Friday, April 23, 2010

Yes I am Frump. You can Go Fuck Yourself.




Oh lovely. Or should I say not lovely? A continuation of the old hag argument with the New York Times Style Online section, laser eyes directed at my Simone De B, although without the loving respect Ariana Reines gives Duras. Okay. Let me see if I get this the fuck right. I'm making sure. This article is analyzing whether Simone De B was fuckable or frumpable. The Simone De B who writes of women writers being doomed to immanence by the self-consciousness of the GAZE. C'est right NYT?

A Simone De Beauvoir Look Book. You can't see me. I am sitting in a cafe in Chicago. I have just been to a hairstylist, my Charlie, who has told me that my hair is thinning because of extreme stress. I am thinking. That is okay. I am a writer. I cannot obsess. I am not limited to my gendered body. But no. One can be one of the most formidable minds of the 20th century, but ARE YE FUCKABLE? ARE YE? You cannot see me but I have torn off my clothes in this Chicago cafe, I have torn off my clothes and I am frothing chai at the mouth and I am running around naked and panting around the black-and-red checkered floor.

No. This is hilarious. BEING AND FRUMPINESS. A woman writer cannot grow old, no cannot grow old.

Nowadays, even her frumpy cafe ensembles would not be out of place in an Anthropologie catalog.


I have just self-immolated. 


And they bring up the photo. The one taken in Chicago. Apres la bain. She grew hot after fucking Algren. She is standing in front of the mirror naked except for high shoes, pinning her hair. A photograph Algren's close friend snapped her unawares. A beautiful photograph yet one that repulses me. Reminds me of Marcel Duchamps' photograph of his Kiki, the one referencing Ingres. I recently read Kiki's memoirs in a rain-soaked library edition. The Surrealist muse, all lovely backside, absent of expression. She has quite a rear on her, the magazine said. A delight in objectifying the ample rump of one of the greatest minds of the 20th century. As if to say. You are still the second sex. You will still unrobe yourself and discard your intellect at the bedside table.