On the Moment to Moment Instability of Beauty and Ugliness

Someone, I’m sure has written about this. I just haven’t come across it yet. It’s too obvious--and also too unsettling. This scandal: that the beautiful are not beautiful, and the ugly are not ugly, consistently.

That the beautiful are sometimes ugly is a disgrace. That the ugly are, without warning, beautiful is heartening.

Why struggle to befriend the beautiful people? By the time you catch up to them they could very well be hideous.

I am disconcerted. I’d prefer if people just stayed in one camp or another. Beautiful or Ugly. Permanently. The world would be easier to understand then, and easier to prepare for.

Some oscillation, some divergence, can be blamed on late nights, on whether one is beloved or forsaken, on the consumption of salmon, on happiness or unhappiness, and of course on beer—but the greater, more significant change remains a mystery. Does it change with the moon? Is it karmic or atmospheric? Should I not wait so long between haircuts?

Because nowhere is this more disruptive than in oneself. Other people can be forgiven. Here comes the day of the family portrait, it’s date night, and you think, I’m doing okay. Of course, I’m nothing special, but I do make it to the gym now and then. I moisturize.

But you look in the mirror that day and find a haggard aged goblin struggling to contain her eating disorder by means of IV drugs. Aghast at your reflection, you ask: where has this weight come from? Why is my skin this color? Have I managed to die without noticing? Yesterday I somehow imagined I was remotely okay. What happened?

That this happens is well-known. I don’t know why more people haven't written about it.

Conversely, a sudden shift from ugliness to beauty appears to be positive. However this shift is likewise calamitous and generally causes more trouble than sudden ugliness.

Imagine then, this situation. This situation which is very familiar to me. You are not attractive. Your features are unfortunate. Your body sags. Your genitals are unspectacular. You’re getting on in years. And you’ve accepted this.

You say to yourself: now it is time to focus on my spiritual life. Now I will learn to meditate and let go. Now I will study the Collected Essays of Michel de Montaigne. Now I will give back to the community.

Enough, you say. Enough nonsense. Enough vanity.

You no longer seek out mirrors but, then--one can’t really avoid them. You glance and there is a nanosecond of pure astonishment.

Hmmm. I’m not half-bad.

A nanosecond—and then you fall at once to plotting. Because if you look this good, then doubtless there are attractive people somewhere who would not object to sleeping with you. And hadn’t you better give them more opportunities to do so?

There is anxiety in this, heavy-duty anxiety, because you are well-aware that, not only will these good looks be gone in twenty years, they may very well have vamoosed by the next time you look in the mirror.

So you rush back to the mirror. Careful now not to turn on the overhead fluorescent. Still okay. Phew.

And the next moment you’re out in the street, flagging down a taxi on your way to (at best) that overpriced cruisy coffee shop or (more likely) that bar where no one wears anything but boots. Just boots. Nothing else.

Beauty and ugliness alternate back and forth. The Collected Essays of Montaigne remain unread.

The Life and Adventures of Randy Mesmer

CARNAL KNOWLEDGE OF MANNEQUINS

At the age of seven Randy Mesmer became renowned--at least within the family—for groping a mannequin at Filene’s.

Curious Randy clamped his avid hands on the stolid gentleman in turtleneck and corduroys and had to be pulled off by his mother, who shouted when she discovered him in this compromised position and, to tell the truth, never looked at her little boy in quite the same way again.

Thereafter, Randy was designated: the third son, the gimp-legged one. Who gropes mannequins. His family guessed, accurately as it turned out, that little Randy was going to be a world of trouble in this arena.

The cause of this commotion--the mannequin’s nether regions—were lackluster and un-compelling. One side, in fact, was much like the other.

Misinformed thus, Randy managed several respectable years. Until age 13, when he groped his first non-mannequin and discovered a situation more complex and appealing than he’d hitherto supposed.

Of all the excesses that came afterward, his family would only sigh and explain, “What do you expect from a boy who gropes a mannequin at Filene’s?”

Indeed.

epigraph

from Montaigne, our ishta-devata, our pal Michel,
the patron saint of “on the other hand –“:

We are all a patchwork, and so shapeless and diverse in composition that each bit, each moment, plays its own game.

The Life and Adventures of Randy Mesmer

GREEN LUST

Randy Mesmer was alarmed to discover his lust had expanded, past men and past women and—thankfully skipping the animals—was now headed straight for the trees. The feelings once reserved for “rugged uncut Latino hunk” were now equally called forth by the phrases “stand of white birches” or “big old oak.” Horniness had expanded, somehow, so that now he found himself with a hankering for the whole green world.

Of all the ends to which people had warned his rampant lust would lead him, this one had not been mentioned. A fetish for green. Green, which presses in everywhere, which fills every crevice, every neglected patch of dirt. This devouring, insatiable green.

