Pornography

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On permanent solutions to temporary problems.

Published March 18, 2014 by mandileighbean

It has been quite some time since I updated this blog, and it has been quite some time since I offered up any type of creative writing. I plan to rectify both errors in this entry, but be forewarned: this prompt is quite sad and lacks any optimism. Perhaps it’s because today is Monday.

Enjoy.

depressedman

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #13: “Lucky you, I’m free tonight. One show only, though, okay?”

“Don’t let it come apart. Don’t want to see you come apart.”
– “Caught by the River,” Doves

It was only about 90 minutes into a random and mundane Tuesday morning when Walter took his usual seat on a worn, overstuffed barstool. It was another 90 minutes before the lights would come on and then melancholy tones of “last call” replaced the colored lights, conversation, and pounding, thumping bass. For Walter, that’d be plenty of time to see his girl, tell her all the things he wanted – needed – her to know, and then blow his brains out in his dilapidated car in the parking lot. Walter had this all figured out and planned for the last month or so, ever since things went far south at work and management began to demand his head on a plate, and ever since his daughter slammed down her receiver in Houston, Texas and neither party had bothered to reclaim the connection. Audrey, his only daughter and only child, had been more than a little upset that Walter had canceled his visit. It had been just over a year since they had last seen each other and both had been eagerly anticipating the reunion until the new, ominous situation at work caused Walter to horde money, like squirrels do nuts. Rationally, calmly, he tried to explain to Audrey that he simply had to cut costs and expenses and logically, the expenditure of a road trip almost halfway across the country, which was certainly not necessary, would be the first to go.
Audrey quickly became furious and inconsolable. Feeling hurt and wanting only to wound others, she ruthlessly asked her father why he didn’t cut out the booze or the smokes or the porn. She vehemently exclaimed that she could not understand why her father was so determined to push away the only people who gave two shits about him, the only family he had. Walter ordered Audrey to shut up and calm down, implored her to listen the way only a father thinks he can when speaking with his daughter, and that had been enough for Audrey. She hung up and that was it, all she wrote. Walter had thrown the entire phone across the room before dumping himself into the battered recliner in the sparse living room. Nearly all the lights were off – extinguished to save money on the electricity bill – and only the mindless, bluish, electric glow of the television illuminated anything. In this dismal, depressing space, he thoughtlessly rubbed the back of his hand across his ragged, dry mouth and simply inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, and exhaled. Later, when his brain surmounted the blind fury that had so completely clouded and confounded it, Walter knew he would be better off dead. Walter knew with 100% certainty that many others would be better off with Walter dead as well. All that was left was to do the thing.
The next day, Walter had risen with the sun. He had walked the seven miles to the nearest convenience store and purchased a carton of cigarettes. He lit one and smoked it down to the filter. Walter repeated this several times before he made it to the liquor store and purchased a case of cheap beer. He lugged the case and the carton back home, loaded it into his car that was essentially held together with rubber bands and chewing gum, and drove to the nearest strip joint. There he sat, listening to the greatest hits of the 80s, 90s and today that were only barely audible above the static, until night came. He smoked and drank and drank and smoked until night gave away to the wee hours of the early morning, and then he stumbled inside the strip club.
He had been going to that particular establishment once a week since 2002, once his divorce was finalized and his bitch ex-wife took Audrey and her handsome, wealthy, and chivalrous new husband to Texas. Every Tuesday night for over a decade, he had sat upon a stool to wait until the place emptied and he could talk to his girl. She had some sort of awful, degrading stripper moniker, but he would never call her that. She listened to him, held him, stroked him, and smiled like he was the only guy she’d ever want to see ever in the history of guys. It was fleeting and he had to pay for it, but it was all he had and that was that. He owed her honest gratitude, and an explanation for his upcoming absence. So on a random Tuesday morning, he was ready when she came up behind him and carelessly slung her arms around his neck. “Lucky for you, I’m free tonight. One show only, though, okay?”
He smiled sadly. She said the same thing every time. He turned and nodded. She took his meaty hands and led him to the back, to a private room with heavy, velvet drapes. She pushed him down onto a cheap, red leather sofa and straddled him, and it was like it had always been, except Walter began to cry. It was the last night of his life, and the knowledge of that decision had changed nothing. The world did not stand still; he was just as insignificant as he had always feared. The tears poured down Walter’s wasted, gray face and his body shook with sobs, and he was a little boy. The girl moved to sit beside him and she asked him what was wrong and rubbed his back. Her concern seemed genuine, but Walter was ashamed. He had never intended to cry in front of a woman, especially some half-naked girl he could barely afford, and so he could not tell her that it was all he had. Suddenly, he stood up and marched from the room. He had rapidly decided ending one’s life should be like removing a band aid – quick and painless, best to get it over with and not drag it out.
But the girl’s genuine concern was intuitive as well. She hurried to the dressing room and threw on some sheer robe that didn’t really cover anything but did enough to give the impression of modesty. She hurried to the bar in the center of the establishment, where her burly manager was counting out the first of many tills, and asked him to call an ambulance. She had to take some precious time to explain that she was all right, and so were the other girls, and that nobody was actually injured, but she feared a regular might do something awful to himself and she wanted to stop him. As she was pushing open the doors to the parking lot, the shot rang out.
She was too late.

