Undressed

Be sure to leave something behind - this is how you will be remembered. Or at least, you always have something to go back and get. The remains. As a friend said recently "like a girl on a one night stand who leaves something behind so she has a reason to see her lover again."

I have this curious relationship with a friend - the currency of our friendship is an exchange of favours. Favours that appear to be loose collaborations, but in many ways are a empty of any real effort. They get dressed up and pretend to be something that in many ways I see as being those remains. If we continue to create work for ourselves, situations, than there's always something remaining. Always an excuse or reason to continue the friendship. I can't quite surmise why we need a project in order to be friends until I think about other, older friends, and realize that in less obvious ways, this is how friendships had been formed in the past. In the absence of sexuality, we possess things by trapping them in other nets. Ultimately, however, I'm unsatisfied with that. I feel as though I've been given only one route to understand someone, a rigid framework in which to function that allows for little nuance to the routine. In the future I might take that back and say - no, it was these limitations that made certain relationships interesting, but for now, these restrictions seem to mold the knowing unnaturally. I feel 'used', although for what ends I don't know. Maybe I'm projecting since it turns out I have at least 4 other friends with whom our friendship is based on collaboration. I in fact, take distinct pleasure in team work.

How friendships, hobbies, passions of mine have taken shape I am concluding go something like this: I desire things in order to understand them. Most people desire to have and in the having are finally freed of their desire. Either they are bored by the having, or desire other, shinier and prettier things. My desire - be it lust for a man or a creative ambition - is for knowledge. There are things I see and I don't quite understand yet. If I already understand it, I don't want it. But I can also have things, I mean physically possess them, and not understand them - having and understanding are not the same thing. And just because something allows itself to be possessed does not mean you know it, real having is more than physical acquisition.

If I do a mental survey of my attractions, I am drawn repeatedly to people who remain foreign to me for as long as possible. This is a type. The type is not height, width, hair color - its a composite of mysteries or disguises. I want to solve puzzles. This might be why looking and thinking about art objects has more appeal than making them (now), because with each (foreign) object I have something new I have to understand. I can fall in love over and over: an endless supply of objects, and makers, to understand. Where as myself and the things I make - I think I understand thoroughly.

If I look at friends, the strongest I have are ones that were subjected to a certain effort on my part to understand what they are; friends I asked more questions of and did in the end, maybe have a better understanding of, but still found them foreign to me. I can mark that transitional point from feeling nervous around them, slightly uncomfortable but in some masochistic way, finding the discomfort tantalizing, to feeling at ease and familiar. That discomfort was what drew me in - that intimidation you feel around new people who on some intuitive level you immediately desire. Not unlike lust, which is always for an 'other' - the mirror arc that will complete.

I bristle when a friend reminds me that I had described myself as having a type. I bristle because I don't want conversations said in flirtation to be remembered past their sell date. Things said 4 months ago no longer have face value. I also bristle because I'm sorry to have simplified my desire into 'taste'. As if to say you could parade any number of things before me that were similar and I'd be satisfied, that as if the gentle nuance of a moment didn't count for anything. What kept my ex-husband and I together for 6 years is not repeatable in a similar model, a fact I think that has made similar models so dissimilar. My attraction to him was constant because the understanding could never be resolved. We appeared to know so much about one another on the surface, our analytical skill for each other's every action and word part of a rapid fire game we played called "I'm going to find you out yet." This is exhausting. We never found each other out, we gave up. I mean, I was tired out for good.
But isn't this a version of everyone's failed affairs - you keep at the destructive ones because you want to solve them. The easy ones fizzle out. In both cases you have, you possess, but without challenge you can no longer lust. The same desire that drives travel and exploration, creativity and knowledge. I am ready anytime to pick up and move, expose myself to that discomfort of discovery just to avoid complacency.

