Time traveling with a sense of nostalgia

We are a fortunate lot, alive in an epoch when we can carry time-machines in our pockets, have time-machines in our homes, able to operate them without risking a collapse of the time-lines. Of course, I’m not referring to anything as expensive as a radically costumized DeLorean. But I’m referring to something that, contrary to all the science fiction inventions, really does work: the VHS tape, the DVD, the Blu Ray discs, the tablets and smartphones with access to vast virtual libraries of film and TV. With cinema a tad older than comic books, and TV a tad younger, in the almost 120 year-history of these visual art forms it is amazing the notion of vertiginous –yet unbroken – social change forever recorded in those cultural artefacts. Thanks to them, on the whim of a moment, one can visit another time-line; say one where it would be excitingly daring for a lady to lift her skirt above the knee; or unseemly for that same lady to sit at the dining table without waiting for a man to pull it back for her. On another whim, we can travel to a time when Janet Leigh is still alive and in her thirties, lying on a seedy motel bed in only a virginal white bra and a rumpled skirt. Jump after jump, we may by searching for a time when we ourselves were young and alive and attuned with the times, instead of surfing the timelines like lost retronauts in search of  archaeological memories. Excluded from the present by the ever-growing reach of the politically correct cancel police, one must dwell in the glow of days gone by.

On one of those jumps, I landed once more in the time when I was no more than twelve or thirteen, enjoying life and the endless pleasures only childhood allows, one of them being THE DUKES OF HAZZARD on TV. Bo and Luke Duke, just like Tom and Huck before them, were the epitome of youthful daring and sunny adventures. They lived in a fantasyland of dusty backroads and dense tree forests, of crystalline creeks and sun-softened two-lane blacktops. They drove a muscled up 1969 Dodge Charger with a characteristic charging horn and a Rebel Flag on its roof. And they had a cousin, Daisy Duke, that was as hot as the Sun and as cool as the Georgia rivers, and sexy as the sins country bumpkins went to confess in husky tones before Sunday mass.

This time around I landed in episode two of the second season, “Gold Fever” (1979). The plot, revolving around a gold swindle that almost puts Boss Hogg on a three million dollar debt to some Texas crooks, and Bo and Luke behind bars, is of no great concern to us here. What is, is a scene where, as the country narration of Waylon Jennings tells us, in order to impress the (to him, unbeknownst) swindler, Boss Hogg “shut the Boar’s Nest down, dressed Daisy up, and went all hog”. And the Texan swindler is dully impressed. Who wouldn’t be, with Daisy (Catherine Bach) dressed up in a frilly, v-necked mock-up of a French maid costume, all of it short skirt, black pantyhose and deep cleavage. Daisy is a wet-dream come true, and while the family-oriented comedy tone of the series makes us unmindful that she’s only working for Boss Hogg because he had loaned money to Uncle Jesse and the boys at a specially low-interest (to purchase the entry fee to run with their car, the General Lee, on a competition), the exploitative role of her attire makes any male viewer sizzle with desire.

Obviously, Daisy Duke is a country bumpkin caricature. But Catherine Bach has made the caricature come to sizzling live and throughout the entire run of the DUKES OF HAZZARD (1979-1985) she was able to turn Daisy’s sometimes unbelievable naïveté into one of her most charming assets, portraying her as negotiating a fine line between knowing she’s super hot and not believing that fact at all.

Not that Daisy is being naïve on the scene I’m considering here. When Boss Hogg keeps urging Daisy to put more food on the plate of his guest, she is plainly aware that when he answers with a subtly impolite “No, thank you, little darling, I’ve had quite enough. (Pause) Food, that is” he is plainly staring at her generous décolletage. As is Boss Hogg: “Careful, Daisy honey, the eyes of Texas are upon you.”

