never had done better by him.  I could not have given him more.  It’s not my fault that he didn’t love me.

A Dangerous Method

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     There’s a film coming out in November that I am curious about.  A Dangerous Method is about Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, a troubled female masochist, and the origins of psychoanalysis.  The source material is very rich, but there’s no room for error when you’re trying to make art out of people and issues like these.  Let’s be honest–the description reads like a Monty Python skit.  One wrong move and it all lapses into howling, unintentional comedy.  That Keira Knightley is the female lead doesn’t inspire much confidence, either.

     Anyway, the still shots released for promotional purposes have made me a very happy camper.  Into the Coconut Porn folder they go!

     This one is my favorite:

         Catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror at the right time, and you’ll never forget what you see–or, rather, who you see.  There are pieces of yourself, your identity, that you seldom express, or think about, or even acknowledge in your daily life…but you look in the mirror, and there they are, looking back at you through your face.  And they’re not just there, either–they’re running the show.  The part of you that you usually think of as you–the dominant narrator in your head–has been usurped.  Still along for the ride, but moved to the back seat.

The Count and Cookie Monster

     I just found an awesome video on YouTube.  I don’t believe in God or the supernatural, but if I did, I would think that this video was some sort of message from Beyond, and that I was “meant” to come across it.

     It’s perfect!  What we see here are actually two sides to my personality: The Count and Cookie Monster.  The Count is smooth and collected, and he makes spooky things happen.  He is reasonable and solution-oriented. The Count is obsessed with quantifying things.  The Count probably jerks off to data sets.

     Cookie Monster is a beast utterly ruled by his obsessions with cookies.  Cookie Monster is basically a cookie junkie.  Cookie obsessions have ruined Cookie Monster’s life and taken his dignity.  Cookie Monster should probably go to SMART Recovery or Cookie-Addicts Anonymous.  Now, I do not eat cookies (FATTENING!  No thank you–can’t have that–how about my BRAIN, instead? ), but that’s okay–cookies can be a metaphor.  

   P.S.  I’m working on an Elegy for Dr. Drew Pinsky.

Mission Aborted

        Not my proudest moment–

        The only reason I am not sucking down Scotch right this very moment is because I accidentally left my wallet at someone’s house and by some weird happenstance I have no cash in my apartment right now except for a jelly jar full of pennies. 

        So frustrated I could scream.  Maybe I will.

        I had plans for this evening.  Big plans!  I was going to engage in some very intense and potentially dangerous recreational activity–a big blowout, the sort of thing I only do maybe twice per year.  It takes a lot of luck and coordination to get something like this off the ground, and as everything starts to slide into place–well, it creates a lot of inner tension.  Even for an aberration like myself, who is comparatively fearless about things like this.  Takes a while to screw your courage to the sticking place.  But it’s a pleasant anticipation–makes you feel breathless and aggressive.  Ready to rock.

      So, I’m riding high: got the right invitation, got the invitation confirmed, got the right clothes, got the gear, got a promising date–a gorgeous mutt from the fire department, no joke, who rides around town on a rice rocket and seemed downright giddy about embarking on a destructive bender–got a car service to run us out to the scene of the crime in Westchester.  By the time I arrived, I was practically chewing the furniture.


      I felt like Comrade Castro at the Bay of Pigs, man–fuck you, what do you mean, you’re calling it off…?!  You’re not calling off shit!

       But they were, indeed, calling it off, and there was nothing anyone could do.  I was left with about a metric ton of combustible energy coursing through my body and nothing to do with it.  I couldn’t even maul the firefighter.  I know I’m being opaque here, good reader, but trust me, this was way more than canceled-date “I did my nails and put on pantyhose for this?” inconvenience.

      And then, again, I am left with the immortal question: what do I do?  What do you do when you are burning from the inside out, and you can’t turn it off?  What do you do when you can’t calm down?  When the intensity, the urgency of your emotions feels lethal to you?  When you don’t know how to soothe yourself?  

      The energy, thwarted at one outlet, attempts to relieve itself through another–it is murder, destruction, the relentless urge to annihilate.  I just want to shut it off.  Channeled appropriately, it manifests as talent.  Otherwise, it lends itself to killing and suicide. 

       It is a choice, I am told.  Even when it doesn’t feel that way.