But back to the remains. What if you are never quite sure that its been solved. If everytime you walk away thinking you've figured it out, something shorts out. Everytime you're sure you've put that last piece away, you find another missing. That's when you leave something behind to go back for. Just to check, just in case. Its one's intuition doing battle with one's logic. I have often rushed through things in order to make the most of it before it fizzled. Thrown all my best material away too soon. What about those that unfolded slowly over years? Those were the most beautiful and ultimately the most heartbreaking. After 12 years I wonder why we waited so long to turn on one another so cruelly. After 3 years I wonder why we have to go the long way round to being friends. Were the friendships fraught with tension that end poorly when the pressure is released - are they more momentous and more delicious that those that have formulaically disposed of desire on the early end in order to function? I think they are more memorable. I will remember the narrative better with that crescendo than without. I will remember that desire longer with so many years given to undress it. I left more there to go back for, more of myself than one can leave at a one night stand.

To Zion.

"I believe that love cannot be bought, except with love" Steinbeck

This quiet drive with dialogue, a 7 hour play. These things that are apart of the cinema: trees that hang over the road, the bend, I have no map, you don't like chocolate and sand, the two rocks you divide from the rest and give me, now in my pocket (the one with the red stripe), you buy me food as though we are on a date, your hand on my waist in the deli as though I was your girlfriend, I tell you you remind me of my brother, although I don't know why, you don't ask, trails of dead lady bugs and finches in the sand, my skirt blows between my legs, you spot the batting cage and know I'd love it, and we tell those kinds of stories about traveling people tell one another when they just meet. I sing softly on the way home, you asleep and twitch only slightly, beautiful when you grasp my skirt and won't let go. I don't know what to do as we coast into the city and I stall, but don't stop the car, I propel forward and say stupid things, as always, including :do your other girls like having sex with you as much as I do. You say: some more, some less. And then pause. I hate myself for making such a joke, for insisting that all I care for is fucking you, but I cannot bear to care anymore than that since I am not going to be perfectly formulaic for you to love. I will not get outraged, I am passive aggressive; I will allow you everything and nothing; I won't make you out to be exotic, you are like family to me - that's why there is everything and nothing. I am fine being used, I am fine if you can only imagine me beneath you, I am fine with that, but I don't think its true. I think you will be lonely. You will always be in love with could bes and therefore, will never know love in the now.

I had convulsed before leaving the house, certain that it would hurt. But it didn't. I just didn't want you to get out. Not because I had anything to tell you or anything to do, I just don't know, and I need knowing. I wanted to find out about feelings that seem serene madness.

We are, it is now silenced. And was not very loud to begin with. A quiet thank-you and a you are welcome.

Your window down the street, still.

Comfortable Silence

I rewound the same song three times to hear the story. You sang along - a feat, you usually don't know the words. We talked for hours both directions about love and marriage, children and depression. We talked and then in our speech there was comfortable silence. We bickered in Nashville like sisters bicker, the lines kind of like pantomine. You act like my mother, I'm the bratty sister, petulant and rude. There's strange comfort in that. Even when I'm behaving impatiently I realize that its a comfort I share with no one else. A comfort that makes it acceptable and funny when I throw my leg over your sleeping body when we share the same bed; I'm so fast asleep and you so familiar, just like when we were teenaged girls and I snuggled under the covers.

Willpower

Just a little bit slow to react these days. Those electrified moments are not as obvious or the dial has been turned way down low. Take it slow. I'm sort of enjoying the directions, although I don't know why I'm being given them (yet), but I'll follow the rules of engagement and slow everything down despite desire and despite time. This being quite the opposite of the American mania that I should be particiapting in: join all the clubs, get all the awards, make all the money. Instead I'm dreaming of some sort of fictional past that we all conjure up, the moral of every story when the everyman is the hero and the ones with the hustle and bustle are the losers. Culturally we certainly get a kick out of Hollywood, but we aren't going to make any examples of its narratives: the movie stars, after all, didn't slow down and take it easy until they were rich, rich, rich! How can we reward the everyman who works a normal day to pay the bills he has to pay, who doesn't over consume, so he hasn't any debt, doesn't 'want', which seems to be how we're being brought up. Want more and you can have more. Manifest.

