Posts Tagged ‘masochism’

Dickens December: The conventional notion of a lover cannot be always true, or, Into the labyrinth, with bonus Pip bitchslap

December 17, 2010

According to my experience, the conventional notion of a lover cannot be always true. The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible.

Though she had taken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so set upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had been all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her with any attributes save those she possessed.

I mention this in this place, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be followed into my poor labyrinth. I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.

I loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection.

(Charles Dickens, Great Expectations. Chapter 29.)

Like, I know the fact that Pip doesn’t try to tell himself Estella is other than she seems is supposed to make us appreciate his honesty, but all it makes me do is shake my head in disgust at his pathetic, self-centered shallowness. Typical Pip. What kind of dude is willing to get dogged? If you know what she is, then walk. How is it irresistible to get treated like shit by someone who makes it clear they are not interested? Don’t try to front like you’re doing it out of some big, giant love for her, when you are obviously in it to serve your own masochistic needs. You’re in a relationship with yourself and you clearly like it. It could be Estella or it could be any other random chick that doesn’t want you. How is that admirable?

Pip, I have no pity for you. You love a robot because you are a dumbass snob, and you try to make it sound glamorous and romantic and somber when really it’s just weird and sad. In Dickens’ original ending, Pip and Estella don’t get together (silent cheer). Tell a friend! Well, I suppose first, find a friend who cares. Then, tell that friend.

Top: Anja Rubik. Men aren’t attracted to a girl in glasses.
Second from top: Claudia Schiffer.
Second from bottom: Anna Torv with the weather report.
Bottom: “Aqua,” by Milo Manara.

Quelle surprise.

October 6, 2009

I got another writing project. This one a) is legit-illegitimate, where I have to straightforward plagiarize and cannot delude myself the person needs the help or is using this as a model paper or some folklore, and b) has some whiff of the racysauce to boot. Double ooh!

Cheezits, I don’t even like being bad, this is me putting an upbeat face on it. Well…I can’t say the topic is the worst thing ever in my book, I admit.


Alternative Secretary poster design by Dawn Patrol on the IMP awards website.

So, yes, I came home from the SJ trip with Miss D and, after meeting up with Paolo at Chevy’s for some strategy and relaxation (gown is safe and sound in the actual town where the wedding will be, one less care on the list this week, thank god!), I got back to the ol’ compy and found I’d won a bid on a paper for which I’d forgotten even devising a quote. Got all those dogs in the fire, stanimal, I keep saying so, and a few other frankly distracting things swirling around me.

Quelle surprise: the topic is masochism. SS Funtimes, ahoy!

Secretary of State of Mind

September 9, 2009

Mr. Kite’s friend Brian and I just became imaginary friends on facebook (I am now imaginary facebook friends with the entire Trio: be jealous of my imaginary popularity) and I did that thing where you flip over to your new pal-oh’s profile to make sure there is not some detail of their life like jail time or a broken marriage that you have missed in conversations so that you do not inadvertently do something socially gafferiffic the next time you have a real actual live encounter like joke about the shocking divorce rate among convicts. In doing so, I noted that he had a recent status update about a favorite movie of mine, Secretary. Gobsmacked, I totally abandoned facebook and began what would become an hours-long reacquaintance with a thing that had used to resonate so strongly with me that apparently the repressed rides again.


It had been a while, a few years at least, since I’d watched it. Since before I met my husband at the minimum, I know that much. So that’s like five years, at least, I suppose. Four? Five? Whatever. Not the point, unless it is. It might be; I don’t know.

I found truckloads of screencaps from it and was rereading the script while following along in the screencaps because I have not updated my divx codecs in basically ever and can’t play DVDs even if I did go rent the movie, and I was not up to streaming or bittorrenting it and getting some kind of folkloric virus on top of my other shit today, so I figured I was doing the next best thing.
I found myself totally sobbing and deeply affected, even more than on prior viewings or, like, after-the-fact contemplation of the material. (Saying “like” distances me from the fact that I have indeedy thought at length about a film after watching it; it makes me sound less intelligent so that in case I am wrong it’s okay for you to correct me because what do I know? These are the sorts of things I was noticing about myself while reading and thinking today.)

“Mr. Grey…thank you so much for your helpful suggestions. Because I am trying to be the very best secretary that I can be for you.”

What I realized was that this is definitely one of those movies that is a movie about love done my way. It is actually pretty much exactly what. My kind of love, my kind of problems, my kind of change that is needed. I definitely have to buy this now, probably as soon as I pick my daughter up from school. I don’t know when I’d watch it. It’s a problem that a movie in which I see myself so nearly down to the last detail, recognize so many parts of myself, a film which I find wholly healing and uplifting in its tragic and touching way, is one I have to hide from my family: what does this mean. This means I must be ashamed of how I love. Yes? I think. All I know is that that’s wrong, somehow. Either I’m wrong or my shame is wrong. This is a problem.


“It’s your behavior.”
“What about my behavior?”
“It’s very bad.”