Funny how, it turned out to be true, the Junior High tease: green means you’re horny.

He learned quickly to beware the sexy pictures that came in brown recycled wrappers from Audobon, Orion, and the Sierra Club. He could easily be sent into a binge and find himself at the end of the weekend with an entirely immoderate number of houseplants.

If one must have this feeling, fine, but shouldn’t it be reserved for orchids, for roses, for high-end botanical woo-woo? But, in greenery as in men, he preferred the more common varieties. It was more than a little humiliating. He was not even above geraniums.

And so many things had to be reconsidered, now that the naturalists had turned out to be every bit as alluring as the naturists. Certainly he’d never look the same way at old ladies gone bird-watching, looking so pious, clad all in canvas within the forest glen. Those ladies, he suspected, were probably getting off hard as a sailor on shore leave.

And, not to flatter himself, but he was pretty sure the trees liked him too. Somehow he just knew. And there was this great benefit: the lightning-struck black walnut did not give a damn how old he was, how clumsy or unshaven.

These perversities, of course, were no more acceptable than any of his previous ones. People were appalled—this ecology goes too far!—when they found him at the party in the corner, in flagrante delicto with a potted palm.

MONTREAL MUNICIPAL SEX LAW: Explanation for Visitors

Visitors to Montreal, bewildered by the vision of so many perfect men, may be overwhelmed by feelings of personal inadequacy. To be just ordinary, just average, may seem a cause for shame. Fortunately this is needless. For it is with this heartache in mind—and the corresponding bitterness, resentment and loss of tourist income—that municipal laws have been enacted which require city residents to have sex every day.

Frequency is dictated according to age and attractiveness. A man of seventy, dapper in his neat white suit and straw hat, is only required to have sex once. Whereas a twenty four year old with washboard abs, puppy eyes and three days growth of beard is required to have sex at least six times. Six times! It is sobering to consider what a strenuous sacrifice the citizens of Montreal have made in order for the city to be as thriving, popular and well-loved as it is today.

The core of this is that, with such tremendous quotas and requirements, even the plainest looking tourist is bound to get swept in occasionally.

Therefore, do not be surprised if you find yourself being offered sex by someone more beautiful than you would be eligible for in any other city on Earth. Do not be bashful or apologetic. That ridiculously gorgeous man is simply attempting to follow municipal law. As a responsible visitor, you should also respect the law.

It is common that residents find themselves, at nearly midnight, still short of their quota. They may call on you to help. You should do so, if humanly possible.

Residents who fail to meet their quota are fined. Habitual offenders must attend classes where they are made to watch porno and consume oysters.

The recent strength of the Canadian dollar—and the corresponding drop in tourism—has meant residents must look even further a field in order to discharge their duty. Tourists may very well be overwhelmed by appeals for help.

Some predictable questions and doubts:

Unlike the laws against public nudity and marijuana smoking, these laws are actually enforced. Violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, etc.

Married couples who wish to remain monogamous may be granted a waiver for religious reasons. It must be admitted that these people are generally looked down upon and may face discrimination in the workplace.

Why are tourists so popular? After all, residents could fulfill their quota by having sex with each other—and leave the rest of the world bereft of inspiration. The answer is simple. When calculating one’s quota, tourists are worth 33.33% more. Fucking tourists is more efficient. Also, residents who welcome visitors receive coupons from the Chamber of Commerce redeemable for exotic underpants, Belle Guelle pilsner and marijuana, all of which are very expensive and highly prized in this area.

Many visitors, entranced by the city’s warm welcome, wish to remain in Montreal for the rest of their lives. Prospective residents must ask themselves if they are up to the demands of the city’s hustle and bustle. Are you willing to have sex every day?

Other visitors may be disgusted—or simply exhausted. They may choose a city where sex is frowned-upon or banned outright. It is unnecessary to name such places. They are legion.

Inconvenienced

Frida Kahlo did not accept her crippled leg and kept it hidden beneath her flowery exotic skirts. “Every year I hate it more,” she said, matter-of-fact and without complaint. I love her for that.

In public I keep peace with my withered leg, its mangled hoof. To inquiries I’ve learned to say, “It’s a birth defect,” in the sunniest possible tone, as if I’d just spotted, in the distance, a bluebird or a cardinal.

Dutifully I strap the foot into its plastic brace, like an aged relative who merits attention even though he can do almost nothing. When I’m alone it’s different—I throw a blanket over it.

Still, it is shameful to be bothered with it, here on the beach at Sihanoukville, where the mine victims crawl, tourist to tourist, across the beach and the rule seems to be that you can't be a beggar unless you’re missing at least two limbs.