Should I want to manifest freedom, freedom from want, where would I start? I should probably throw out the last three pairs of sinful high heels and stop lusting after that boy, I should probably stop competing and just ease myself in. But what would happen if you stopped in the midst of that manic flow? Common sense tells me I might be trampled.

A few weeks ago I listened to a girl from graduate school talk about her plan in action for art-world domination - at least, to put it fairly, the success of her practice, which rightfully she should want to manifest. In her voice however was that mania - a certain desperation to guarantee that this longing was useful, that this plan was going to lead to something satisfactory. I wondered how love worked in her life. Was it useful or wasteful - it eats up precious time after all. Was it natural and organic or an act? I had never seen her let her guard down even a bit, I describe it as 'being on message', so I have never been able to tell the depth of her soul underneath her mania. Everyone wants to see a crack, not in order to see weakness, but humanity. I see quite the opposite in people who are manically bent on success - their weakness if clearly on their sleeve. On the other hand the most intimidating people were those that never intimated any 'plan', but stepped comfortably through their life with their head up and a certain stillness. Not silence - just without the mania. I think its old fashioned confidence, but without the trappings of American mania or coastal neuroses, we can't recognize it anymore. Instead we call it aloof. Or other nasty things.

Take it slow. That's what I was told. I have the same tendancy for speed as anyone else here, and when faced with desire I want the shiney new object now, not later (I'll show you my credit card bills). And so I'm a little bit frightened of people who have that desire under such perfect control that other things bend to their will, or their confidence. I want that same stillness. Lately I've found myself slower to react - that part of me that is emotionally a day late and a dollar short has started to sync up with my willpower. But that sync hasn't kept me from confusing a good head of confidence with sheer stubborness. Sometimes my willpower, although less needy than when I was younger, just has more confidence in desire than in patience.

1984

There's a smack-smack on pavement that bounces between the houses. I slide my window open as wide as I can and sniff the crisp evening air.

Smack-smack.

I can see the long, narrow backyard and the chain of identical yards as they curl down Ranchero Road. Cats parole the fence tops and lawn sprinklers fan back and forth over grass. I can see in to the neighbour's house across the alley - husband and wife at the kitchen table - the room simple and bare, their clothes the colour of nothing. It's not quite dusk.

Smack-smack.

I sit at the window and tell myself stories. I tell myself stories in the bathroom before the large mirror. I tell myself stories on the front deck, lying out on the wide wood rail tanning, precariously taunting a fall to the driveway and feeling a little bit dangerous, but I know I'm not.

Smack-smack.

My sister is out tonight. Her room is quiet and the door is closed. I sneak in there sometimes and breathe in the smell of Tracy. She's musky like a teenage girl is: part cheap perfume, part hairspray, part feet and part cigarette smoke.
Her bedroom has dark brown carpet for some reason, while the rest of the house has rust. My bedroom has white carpet because we moved in here when I was a baby. She has a red bedspread mom made printed with abstracted summer hats, a red phone shaped like a sports car and a red tape player. Her table under the window has a make-up mirror on it that has double doors covering the glass. It is covered in stickers and lipstick, as is the surface it sits on.

She has a jewellery box shaped like a dresser that places "Laura's Theme" from Doctor Zhivago. I always come in and wind it up, pull out the bottom drawer and let it play. It makes me feel sad, although I don't know why. I'm only 9 and I doubt I've seen Dr. Zhivago yet, but my parents have the record so I know the song.
I'd hung everything I knew about sadness on that clanky music box.

I creep around quietly in her space even though I know she won't be home. I had heard her on the phone after school talking with her friend, she's gone to a party down the street. She's mad at our mom.
She wore a leather jacket and a pair of black boots. She does her bleached hair like Madonna.

Smack-smack.