Daisy is there as mere eye-candy, an object of desire that Hogg exhibits as a way of mellowing his new business partner, impressing him; but also as a proud business man would exhibit one of his expensive acquisitions. And one could even perceive in Boss Hogg’s attitude a certain undisguised Georgian pride about the way this Georgian beauty is firing up the Texan’s concupiscence. Hogg and the Texan crook are on the same wavelength; Daisy however is not. She just rolls her eyes at such infantile infatuation and nonchalantly proceeds to embarrass Hogg by mentioning that a noise that came from the adjacent kitchen (Bo and Luke inadvertently tumbling some trays) came probably from the usual rats that dwell there.

This nonchalance on her part is what makes light – literally disarms – what could be perceived (and surely is, by today’s thought police) as the troubling objectification of a beautiful young woman in a family-oriented comedy/adventure series. For Daisy is at one with her hotness. It is part of her and who she is, and is something to enjoy and allow others to enjoy – on her own terms. The generosity of those terms made the happiness of countless kids in the late seventies and eighties, and will keep doing so while we’re able to travel back in time, to more simpler and happier days, through the oceans of time preciously stored in our jeweled plastic libraries.              

Ghosts of Summers Past

Back in the nineties, I enjoyed staying up well into the night, just writing. I used to tell myself that it was the sound of the world asleep that helped the ideas flow. But there is something more to it. The sense of going against the grain of society, just like a modern day vampire. It adds a frisson all its own. For at night, one becomes someone else entirely. Even if only inside one’s mind.

The light of day brings clarity. It shines on one’s limitations, brings forth the smallest imperfections; it draws you inwards, as the world presses down on your…hesitation. Yes. One hesitates a lot more during the day hours. Things are less certain. The clarity of form, breeds insecurity about intent. Can you reach what you desire? If so, will it live up to your expectations?

Somehow you withdraw when life proves willing. Again, you feel insecure. Unsure about making the choice, taking the step, accepting the risk. Again, yes, you hesitate. You fear to miss the right choice of words, to provoke the careful filigree to dissolve in a hapless mess. You fear failure.  

Oh, but at night. The whole world changes. Working at night, especially in those hot summer nights when the sweat runs over your skin on the wee hours of the night, like a cool blanket of molten lava pouring from your erupting, feverish mind, the ghosts of the day come alive. And all of life palpitates with promise.

Loosing yourself on the stillness of the air, without the merest hint of a breeze to flutter the curtains, you’re the sorcerer supreme of your all multiverse of desire. All hesitation is gone. Action seems incapable of error. Imperfection is erased, failure not a possibility. What you have denied is now yours to grasp. The stuff of your dreams is now putty in your hands.

And once day comes again, its light is no longer frightening. Hesitancy is gone. Every trembling doubt is answered with crystal clarity in the afterglow of creativity. You have beaten the blank page. You poured your dreams into the world, bereft now of insecurity, naked for all to see. Unashamed. Confident.

Such is the intensity of realisation, that you erase yourself from the picture. Your dreams have taken form and, when morning comes, they’re all that remains. Like ghosts of hot summer nights.  

What the Future Brings

 

So the wheel of time keeps turning, and once more there comes the painful time when one must look back into his past achievements and take measure of his worth. And, looking back over my shoulder, blog-wise, there’s not much to be seen… nor to be said. Just the vast empty space of posts unwritten, the silent digital wasteland of unfulfilled ideas, of promises unkept. As one year dissolves into another in the vertiginous movement of our rock around the sun, again there seems to be a springtime of the mind. A whispered promise that everything will be different this time. Will it? Or will it be just the same newfound impetus, bound to die on the first confrontation with the empty sheet of virtual paper on screen? Does it matter? To anyone but me? Will 2022 be just 2021 with a new coat of paint? Let’s wait and see. Let us brave it, and find out. Welcome to the new year.

I envied him.

Bela Lugosi (Martin Landau) and Ed Wood (Johnny Depp) are strolling down Hollywood Boulevard on a sunny morning, when the above dialogue takes place. It is the morning after the riotous premiere of BRIDE OF THE MONSTER (1955) in a fleapit cinema, and they’re referring to the moment when one of the wild teenagers runs up to Vampira and grabs her breasts.

