“Spinning His Wheels”

His ticker was ticking, but skipping its tock.

He opened the panel to examine the clock.

The gears were all there, the nuts and bolts, too.

The cogs were not missing, what else could he do?

With the twist of a lever, he popped off his pate-lid,

To see if his brain was where the true problem hid.

The lobes were all there, the parts were clean and unrusted.

(In fact, his gray matter had been recently dusted.)

He tinkered and prodded and poked all around,

Not one mechanical failure was found.

Frustrated, his boiler began to bubble and scream,

And this caused his sight-orbs to fill up with steam.

Unthinking and maddened, he deployed armor of steel,

He locked down his brakes and then dug in his heels.

Still, he tried to move forward, but only managed to reel--

In the end he just stood there, spinning his wheels.

- Lisette Atiyeh

"The Cog Slipped": A Steampunk Poem

They walked on slowly through the silver-gray fog.

He thought for certain that she’d slipped a cog.

How could she refuse him, so dashing, so rich?!

“There must be,” he thought, “some sort of a glitch.”

"A rusted amygdala, a misfiring synapse,

Or a dented or shattered cerebrum, perhaps."

The spring in his steel jaw was angrily twitching,

The vein in his forehead pulsed under its stitching.

His sight-orbs stared forward, whirling quite wildly.

She studied him carefully, and then she spoke, mildly:

“I don’t say this to grieve you, but you must understand–"

(At this, she touched his mechanical hand.)

“You are an arrogant being, and overly bold,

You’d stifle me with your unyielding hold.”

“I am an artist, and therefore, must have my own voice.”

“So, you see,” she continued, “you've left me no choice.”

And then, he began to simmer and sputter,

Oil oozed from his ears, and his sight-orbs did flutter.

He reeled on his axis, and his visage grew pale,

Sparks flew from his chest, and then his arms flailed.

Sinking faster and faster, his iron knees hit the ground.

There was hissing and whirring, and then, a deafening sound.

In a burst it was over, and nothing of him was found...

Except a smoldering, pitiful, dumb ashen mound.

Costume Drama: "All About Eve(s)"

I have written before about the importance of clothing as it relates to identity, but I'd like to revisit the topic from a slightly different angle. All About Eve has always struck me as effective in its use of costume as a means of developing the dynamic between young upstart Eve Harrington and her idol/target, established stage actress Margo Channing.

Women are still enacting this drama, all over the world, in various milieus, and at all ages. It has been famously said that women don't dress for men, they dress to be annoying to other women -- and it's true. Women carry on a sort of psychological warfare with one another through their clothing, and while the outcome is often relatively harmless (when the competition is mild and silly), there are instances that take on a far more sinister cast.

In AAE, budding actress Eve mimics Margo, the very competition she wishes to eliminate. Birdie Coonan, Margo's friend and assistant, explains, "she's studyin' you, like you was a play or a book or a set of blueprints. How you walk, talk, eat, think, sleep--" Visually, we realize that Eve imitates Margo through clothing, as well. We see her wearing one of Margo's hand-me-downs, she holds Margo's period costume against her body while gazing in a mirror, she wears an evening dress that's similar to Margo's during the famous party episode, etc. It's as though Eve were putting Margo on, like a second skin, trying to become her.

This sort of thing happens in real life... and it's just as annoying, and just as scary. Why, you might ask, would the antagonist/copycat wish to become the "carbon copy you read when you can't find the original," as Eve unwittingly reveals? Simple. It's because she is not an original -- in any way. She cannot be original because, in spite of critic Addison De Witt's statement to the conniving Eve, "There never was, and there never will be, another like you," the fact is, there are plenty of Eves out there, as we see at the end of the movie, when "Phoebe" starts to "do one" to Eve as Eve has "done one" to Margo.

The Eve type is ambitious, yet soulless, and therefore cannot possess originality, as originality can only spring from substance; simply, there is no there there. So, in order to surpass the original, she must out-Herod Herod, and she'll often do this in the easiest, most obvious way -- through the outward trappings of your personality, namely, your clothing/style. You will find the Eve type stealing a glance at your shoes, or an unusual piece of jewelry, or feeling the fabric of your dress, without saying a word about the coveted item. Or, she might compliment you on it, buy an exact replica, and then pretend she never knew you "had one just like hers." Either way, she will make it her business to acquire (a version of) your wardrobe, and you will eventually notice this. And it will annoy you to no end. And that's when you find yourself in the middle of a competition you had no thought toward entering, particularly if you are not the competitive type. Yet, now, you feel the need to (re)establish your own you-ness, and that, of course, is frustrating, as it ought to be wholly unnecessary.

