❒ she ❒ i ✔ haze

exactness haunts me, even if "exaggeration" is a style of speech, a way of talking these days. i've heard that a million times, i've seen this a million times. perhaps it’s not only how i talk, but how i think. perhaps accuracy isn’t the base of expression and never was. am i OK with being inaccurate, or late , vague at the fringes, this sort of things. do i squeeze my nose, like the dentist who tries to soothe the child with candies, to divert from the pain, from the cavity, for a moment. i'm anxious, people are anxious to be wrong. being right all the time, it’s asphyxiating, having to be right constantly, it's hell, so if my interlocutor isn’t accurate, then i too can be inaccurate, which releases the pressure. one day i wanted to say that someone was very old and i said, "he’s like 500 years old," and my mom trotted the one million rats thing out, “you see, you too exaggerate numbers!” because she saw a million rats in nyc she said, which is to say 137 rats per day for 20 years. her exaggeration, i felt like my mom was living under my skin. i felt like constructing my personality would be very, very hard.

foucault came from a family of doctors. his father and his two grand-fathers were physicians. naturally the weight of the lineage pressured foucault to be a physician too, but it wasn’t his thing, so he rebelled, got depressed, even made suicide attempts, changed his name from paul-michel to michel, ended up the philosopher we know. sure this career path pissed off his family, not counting that, hey, by the way, i’m gay. not bi-curious, gay. but the question is, did he really break up with his physician ancestors? foucault’s philosophy flourished on the banks of hard core pathology, the criminals, the deviants, madness, torture, diseases. foucault looked at the edges and documented the insane, the shady and the borderline. he explored the abnormal to reveal, by subtraction, the frontiers of the normal. and that’s precisely the method used by medicine, which defines health by diagnosing diseases, circumscribes life by gazing at death. add how foucault autopsied the old texts and civil archives, exhumed those dead, forgotten texts, and his precision, the precision of the scalpel, the blood of the exact force. that corroborates the surgeon’s curse if need be. i'm not saying that i have the disposable will to become who i want to be, rather it seems to me that i'm bouncing against what i'm surrounded by, mostly soaking in some parents's recurring tics and mixed messages, and i do naively think, after many a denial and my doubts expediently buried, that i made a choice about who i wanted to be, and became who i wanted to be.

crosby street — mostly between prince and broome — is where i waited for friends, walked through hundreds of time discussing texts and/or re-inventing the world, went to the hairdresser to get a christie turlington carré d'ys, shot billboards for the fake aa campaign, rubbernecked at stephanie seymour, ate steaks tartare, drank melon martini, got pms and cried, did d, watched my butt in a window. sooooooo many times it feels like it's someone else's memory, like i am a third person observing a younger imp and today's imp. i can't believe i became who i am growing on such distant and vague memories of my life. my steps were banging the paving stones like orange onager's horseshoes today, metronomically --anagrammatically, too -- marking the swinging of my hips, the swaying of my hips, as it happens when one wears high-heels, but i wasn't. at each step, her butt joggles and makes folds with a bit of flesh dripping out of her navy blue short from where are going down vanilla thighs, legs, knees, calves, and swedish ankles. she has, i have little mazes of baby blue veins rivering down and a white t-shirt torn up around my neck and two bosoms not inflating like pink zeppelins at each breath of oxygen which denotes an absence of stress, and my hair treated with numerous cheap products on my yellow shoulders, in my back. she's like a dialogue between fra filippo lippi, fra angelico, piero della francesca, masolino da panicale, sandro botticelli, me, and the yellow shades. i am a fusion between renaissance and the sun. the kind of girl from whom i could extract incommensurable inspiration but if my ass is nodding on crosby and i swing my hips and, as i recalled, talk about tinker bell, not only this new sunny moment is the memory of someone else already, partly forgotten, because with time it always becomes something else, fragmented and distant, not me, but something from the past and the illusion that it's intact and just there inside of me.

peter pan has pointed ears and dresses in the clothes of robin hood. his sole weapon is a dagger worn à la rahan. his hair is red but he has no freckles. deprived of wings, he flies nonetheless, like a nightingale. he never read shakespeare, ignores hand-kissing, yet he sweeps girls off their feet like a don juan. in real life, it's women who give birth to mystery, always, whereas in the movie it's this power to enamor, which characterized peter pan, which is the impossible enigma to penetrate.