The movie is, of course, ED WOOD (1994) by Tim Burton, and Vampira, the TV persona of Maila Nurmi, is played by then Burton’s wife Lisa Marie, a model turned actress that was one of the most beautiful women of the nineties. So strikingly beautiful, in fact, that she was able to turn a non-speaking role in MARS ATTACKS (1996) into an iconic science fiction trope.

The scene above culminates in an impromptu autograph session when some passersby recognize Lugosi who is in a sunny disposition. It is a heart-warming moment. Watching the movie for the first time, one doesn’t realize that in the immediate scene, Ed will be told of Lugosi’s death. When Lugosi mischiviously says to Wood that he envied the kid who took a grab of Vampira’s breasts, he’s not envying him just that fleeting grope. He’s envying him the daring of youth (minutes before, when driving to the cinema, with Lugosi pressed against Vampira in the back seat of the cab, she tells him to watch his hands), the mindless hormonal rush ignited by the movie frenzy that practically tears the theatre down. He’s envying him the promise of a future that he senses he no longer has.

In a way, I guess, Lugosi was enjoying the chaotic walk down the aisle, with the howls of the savage hordes of teenagers reviving in him, for the last time, the long lost sense of success, of being a figure instantly recognizable by any, and all, moviegoers. As he still is, today.

Who really envies the kid (actor Johnny Meyer, I think) for his daring raid on the bountiful breasts of Lisa Marie, is the rest of us, immersed on the dream world of the movies, wondering if the kid understands that he is groping Lisa Marie, playing Maila Nurmi, playing Vampira, in an Escher-like illusion of erotic bliss.  The envy we mere mortals feel towards those like us who get to touch the sublime.

As time goes by

Time is an endless river that swallows us whole, dragging us down with it into oblivion. Sometimes its course is a short straight line, others a winding circuitous journey through harsh rugged terrain. Others yet, it goes underground, seemingly disappearing forever. Sometimes it surfaces again. Not always. It’s the same with blogs like this one. Time has been such a rare commodity, life’s interests so varied that one never seems to find the right moment, the right post, the right idea, to come back to it. And so it lies dormant, seemingly dead, the river never resurfacing again.

Until  one braves the harshness of time and comes back to it, hoping to find it yet free of the ravages of mould and decay. Beautifull in its stilness, still plyant and suple, although pale for the recent lack of sun and warmth.

It’s been almost three years, and one still remembers how alive it was before – but it wasn’t, really, it never was… is was just a game. Full of promises and ideas, but always a second thought. But not to my mind. Not to me. It reminds me of joyfull hours spent with wonderfull films, books, and other blogs. Strange images and outrageous scenes.

But, just like Dr. Hichcock, it was I who killed beauty. True, it wasn’t something violent and bloody like a staking through the heart, the wood, herdenned by fire, puncturing the soft warm breast of a defenseless sleeping victim.

No, no, nothing like that. It was through sheer neglect of a willing partner. Too much of that, not enough of the attention she needed. In my defense, I should say it was due to some eagerness to go beyond the limits, to fill myself with too much of its promises. Erotic thrillers, damsels in distress, the defilement of innocence…

No, it was not something violent, it was not murderous in intent. But it happened. However, just like Dr. Hichcock’s Margaretta, maybe the blog is not dead yet. Maybe it is just dormant. Maybe it can be brought back to life if I can shock it with the spark it needs.

That’s something to be tried, for sure.

And so, here I am, not like a slayer, but like a vampire, stalking the sleeping victim in a mirror image of the dreaded necrophiliac I could very well be.

 
Sure, there’s something of parodic in this ritual. The undead, not quite alive, approach the as yet living, intent on turning them into something else. There’s something of religious in there, and obviously something sexual. The hands of the vampire are drawn to the heaving breasts of its victim as if by undying instinct, as dead moths trying to cling to the living warmth of the flesh.

There’s something of obscene in it, as well, of corrupting, as sometimes the victim is fooled into willingness. She welcomes that embrace most foul, allows herself to be swept through the door that separates being from eternal non-being. At least when you’re dead, you leave something behind…like a blog.

Can it still be revived? Can it be kept alive?

Only time will tell…