And really, that is part of the Eves' game, tho' perhaps even they don't know it. By pushing you to (re)assert your selfhood, they have forced you to enter the competition, and, in so doing, you make them relevant. They are now relevant in your life, and therefore, in their own lives, which were once (and really, still are) so empty. This is a simulation of a life, but to them, it's as good as real, as they are only a simulation (of you), themselves. They now feel that there is a there there.

The feelings that they have created in you and themselves amount to a semblance of substance. The competition, and all it entails, has given them something to live for. This is all they can manage, really, because they are incapable of anything deeper. If their inner lives were rich, they wouldn't need the drama in the first place. If they were comfortable in their own skins, they wouldn't need to steal costumes. As it is, however, they will always be play-acting, even after all others have quitted the stage, and the audience has left the theater.

"Franimosity"

Franimosity
n. The dual state of friendliness and animosity displayed by a frenemy toward his/her victim.

I coined this term the other day while pondering (as is my way) over the curious combination of antagonism, meanness, jealousy, admiration, and twisted "love" a frenemy feels for, and exhibits toward, the object of their love-hatred. For many of us, it is hard to understand this phenomenon other than intellectually. Psychologically, we get it; we know the frenemy is like this because of his/her insecutity and psychological issues. Emotionally, and I may say, morally, however, we cannot accept it as logical or reasonable; it just doesn't make sense.

"What on earth is wrong with him/her?" we ask, even tho' we know full well what the problem is. I think what we can't explain is the process by which the frenemy decides that it's "okay" to be the way they are. Why is he/she exempt from self-analysis, self-criticism, and self-betterment, while the rest of us must look deeply within ourselves, see the ugly, and eradicate it?

Again, the explanation can only provide us with intellectual understanding, tho' we will never be able to accept the fact of it, nor pardon it, nor even, perhaps, pity the offender. Having established this, I imagine the reason for franimosity is such: if the frenemy were to soul-search and see the ugly, (s)he'd implode. Admitting a wrong requires its rectification. And, there is neither enough goodness, nor strength, nor generosity in him/her to handle this task. Frenemies would have to change their ways, and they, quite simply and frankly, don't wanna.

The conscience, however, is something difficult to tune out. Therefore, while the frenemy's conscious mind may ignore the conscience's proddings, the subconscious mind is turning black and blue from its efforts. This is where the franimosity enters, stage right, and the act begins. The frenemy now dons a mask of friendship and performs a pantomime in which compliments, manic smiles, and even hugs are intended to pass for signs of friendship. In the end, however, they are empty gestures, motivated by social dictates and the need to survive, rather than by pure feelings or sincerity.

This is exacerbated by the fact that the mask must necessarily slip every now and then, allowing the jealousy, negativity, and meanness to peep through. A backhanded compliment, a hateful glance, passive-aggressive behavior ("ignoring" the victim), etc., soon expose the artificiality of the frenemy's former semblance of kindness. This jarring juxtaposition of meanness and (feigned) niceness confuses the victim, even tho' he/she may accurately peg the frenemy as just that, given that the ultimate feeling evoked by this dichotomy is negative/uneasy. The object of the frenemy's love-hatred wonders if the frenemy him/herself is confused, and this makes choosing a course of action challenging.

In fact, I suspect the frenemy is, indeed, confused; insecure but egotistical, (s)he is constantly at war with him/herself, and consequently, with others. As discussed, it is too painful/troublesome for frenemies to delve into their own psyches and correct their ways. Therefore, they must resort to mummery, playing at living their lives and establishing relationships, rather than actually living said lives and investing in friendships.

In fact, franimosity enables frenemies to do just that. While making a show of friendship, their animosity is allowed to fester, thereby reinforcing their rightness/righteousness (they're fine just the way they are) without actually having to prove it. Such people collect companions without having to earn trust and give of themselves (what's called "making friends"). This means they don't have to change because, on the surface, "everything's fine," they're great, and everybody "loves" them because they're "so nice." Meanwhile, they're able to maintain their comfortable rottenness because it has no consequences, or so it seems. In the end, tho', this will only harm them through the harm it does to others. As they seem almost determined to self-destruct, maybe frenemies are worthy of our pity, after all... albeit given at a distance, where the fallout can't reach us.