We'd gone away a couple weeks ago on holiday and Tracy had stayed home. I was depressed that she'd stayed, I wanted so badly for us to be friends.
When we were gone she threw a party at the townhouse, we could tell because everything had been moved around. It was clear that they'd tried to put things back as they should, but things were backwards and just a bit off. I could tell right away, it was like we had been burglarized.

Smack-smack

The little clay family that our Aunt had given us at Christmas had been on the bookshelf. There was a dad and a mom and two sisters: one big and one small. When we got home the big one had been broken. I'll never forget.

Smack-smack.

Tracy had played kick the can on the front street when she was younger with the kids from the houses across from our's. Their's was public housing. I couldn't figure out how that meant anything, because their town houses were the same as our's, only with bigger front yards. There were more kids on that side though. On our side there were a lot of single women or childless couples. The neighbours on our left changed constantly and on the right was a quiet immigrant couple who worked nights as janitors. They had had a baby girl the year before.

Across the street there was always something going on. Bobby was a football star but one night they came and took him to jail. The folks next door to Bobby fought pit-bull dogs in their basement and some mornings there would be bloody carpets hosed down on the front yard.

Smack-smack.

I never played out front or knew any of the kids.

Smack-smack.

I'm back in my window and I'm waiting.

Smack-smack.

The sun went down a half-hour ago.

( )-( )

I can hear the TV downstairs.

( )-( )

It's 11:30 p.m.. MST. Longest day of the year.

( )-( )

It's quiet and still. He's gone inside. He's no longer playing basketball on his driveway.

( )-( )

It's not that late but my parent's are looking for Tracy. I'm worried about my sister. I don't really get it yet that teenagers stay out as late as they can.
She's told them she was sleeping at a friend's. She'd let me in on the lie and I had warned her against it. I lied all the time too but I didn't want to be held responsible for her.

( )-( )

There's an argument rising from downstairs. I haven't really heard a noise like this come from my family before. I stare hard at the clock in my room and it's 1 am. Their voices undulate up the stairs from the narrow hall leading to the front door. I can't make out anything but crying and agony.
My sister is yelling at dad: "fucker, fucker, fuck you", she's slurring. There's a tension that makes it under the crack of my door and into my bed; it invades my sleep and grasps my lungs. I'm scared. I can't make out the situation until mom starts to read the room back to dad: "She has puke in hair Bill...she's missing her boots.....her ear is bleeding and the lobe's split open..."

I hear the kind of thumping that people never make on purpose and I get to my feet. I don't know who I'm trying to save, dad or mom or my big sister or all of them, as I race down stairs to find my dog at the top of the stairs, petrified despite his size.

Thmp-thmp.

They don't see me as I see them.

Thmp-thmp.

Three people equally terrified.

Thmp-thmp.

I knew where Tracy had been. She said she was staying at a friend's. Mom had asked me if I knew anything when they were calling around. I had slunk away to my room for bed: "I don't know anything!"

Thmp-thmp.

I see her little white socks crusty with dirt. She has the tiniest feet I've ever seen.

Thmp-thmp.

I'm frozen where I stand and the sound is pinched off. I don't know how long the struggle carries on.

Thmp-thmp.

Dad took her to the hospital that night.

Thmp-thmp.

I get up in the morning for a softball game. I dread going (I'm the worst player on the team) but I dread staying at home.
No-one says a thing out of the ordinary.
I trudge down Ranchero Road in grey polyester uniform. It's to hot for ball.

Smack-smack.

No-one ever says a thing out of the ordinary.

Smack-smack.

Tracy left home at 17.

Bicycles: A Personal Account

I have a bicycle. An orange one that I had to have a garage sale in order to buy. I also sold a few of my CDs and took clothes into consignment. I was like an 8 year old, except that when I was 8, I probably couldn’t yet ride a bike. Such a late bloomer in certain ways, was I. Am I.