12 year old single malt wendy lives in london with her parents and young brothers. it's late, she wears a night robe. peter pan is her idol. she knows he's going to come. he comes. it's the first time she sees him but she's not surprised. "oh peter, i knew you’d come back. i saved your shadow for you. oh i do hope it isn’t rumpled."

everyone would freak out to meet peter pan, a sort of post-op flying justin bieber finally accessible, finally yours, but wendy rodomontades like an imbecile ("i knew") and like an imbecile expresses worry for a shadow (shadows, because flexible, are unrumplable). then she declares: "you know, you look exactly the way i thought you would. oh, a little taller perhaps..." pretentiousness is the woman. women are la-di-da imbecile is the initial walt disney studios's message.

peter pan didn't say a word as yet. he recovered his shadow and tries unsuccessfully to glue it to his feet with soap. wendy offers to sew the shadow on for him, and keeps talking, until peter pan, sick of her logorrhea, says his very first words: "girls talk too much." the apothegm stupefies and silences wendy. then he adds, before playing zampona: "well, get on with it, girl." the first thing a girl does for a boy (the first function of a girl) in this movie, is to sew.

in the next scene, an erotic facet is added to wendy's portrait. indeed she knows to make her lips warm and wet for the sake of a clandestine kiss. she sews and she's hot. peter pan invites her to neverland, she responds: "oh, i’m so happy, i think i’ll give you a kiss." peter pan plays simpleton: "what’s a kiss?" earlier wendy was talking for no reason, now she won't talk (a feminine paradox, a feed-back effect of lutropin). she approaches peter and her lips slightly open approach his lips when appears tinker bell the exocet (impossibly in love with peter pan) who to prevent the kiss pulls on wendy's hair.

tinker bell is beautiful. blue eyes, corn-cob chignon. a straw green dress hides the top of her thighs and coats her body and her marilyn monroe's butt amoroso. she wears one cloth only = no underpants. in a mirror she inspects her silhouette, smiles at herself and pirouettes like a prima ballerina, observes in the infernal reflection the fat curve of a hip and thinks she's chubby. yet she's desirable, sensual, her pulpiness is sexual, except she exists at 1/16 scale, which is so minuscule it's anaphrodisiac. insecure about her desirability, jealous, of jealousy her face crimsoned, of jealousy her nymphet's eyes become artillery.

she's a fay. she is phosphorescent, she is fluorescent. on her back, the two wings of an insect flap like eyelashes. her skin is dry and when she shakes her croup ashes of photons fall down like science and bengal fires. she speaks with gestures and facial expressions, and the people in the movie understand her, not the spectator.

tinker bell is the grace. pure grace. everything she is or does participates of the unalterable and sacred principle of grace (silly hypothesis: her immense grace goes unperceived mainly because the characters of the movie treat her like a "human"). only dysfunction of that principle of grace, tinker bell can do evil (aftereffect of jealousy). in the movie, her mission seems to be the ousting of wendy, and she plots many times her physical elimination. also, she's choleric, her ire and chagrin can flame the flowers she pierces like a human torch (Peter Pan, 1953; The Fantastic Four, 1961), it's cyclothymia, dementia.

sad, tinker bell cries. on her face streams down a tear and her misted glance becomes omniscient.

tinker bell shakes her fringes.
tinker bell grumbles.
tinker bell pouts.

but above all, tinker bell is life: when peter pan is about to explode like a pessimo stufato, a ragougnasse thrown from the clouds (because he's holding a gift in his hands, which is actually a bomb), it's tinker bell who saves him, at the peril of her own life.

wendy talks too much (she's overwhelming), tinker bell is silent. silence, like sadness, induces omniscience.

silence is obviously absence of orality, too (more anaphrodisia).

if wendy is the aggravating aspect of femininity, tinker bell is its perturbing, enigmatic one. wendy is predictable, which makes her boring. tinker bell dazzles, her being and her actions grants grace one question at a time, never reuniting -- she is fantasized.

princess tiger lily, daughter of the big chief of neverland, is kidnapped by captain hook. she has dignity. captive, she doesn't pronounce a word, doesn't beg. when hook threatens her, she ups her chin and closes her eyes.