policetape

On literary snobbery and sex.

Published July 20, 2012 by mandileighbean

Call me a literary snob.

Call me uptight.

Call me prude.

Call me what you will, but upon reading the following linked news article, I became indignant and nearly filled with rage; http://newsfeed.time.com/2012/07/18/bronte-bondage-classic-literature-gets-fifty-shades-of-grey-treatment/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+time%2Fentertainment+%28TIME%3A+Entertainment%29&utm_content=Google+Reader.

I understand that the current trend in Hollywood dictates that what will be successful will not be new; instead, it will be a reincarnation of what was successful in the past, and more often than not, it will be a crude and diluted version.  What happened to artistic integrity?  It is more than a little disheartening to see millions being made as literary classics – stories already told and stories against which all others are measured – are warped and twisted to fit the fleeting interests of the American public.

I admit I may be in a little hypocritical in my view because I said nothing when Pride and Prejudice because Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.  I suppose I may have been more forgiving then because that book did not take itself seriously; it did not claim to add to the character development or themes.  It truly added a supernatural element and left it at that.  Now, classic novels are being rewritten to include scenes they claim are “missing;” who can possibly make that claim but the author?  There is nothing “missing” from the relationships between Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, and between Heathcliff and Catherine.  These novels became classics because of the literary elements which are now deemed unsatisfactory and not entertaining.  They need sex, because everything in society has to be sexy to have value.  That is the message the public is sent through the media, and it has now inevitably trickled into literature.  I would not mind half as much if original stories were more sexualized – I would discount it as a sign of changing times and just more evidence of society’s ever-changing interests.  However, that is not what is happening.

I do not think that anyone who reads Fifty Shades of Grey is a sex-starved, literary simpleton.  Far from it; I completely understand that tastes differ.  Hell, I’m thinking about reading the Fifty Shades trilogy myself.  I think it important to note, however, that two women who have read both the first and the second books in the series complained there was too much sexual interaction between the characters, and not enough character development.  I wonder, then, how introducing sex scenes into literary classics could possibly enhance character development.

Indeed, a large aspect of the sex appeal of literary characters like Mr. Rochester, Mr. Darcy and Heathcliff is that they are mysterious, secretive, allusive, wounded and brooding.  To introduce a physical and intense sex scene robs the characters of that mystery and debases them.  The inclusion of such racy relationships is anachronistic more than anything else; the scenes are not “missing,” as is arrogantly stated in the article.  How presumptuous it is.