I had a lover once who was paraplegic. A Vietnam vet paralyzed below (not at) the waist. He always insisted he was not crippled. Not disabled either, or handicapped. “I am only inconvenienced,” he insisted. “Some of my friends are quads. That’s crippled.”

His arms were extraordinarily strong, especially at night, when, returned in dreams to Vietnam, he grappled in combat and, howling in his sleep, hurled me from the bed.

Refuge Vows

Today is the 14th anniversary of the day I took Buddhist refuge vows with Kirti Tsenshab Rinpoche in Dharamsala. I was twenty, living in the monastery, imagining I would be a monk. I knew I liked men by then, of course, I just wasn’t quite ready for just how much I liked them.

Rereading Shantideva today. I swore to be a bodhisattva—and it’s still hard for me to give up my seat on the train. I’m sitting comfortably and some old woman totters onto the train, she’s maybe 104, one leg amputated at the knee, and, bodhisattva me, I think, “She’s just going for the sympathy vote. She doesn’t look that bad off. And as for me, I’m tired.”

I go for refuge to the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha.
I go for refuge to the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha.
I go for refuge to the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha.

On the Buckle

It really is one of the happiest sounds in the universe: the jangle of a man fumbling with his belt. For this reason belt buckles ought to be as large and ponderous as possible, so that a man feels proud, just hauling one around, and also cheered to unbuckle one and send it, clattering, to the ground.

Rich Sons

One afternoon in Phnom Penh, over many cups of coffee, he told us about one of the rich sons of Cambodia, who, in a moment of irritation, had opened fire on a crowd.

Rich sons, it is said, are never punished. Here was the test. A crime so heinous, committed before dozens of witnesses; the rich son slouched in the courtroom, looking bored and wearing sunglasses. Even the cynics thought he might not get away with it.

So it seemed until the morning the judge announced the verdict. There'd been a break in the case, he said. This boy was framed: now the real villain had been found.

As proof, the judge held up the perpetrator's passport. The passport was real, made late the night before for a man who did not exist.

(The testimony of witnesses counts for nothing. The witness of the poor is a bill of minute denomination and subject to constant devaluation.)

The man who did not exist was sentenced to life in prison. A terrible sentence, which no one likes to think about.

The lives of imaginary men are unspeakably long, their suffering almost unimaginable to those of us who die more easily.

The verdict: innocent people, gunned down in a market, leads to the imprisonment of an imaginary man, pulled into creation only to suffer, to serve on behalf of the rich son who walks, with his sunglasses, back out into the sun.

Fidelity

Do mosquitoes have a sense of family? Does the female mosquito long to return, at the end of the night, blood-engorged, to her mate?

Few things, then, are more melancholy than a mosquito trapped on an overnight bus. It all seemed so promising when she buzzed in the door—so many bodies pressed together, crumpled shirts exposing skin, and the travelers too tired to protest a small deduction from their veins.

Full of blood, she finds herself confined and, when she finally tumbles out, groggy with the rest of the passengers, she enters an atmosphere sultry and dense, unlike any she has known.

Heavy with blood she sinks in the air. Success counts for nothing.

She is unfamiliar with the predators of this place.

A gecko snares her.

(Vientiane, 02.05.07)

Sentence

Here I will briefly pay tribute to the most important sentence in literature.

The sentence is from Dostoyevsky, but it doesn’t really belong to him. You can use it too. Like a pair of good black pants, it’s suitable for all occasions. Like a tiny flashlight, it may suddenly become crucial. Theologically, the sentence is one of the incarnations of Vishnu, unless you’re talking to a Christian, who will pronounce it “grace”. Published by Dostoyevsky in 1844, the sentence is actually as old as the universe, which may rightfully be said to have begun with it.

Notes from the Underground, page 144. “But at this point something exceedingly strange happened.”

Note

Please keep in the mind that this guttersnipe, devoted servant of guttersnipes, also welcomes the advice of venerable, venerable you.

In fact you have some responsibility, don't you, to keep us out of danger? Elsewise we may end up descending into obscenities and mis-matched plaids.

For example, in the previous post, there was an extremely tacky use of the word "circumsized". It has been corrected now, don't worry. But please do send notes from time to time or else we fear there may yet be more disasters, botched circumcisions, et cetera.

Respectfully,

Ever Yours,

G.S. Das

Glory Holes

I’m hiding behind a sign on which FOREIGNER is written in stinking black permanent ink. Only a little bit of me sticks out: sometimes my pink face, sometimes the other part, also pink.

As for them, they’re behind signs that say JAPANESE—it isn’t written out in full—and when we get drunk together, well, we’re both drunk!