In the story I’m riding through downtown Calgary with my husband. It was the day of the Stampede Parade and so the streets were shut off and crowds were gathering early with their children, cups of Tim Horton’s coffee in hand and lawn chairs in position.
We rode in the crisp morning air - still cool, because mornings will never be hot in Alberta - planning to plant ourselves on the roof of the museum and watch the parade below us. Watch the floats float.

This is where I should begin:
"Hey howdy, hey cowboy," before we left our home, we were sitting on the fire escape talking, you smoking cigarettes and me hanging from the stairs above. (Why didn’t I smoke with you? I do with everyone else.)
We’d sit outside and talk sometimes. We’d go over to the convenience store and buy snacks and pig out with a movie and ding-dongs. Or no ding-dongs, but I’d eat Hotrods anyway, and you’d have peanut M&Ms and Coca-cola. A steady diet of those.

In the story schoolz out for the summer and we are riding our bicycles through Calgary like a couple of teenagers. We plan to plant ourselves on the roof of the museum and watch the parade below us.
Instead I find the letters.
We went to the fucking bookstore, how civilized. I came outside and couldn’t find you and thought you’d left us for good.

Last night I rode out to the shore and found all the houses under water - or flooded I guess. They looked like they were bobbing in the sea, the waves lapping around the front steps and covering the lawn. It was a pretty foggy night and the water was awful black. I may have been riding in it or may have stayed on shore, I don’t know. I just know that I turned around eventually to head home and I felt like I was being followed. I stopped and called Dad to pick me up - I was at the cross-roads - but of what and where I don’t know.
I didn’t see Robert Johnson there.
But I got home and found the bike seat missing the next day.

So you’ve been out boozin’ and whorin’ eh? Just like you’d always wanted in your poems. I don’t know anyone who’s more of a romantic than you, young man. Maybe me. I have that paper bag still, that you gave me the Oreos in.
Man, we built 6 yrs around junk food and couldn’t gain a pound.

"So I’m at the doctor see, and he says he has to check for a brain tumour and I says, what would I want with a tumour?"

(They took a flashlight and looked into your ear for that tumour, the light came shining out your eyes.)

And so I say: "fuck - give me a break, you’ll call when you find out right? Were you going to call or what?"

And I imagine you in your new bar - some strip mall pub in Winterpeg - telling them you talked to your wife on the phone for the first time. Maybe you don’t tell them a thing, being the romantic that you are, you probably want to remain a mystery. Good for you, I wish I could maintain the same composure.

But in the story I’m walking down 14th street in a flowered dress. I think it’s hot outside, I may have brought my cardigan. Karen is somewhere on the other end and we’ll have fish with her. For some reason I hate you only in moments on that walk because I still know we’re on the brink of love.
We were awful young baby. Way too young for how intense and hard we were on one another. Lying in bed in the dark and falling so hard and fast inside - to places I know I’ll never go again.

What did we do again? Go to Superdrug and buy snacks and then that video store in Chinatown and rent Japanese anime porn and lay out blankets and pillows and turn off the lights. It was like building a fortress with you every night. Until something snapped.
Was her name Joanne?
And snapped again.
I sat down on the street and wept.
I lay down on 8th ave and yelled.
I lost myself inside my head - I’m allergic to wine by the way -
We snapped.
I can’t imagine a depth of pain that is any farther down. That’s the truth. You.

So I was on my bicycle you see, coming back from Evanston at around 8pm and it’s misty out. Just spitting rain. It takes about 30 mins and I’m riding through Roger’s Park and it may or may not be a good part of town - I don’t know - but I feel alive. I feel like I just want to stay on my bike in the dusk in the rain forever in a neighbourhood I don’t really know in a city I’ve barely seen. I want to be suspended.

And then the doctor says: you have scar tissue on your heart, you’ve been having a series of small heart attacks.
And I wonder: is that real? Or is it just us and is it just us? Will we die of that exploded heart, when that one last small heart-attack becomes too large?
And we’re in British Columbia in the motel and lying in the bed watching marathon TV and making plans for mini-golf or go-carts. Its deserted. I want to cry to think about it, you and I building forts like that.
You know, we stopped making love. We even stopped fucking - until of course you were leaving.