It especially bothers me that nothing appears to be sacred anymore.  In this respect, I understand I am not as “progressive” as others and may be deemed old-fashioned, but what happened to keep secret desires, passions and fantasies just that – a secret?  Part of the charm and brilliance of reading is that the reader must use his or her imagination.  Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are incredibly romantic and passionate; the material is all there and it is up to the reader to find it, embrace it and further it as he or she wishes.  It is more effective, in this writer’s humble opinion, to allow the reader to infer.  When Mr. Rochester simply stares at Jane with an impassive countenance, it is enough to imagine what he is thinking.  The unspoken sexual tension that is subtly laced throughout is not only a masterful skill of the craft of writing, but one of the most enjoyable aspects of the stories.

Fifty Shades of Grey is an erotic novel; something some would argue is akin to porn.  Whether or not porn is an art form is not the argument I am trying to present.  I am only upset that artistic integrity is being traded in for commercial success.  It is a shame.  Even Fifty Shades of Grey was inspired by another idea; it started out as fanfiction of the Twilight series.  At least E.L. James did not try rewriting the series; she created a world and characters of her own.

PROMPT: A man ducks into a dress shop to escape a sudden downpour and finds himself in the middle of a heated debate between the employees.

PIECE: Tom hadn’t expected the sudden and furious onslaught of rain, and neither had anyone else, judging by the mass exodus of people from the sidewalks and pavements into nearby stores and under any awning.  It was the summer, and sweeping rains were not uncommon, but remained an annoyance.  Holding his toned arms crossed above his carefully gelled-hair atop his intelligent head, Tom ducked into a women’s dress shop on the right side of the street.  The bell dinged from above as he entered, but no one else seemed to acknowledge his arrival.  Matter of fact, the shop seemed relatively deserted.  It was dimly lit, which Tom figured was supposed to give the boutique-ish store some ambience, but it only made him squint (like doing so would help him to see better) and give him a headache.

There was some soft jazz-sounding music emitting softly from the speakers overhead, but the speakers were in need of repair and the sound crackled and went silent every now and again.  Tom gave a glance out the windows, saw the rain pounding against everything in its path and sighed heavily, assuming he’d be in the store for a while.  He began making his way toward the sales counter.  Tom really wasn’t sure why he chose that path, and chalked it up to being more instinct than anything else.  Then again, maybe he was just bored and looking for some human interaction.  Either way, what else was he supposed to do?

Tom was greeted at the counter by screaming, shrill and distinctly feminine voices.  Two women, both young and red in the face, were shouting at each other.  Their arms waved to and fro in wild gesticulations, clearly indicating to Tom that both women were clearly passionate about the subject which was the topic of conversation, or rather, the argument.  Smiling to himself, proud of his chauvinistic cleverness, Tom assumed it would be about the different membership advantages of Team Edward versus Team Jacob.  He moved forward, ready with a clever and discreetly insulting remark about such a discussion, certain that while catching the ladies off guard, it would impress them with his intelligence and thereby make him immediately irresistible.  Tom opened his mouth to proclaim his witty retort, but was suddenly silenced when he actually stopped and listened to what was being said.

“But there are two different kinds of government spending, Melinda,” the young woman on the right explained.  “And both kinds need to be cut, both direct spending and discretionary spending, to get our economy back on its feet!”

Melinda rolled her eyes.  She said, “But, Crystal, what you really want to do is cut direct spending and completely reform needed and beneficial programs like Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid.  People depend on those programs.”

Crystal looked tired.  “Reform is not the same as negating or cutting.  Surely you realize that!”

Tom cleared his throat and both women turned their heads toward him quickly.  Their impassioned expressions smoothed and they thoughtlessly resumed the role of clerk, of liaison to the masses.  To Tom, they looked prettier this way; eager to serve, aiming to please and ignorant of economics and its accompanying buzzwords.

“You ladies read Twilight?” he offered lamely.

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