Kinky Idol Mirrors
Mirror, Mirror
Returning to Montreal, I looked into a mirror: I have churches for eyes, a cobbled tongue, St. Laurent hair. It was the first time I ever realized in a thousand-flashing-lightbulb way the extent that the city's inscribed on my bones...Or, truer yet, that my skeleton's made of Montreal.
My trippy, awkward, overthought relationship with language? From growing up in a city with language police, from the Anglo habit of saying everything twice, once in English, once in French, of ploughing ahead in the second if the first gets a blank stare or a nationalist glare then committing crimes against the rolling-R flow of la langue officielle. My ineffable sense of me-ness that sometimes reads like arrogance? From living in a city that knows who it is, baby, love it or hate it, not caring about its own contradictions, its contradistinctions, its contractible mix of greasy poutine and Josephian Oratory. My sometimes-feeling of outsiderness? Anglo alienation in a pure-laine world, words outlawed, no fleur-de-lys embossed on my inner eye-lids, no Grandmere of an endless brood to serve me tourtiere, ancestral coureurs de bois, and Kamouraska, no sense of oppression by the esprit-crushing maple leaf. My attraction to the hidden, the locked door, the secret discovery? Growing up in an anti-linear place, no boundaries between sacred and profane, old Cartier and new quartier, stone and glass, high-brow and Neanderthal, so that every turn of a corner takes you through a looking glass to somewhere unexpected.
Vancouver's given me openness, relaxation, a sleepy appreciation of the natural world, but Montreal? My birth-city owns me.
___
Debauchery
debauch 2 make intemperate or sensually indulgent. One man turning another into a sensual slut--big, big kink of mine. Lex seducing Clark, forcing out his inner whore so that Clark will do anything for an orgasm? Steamier than Vesuvian lava. Lex throwing aside his reserve to become Clark's hungry bitch, following him everywhere for a taste? Hotter than the sun's inner core. Sirius becoming Remus' 24/7 cock-sucker? Remus becoming Sirius' eternal sex-slave, no thoughts of Harry, morality, propriety or place? Um...Woof! I'm essentially an equal-opportunity debauchery fan: it matters less who becomes debauched than that it happens, that plain ol' desire turns into something flamey and obsessive, orgasm as ontology. (Sidenote: obession has a disappointing etymology: ob- + the Latin root sedere, sit. I'd like a wilder, more furiously active verb, one that suggests masturbatory stalking, not window-side mooning.)
Mmmm. Kink. Doesn't it just make you all tingly to think of your favorites? Okay, duh, because that's the nature of kink: if it doesn't make you tingly, it doesn't qualify for that exalted category.
___
Dear Canadian Idol,
While there are many obvious targets of attack on your show--a host with all the personality of Play-Doh left in the rain, a panel of judges whose combined zingers wouldn't fit on the head of Mulroney's dick, etc.--I choose to chastize the judges for their ubiquitous and egregious misuse of the word disillusioned. Judges, the decapitated chickens squawking before you are not, in fact, disillusioned about their singing ability (at least before they were booted from the show): they are deluded about said ability (or lack thereof). I, on the other hand, to give you an example, am disillusioned about the current state of Canadian literacy after watching you repeatedly upchuck on the English language, while you are deluded about your value as entertainment.
Yours with a whip,
Thamiris
Returning to Montreal, I looked into a mirror: I have churches for eyes, a cobbled tongue, St. Laurent hair. It was the first time I ever realized in a thousand-flashing-lightbulb way the extent that the city's inscribed on my bones...Or, truer yet, that my skeleton's made of Montreal.
My trippy, awkward, overthought relationship with language? From growing up in a city with language police, from the Anglo habit of saying everything twice, once in English, once in French, of ploughing ahead in the second if the first gets a blank stare or a nationalist glare then committing crimes against the rolling-R flow of la langue officielle. My ineffable sense of me-ness that sometimes reads like arrogance? From living in a city that knows who it is, baby, love it or hate it, not caring about its own contradictions, its contradistinctions, its contractible mix of greasy poutine and Josephian Oratory. My sometimes-feeling of outsiderness? Anglo alienation in a pure-laine world, words outlawed, no fleur-de-lys embossed on my inner eye-lids, no Grandmere of an endless brood to serve me tourtiere, ancestral coureurs de bois, and Kamouraska, no sense of oppression by the esprit-crushing maple leaf. My attraction to the hidden, the locked door, the secret discovery? Growing up in an anti-linear place, no boundaries between sacred and profane, old Cartier and new quartier, stone and glass, high-brow and Neanderthal, so that every turn of a corner takes you through a looking glass to somewhere unexpected.
Vancouver's given me openness, relaxation, a sleepy appreciation of the natural world, but Montreal? My birth-city owns me.
___
Debauchery
debauch 2 make intemperate or sensually indulgent. One man turning another into a sensual slut--big, big kink of mine. Lex seducing Clark, forcing out his inner whore so that Clark will do anything for an orgasm? Steamier than Vesuvian lava. Lex throwing aside his reserve to become Clark's hungry bitch, following him everywhere for a taste? Hotter than the sun's inner core. Sirius becoming Remus' 24/7 cock-sucker? Remus becoming Sirius' eternal sex-slave, no thoughts of Harry, morality, propriety or place? Um...Woof! I'm essentially an equal-opportunity debauchery fan: it matters less who becomes debauched than that it happens, that plain ol' desire turns into something flamey and obsessive, orgasm as ontology. (Sidenote: obession has a disappointing etymology: ob- + the Latin root sedere, sit. I'd like a wilder, more furiously active verb, one that suggests masturbatory stalking, not window-side mooning.)
Mmmm. Kink. Doesn't it just make you all tingly to think of your favorites? Okay, duh, because that's the nature of kink: if it doesn't make you tingly, it doesn't qualify for that exalted category.
___
Dear Canadian Idol,
While there are many obvious targets of attack on your show--a host with all the personality of Play-Doh left in the rain, a panel of judges whose combined zingers wouldn't fit on the head of Mulroney's dick, etc.--I choose to chastize the judges for their ubiquitous and egregious misuse of the word disillusioned. Judges, the decapitated chickens squawking before you are not, in fact, disillusioned about their singing ability (at least before they were booted from the show): they are deluded about said ability (or lack thereof). I, on the other hand, to give you an example, am disillusioned about the current state of Canadian literacy after watching you repeatedly upchuck on the English language, while you are deluded about your value as entertainment.
Yours with a whip,
Thamiris