So I’m on my bicycle and I’m thinking only of that day like I’m watching us from above the roof of the museum, and I see us on our bikes riding into our fate. My hand on that locker door and on the sheets of paper I find there. Something else guided my hand I swear - it was all so fucking karmic. Who could’ve said then, that this is where we’d be now? You in Winnipeg and me in Chicago? Me the drunk, and you? The smart ass I guess. I’m sure you haven't straightened out that piss-poor attitude yet.

Sonorous, rich, cut to ribbons. When we danced around the family room and you sang me songs. I swear to God there’s not a person in the world who knew our love. Not that feeling.

Once Removed

There is a cliche - you can never go home; which I think means you can never return to that complete utter innocence of home and childhood folded together. Now physically removed from home, having set myself facing another direction I wonder which thing about home is more resonant with me. Was home my mom and dad's house? Was it my ex-boyfriend? My old job? Sunny afternoons on the porch with beer and Jason? I have long felt that the uncomfortable and feeble severing of my friendship with Jason was the last snip of the apron string. Now home is a place again, just a city, but one that no longer has an emotional pull. My friends have scattered and my loves have all died away.
Why is puppy love and friendship so bound up in comfort? I think of the anger and fear that welled up inside of me between leaving Rich and Jason and I severing contact, and I realize that was the pivotal moment of growth. I was actually becoming - nothing Deleuzian here, more Oprah - (an adult). I was responsible for me and was painfully certain I wouldn't return to the bosom of home, where I knew as well as anyone, there was no one waiting. And even if there was, it would be bookended with misery, not a fete for the returning heroine.
There's that song - Prodigal Daughter - "look here comes the prodigal son, fetch him a tall drink of water, but there's none in the cup, cause he drank it all up, left for the prodigal daughter". I think both my sister and I have ejected ourselves - we know there is nothing waiting for us when we return, so we keep going. She astounds me with her steam, her perseverance. I feel on the other hand that mine has only picked up since that fateful winter. Now I have that perseverance, I have abandoned fear, but also feel a bit of an urge to taunt fate. Isn't it time to go again? If you can never go home, why turn a temporary sojourn into one?
What puzzles me now is the emotional, physical feeling of home. A peace that envelopes a person when in the presence of another. Is this a deja vu or just pattern behavior? You are like my sister, so I feel 'home' when I sit beside you. But at my age, how many personalities must feel familiar now? Are they still only ones reminiscent of mom and dad? I'm certain when I sat a few weeks ago on C's back patio drinking beer in the evening sun and talking nonsense with his landlord that it didn't feel like home because he or his friends bare any resemblance to my family. Instead it is frame. I have somewhere remembered an experience that was pleasurable - was it my age? my company? the air that night? - that has been encoded as 'perfection'. Perfection = peace = 'home'. So you can 'go home again', when you find those isolated moments of perfection: the perfect light, air, conversation.
My sense is that I could reexperience this emotion over and over, if everyone in the picture was unknowingly complicit. I remember very clearly what was pleasurable as a child: sitting on the back balcony on late summer nights with my parents. I had been allowed to stay up late, it was 11 o'clock. The patio lanterns are lit and I'm playing with some toys on the green plastic carpet and my parents are drinking beer. The air is warm and mosquitoes buzz around and I feel complete. This is conditioning: now whenever I sit at dusk or in darkness on a deck and drink a beer in the warm summer air I feel the same pleasure. An inner satisfaction that is essential: to relive the sensation of staying up late for the first time again and again. The sensation of seeing the part of the world that had so long been off limits. This is going home.

The object that waits.

Shouldering. The mutual moment of supporting another with a balance of pressure. The impossible structure that has moved away from the scaffolding, the armature and the framework and assembled itself in the middle with balletic grace. This composite moment is magical, delicate, simple.