Amazing how much sex you can have, even with 97% cardboard. Hardly gets in the way at all. You just put your mouth down to the little hole. “Pardon me, honorable sir, is there some piece of you, you could send over here?”

Shoulder to shoulder in the gutted factory: what’s left of the machines is covered in rust and jammed with bones.

Doesn’t work? Doesn’t need to work! You’re getting 6,000 yen an hour, mister. Pretend it works.

The classroom is shared. The answer to number one?

We think it’s A.

No, Elana says it’s C. Next!

Number two? C?

No Elana says it’s B. Next. . . No Elana says it’s B.

No, Elana says. Elana says!

(No, I don’t know what’s up either, Takashi. And, sorry, no, there isn’t time for questions.)

(The Ugly Daughter, illustration by Akemi Shinohara)

Dream: The Ugly Daughter

I dreamt I was at an opera being held in a great field. I was with my husband but I walked away from him to where a family was seated in special boxed seats made of concrete and rabbit wire: a sallow mother, a pallid father and their only child, a daughter.

I walked right up to her. “So—You’re the bad daughter,” I said. And she was. A fat ugly poor white girl with bad skin and dull eyes.

The daughter nodded her approval of me. Her parents left us alone. The ugly daughter was smart and tough. We liked each other a lot but after my brash greeting I was very careful and formal. I understood that she was a being of vast and profound power.

I had to go then. The show was starting.

As a parting gift the ugly daughter gave me a box of delicate and slender arrows.

“I’ll put these in my check bag and not my carry-on,” I said. She laughed.

When I left her I thought, “I was a crazy, to go right up to her like that. She's unbelieveably powerful, the ugly daughter.”

Then I comforted myself. I do things other people won’t do and go places they won’t go. That’s why the gods can use me.


(from 04. 30. 06)

Traveling Companion

By the end of breakfast on the first day it's already clear that the person I’ve chosen to travel with—who seemed so nice, admittedly in a quirky way—is actually a total nutcase.

The way he stares down strangers, his affected tone of voice, his obsessive need for a schedule, his compulsion to fill up space with senseless talk, his repellent mix of timidity and vanity— it's intolerable.

When sex enters the picture—an attractive stranger, say, at the next table--then we really get the dark side. The pious timid gentleman abruptly becomes as devious, as calculating and relentless, as a Kashmiri carpet salesman. It is frankly more than a little creepy. I must make my own safety—and sanity—a priority. Therefore, I am determined to be rid of him at the earliest opportunity.

There remains this overwhelming difficulty: I am traveling alone.

( Bangkok , 01. 25.07)

Calamity

A new thrill’s a calamity. A violent accident. You’ll have an ache now, where there wasn’t one before.

or it’s a newly introduced foreign species (I’ve forgotten the term) some iridescent fish that looks so delicate, a brilliant purple flower on a creeping vine. (It’s all right. It’ll never take root here. It’s too cold.) Before you know it, the vine swarms over the telephone poles and the native fish—dull-colored bottom feeders—have all but disappeared.

The wonder is how a new desire appears in your life fully formed, as if it had been there all along. A room in your house you’ve never been. The door was papered over, the doorknob hidden in the pattern, but the room was always there, with white walls and a straight-backed wooden chair and an elegant slender lady, very tall, sitting for years in a brocade dress, hands in her lap, face painted for the Easter service, waiting for the bell to ring, so that she can come out through the wall, and tip her head and show you her enormous prick.

Please visit HITOTOKI, "a new literary site collecting stories of personal, singular experiences in Tokyo." They are creating a new map of Tokyo--a map of stories.

This seems to me a meaningful part of the painstaking work to re-enchant Tokyo. (Or was it enchanted all along and I've just been slow to notice?)

One of my stories "Ham Egg Pie" is there, along with half a dozen excellent and specific others.

Bask

illustration by Akemi Shinohara

Bask

The anaconda, it's revealed, can shorten its period of gestation by as much as 100 days just by basking in the sun.

Nothing furthers the unborn snake as much as just lazing around.

I learned this from television. I may have to reconsider television. It may be that the medium has been redeemed. I've always loathed television as a pathetic waste of the human life. As for myself, I've been ceaselessly diligent. I make a schedule and keep it; I am strict with myself.

And I’ve accomplished nothing. Filled out index cards on 4000 unrelated subjects. Nothing completed. Nothing has turned out.

To think of how many years I've wasted being diligent!

Never once did I imagine that dreaming might be the best advance.

The clue may be in the verb—to bask. Not to fritter or to putts, no anxious finger-tapping: bask.

One hundred-forty-four baby snakes: curled around each other, growing silently within. The snake must do what the snake must do; the Sun must do what the Sun must do. Inside the snakes grow in warmth and stillness. Do not interfere.

( Bangkok , 01.26.07)