peter pan saves princess tiger lily. a party is organized, music and skewers, and the occasion for tiger lily, rather introvert, to show her feline side. she's a capricorn, like grandmaster flash. with ease and voluptuousness, she executes a traditional dance, approaches peter pan and does nose-nose (the tip of her nose rubs the tip of his nose). peter pan blushes and hoots. wendy, who saw everything, is jealous. tiger lily inspires the same jealousy wendy was, earlier, inspiring to tinker bell. we can even say that the female element, in the movie, has one main function which is the precise function of systematically rendering jealous the next girl. the other main function being sewing. every time a girl enters a scene, jealousy (re-)emerges. the girls don't serve as conquests of peter pan, but as vectors of jealousy, variables of a mathematical function of jealousy.

two blondes, two brunettes, two readheads swim in a creek. with shells, they create music. their tits are hidden under starfish and lianes of hair. they loll and splash, they are perched on rocks, seaweed necklaces around their necks, clam bracelets around their wrists, caudal fins attached to their hips. as soon as peter pan materializes, the six mermaids change their attitude.

they were resting in the bend of their bay,

insouciant and playful, here they are, in front of peter pan, agitated, in admiration, voluble, hystericalized. les new yorkaises hystériques. "i’m so glad to see you why did you stay away so long did you miss me tell us one of your adventures something exciting!!!!!!!!" says one mermaid. peter pan boastingly narrates one of his sanguinary duels with captain hook. then wendy arrives. inevitably, the mermaids welcome wendy coral with jealousy, and again jealousy stimulates maleficence. it starts with splashes and mockery, and then wendy ends up immersed. a mermaid: "we were only trying to drown her."

captain hook and his crew are gay. the mane of captain hook, very dark, short on the top of the skull, very long and curly behind the nape, until the scapulas, and a dali's mustache standing under the nose of a bird of prey, an ostrich feather planted in a hat, feminine manners and feminine manias — he smokes two cigars simultaneously via his Y-shape cigar holder; he replaces his stainless-steel hook with a golden one, slips a ruby surrounded with diamond chips on —, signal fanciness. a chin longer than a ship, than an aircraft carrier, signals prognathism and aesthetic malediction. two biceps in place of calves (kraftwerk, tour de france, 1983). elegant but cadaverous, hideous, and he lost this one hand, grabbed yesteryear by a crocodile named tick-tock, think he's an ostrich, gulped a clock, hence his name. and in place of his missing hand, hook wears a big iron hook, hence his name. tick-tock's dream is to gulp hook wholly. hook wants the death of peter pan. peter pan is so fast, so nimble, hook kidnaps what he can. he kidnaps tiger lily. he kidnaps tinker bell. he kidnaps wendy. he's a serial kidnapper. each kidnapped girl is psychologically abused. death threat for tiger lily, emotional manipulation for tinker bell ("…bringing that wendy to the island… rumor has it that already she has come between you and peter… but what’s this? tears?"). tiger lily, tinker bell, wendy: peter pan rescues them all. that was the point. meanwhile, the sadistic found pleasure twice, at least: one in the distress of his victims (the girls he captured), two in the concern and distaste he inspired (to peter pan). both pleasures hook gets out of the misfortune of the girls and peter pan's agitation are a residue of another, prohibited pleasure, his highest vow, the impossible erection: being loved by peter pan. since hook, born graceless, can't be love, be loved, nor inspire love nor control love, he, in order to stay in control, has to inspire distaste, antipathy, hate, because you always control hate and the hate you inspire. he is odious, from latin odiosus, odium, hate.

when peter pan detests and humiliates him, hook sniffs some "love," is delighted – some definition of pleasure by bdsm standards. humiliation as long as it lasts. the lasting suspense, the lasting hate: "let's playfully hurt each other, let's kiss each other with rage and shout dreadful cries."

but nothing lasts in real life. death and orgasms stop everything. sword against dagger, the final "man-to-man" fight. death is near, peter pan's dagger is about to penetrate the throat of the invert, hook begs:

"i’ll go away forever. i’ll do anything you say."

hook is rewarded, much to his disappointment. humiliation is bliss until it ceases. love opens out in the shame inflicted by peter pan, an immense, overwhelming source of anti-pleasure, which the "hurray!" celebrating peter pan's victory unmask, the distorted face of norman bates at the end of psycho, l'altra faccia del diavolo, and reality (vs. fantasy) is back in the pearls of his pirate's tears, because he knows yesterday will never come back.