Last night I dreamt that you took me out to the middle of an endless, flat field and held me, enveloped me in your arms and your body, covering me in a woolen coat. The sky was dark and moody and I complained that we were in the open, that people could see us out here, but you kissed me and told me that the crowd couldn't see. They were moving the other direction.

It was true. When I looked their way, they were dissipating and I would soon be alone out here with you in a cold and vast flat tundra seated on the ground. I woke up. I couldn't tell if there was dread or complacency in my heart when I discovered that the one that was going hold me was also the one who could hurt me; that far from any enclosure there is a precarious feeling of freedom and fear.

We are here in the middle now. We've toed the marker and are waiting for the cue. But the cue never comes, and the action remains poised. You remain with your hand on my face - unclear whether you will slap or caress my cheek. The choreography goes unwitnessed without a dance, the stage directions are frozen and poise is intention. This assemblage of parts could spring to life or fall to pieces; spraying the air or the ground with its life. But there is none, just a taxidermied gesture that waits and balances, as the crowd backs away and the moment persists.
Peek over your shoulder: it is still there.

Perfect Lies

The story-shaped self - at least this decade's or this generation's version of authenticity, has required us to define ourselves by the words we use to frame our lives. The words we use over dinner, over beers, on a date, in school, on our blogs. We want to tell our lives, and have it unfold as we've seen lives unfold on television. My mind plays a few tricks as I imagine - prior to TV and movies, how did people conceive of their lives unfolding? Stories were anecdotal and meant to teach lessons, or just so morals, and not intended so much, as they were passed down, to illustrate a perfect start and finish. It was under these morals we fashioned selves that met socialized, religiously sanctioned lives, authentic or not - they were the lives lived. This isn't to say that books and their fiction didn't have an effect on one's determination of their being - influence their 'authenticity' somewhat, but a book unfolds slowly, where as the passive act of watching feeds you. You are taught by what entertains you, especially as communication methods become more savvy and fold in the psychology of Gestalt, and what we passively watch trains us.

Last week I heard film-maker Guy Maddin talk about his work. He told long, beautifully funny stories about being a child and falling in love with sights and sounds of film and radio. He spoke of the media as wrapping him, folding him in, covering him like a blanket. He eroticized his influences, the women of these films out his grasp but tantalizing and desirous, and out of this desire, an adult Maddin emerges - his adult self shaped by these moving memories - at once time based, and then contained. The narrative framework contains, the movie loop contains, and experience contained - a time capsule of desire that can be revisited and refelt again and again within hour allotments, re-experienced and relieved in every film Maddin makes for himself in order to satisfy this desire.
Maddin's stories sped onward - they were rapid and peppery - and filled with, lies. I think they were lies - the kind that leaves the audience whispering afterward - "was that part about the chimp, true??" But they were true lies - to coin a movie - because they were his. His embellishments and his narrative. These were the lies that Maddin shaped his self with, and his art, and because they were his - his creation - they were true. Who cares if the chimp really pistol whipped him (literally), the carnival ride we take hearing it, is worth the same suspension of disbelief. (You likely won't die on the rollercoaster, but you feel like you might be in danger). Thrills are great lies, but when you experience them, they are still true. The thrill is perhaps the perfect definition of the true-lie.
Is it the millenial moment to have to lie to tell the truth? Is this result of the society of the spectacle, that in our speech and in our framing out authentic selves that we lie, but these lies become and are more true than what other plain words might say? The truth of a story is useless, it is illegitimacy which has value. These little lies acting as manifest destiny, that with their retooling and retelling the narrator will get closer to the truth of themselves each time, until their story has completed the full circle. At full circle it might be bare, stripped, naked, without disguise. It may be uncomfortable or may be charming. But the truth must now be very charismatic to compete with the great lies we have been telling all along. These charismatic truths have begun to shape shift and appear like spectacle, confusing and maybe even conspiratorial.