“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.

Lady McTavish's Ball

Lady McTavish loved parties so lavish,
She planned them the whole winter long.

The gowns and the pearls and the fey dancing girls,
The feathers and hats and wild tiger cats,
Shoes with bright buckles and rings for her knuckles,
Sweet cakes and tarts -- the best pastry arts,
Pheasant and ham, and caviar and clams,
Gilt, silk, and brocade whose gleam couldn't fade,
Lutenists, flautists, and singers galore,
No hostess could ever have done any more.

She puttered and sputtered and bustled around
To ensure that she held the best party in town.

Then, one day, the ball's date did finally arrive.
With music and glitter the manse was alive.

The guests were expected at a quarter to seven,
But minute by minute, it got onto eleven!

Wringing her hands, she fretted and wailed,
Feeling as tho' she had completely failed.

She clapped her hand to her brow in utter dismay,
As the calendar revealed the cause of delay:
...Her party'd been set for the following day.

- Lisette Atiyeh

(Inspired by W.S. Gilbert, William Allen Butler, songs of yesteryear, and the steampunk genre.)

What's Cooking?

I don't cook because it's trendy. In fact, I don't do anything because it's trendy. I like what I like, and I do what I like because, well, I like it -- genuinely, from the heart. While there are the "faux foodies" (as I call them in "The Problem With Poseurs") out there, and while people often accept them as the real deal, I don't. I don't accept them because I have no tolerance for artificiality. But also, I don't accept them because they are, in effect, trivializing the art of cookery and its meaning to the cook through their feigned passion for it.

It may reasonably be taken as a given that I cook because I love food, I love to eat. As Luciano Pavarotti and William Wright wrote, "One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating." So, yes, I cook to eat; I learn dishes that intrigue me, or that I love, I cook them, and subsequently, I gleefully gobble them up.

But for me, the glee rests not only in the gobbling, but in the process. As Julia Child put it, "Noncooks think it's silly to invest two hours' work in two minutes' enjoyment; but if cooking is evanescent, so is the ballet." I couldn't agree more because, not only do I consider cooking an art, but also, because I simply love cooking. I love the chopping (yes, even onions, in fact, especially onions); I love the clean crunching sound of a chef's knife slicing through a stalk of celery, and I love the scent released when mincing rosemary, or chiffonading basil. I love the way heavy cream, thick and white, coats the inside of a clear glass. I love the hiss of garlic hitting hot olive oil, and even more, its unmistakable aroma. I love the "chef's samples": not-so-surreptitiously stealing a shaving of Parmigiano Reggiano, or popping a chocolate chip (or two, or three...). I love folding said chocolate chips into the structured silkiness of a meringue batter.

The labor is one of love, and joy. While quick-and-easy recipes are great, I mostly enjoy making involved ones, and, within reason, tend to avoid shortcuts because, aside from striving for authenticity (especially with ethnic dishes), I don't want to cut things short. I love to linger in the kitchen, one of my favorite places in the home, and one of the places where I feel most at home. I love the warmth of the oven on a cold night, especially when the smell of cinnamon or warm chocolate is radiating from it. I love the miraculous effects of the range on a stove top: it boils, it simmers, it sautés, it fries, it melts, and it heats. I love seeing a dough coming together, or a sauce reducing, or a ganache gleaming. All these things are, literally, a feast for the senses. And yet, there is more at work, here.

Many people say it: "Cooking is therapeutic." And it is. I love cooking because, like the act of eating as described by Pavarotti, one must devote time and attention to it. It helps one to focus on something other than stress, work, trifling people/situations, and it clears the mind. The most important thing, when you're in the kitchen, is to keep your mirepoix from burning, or your sauce from sticking (and let's face it, there are other, more cathartic therapeutic merits to punching down risen dough). Everything else is filtered out while you escape into a world filled with sights, sounds, and smells. It is a healthy respite from the wearisome world; some people choose delusion, I choose cooking. This is why the two do not meet -- paper moons and mezzalunas don't mix. Phonies cannot truly love cooking because it isn't enough and it, too, exists within their realm of unreality, defined and colored by delusion. Cookery for cookery's sake is what brings true contentment.

When free of fakery, cooking, with all its hard work and joys, is therapeutic because it is a very real way of creating something, of making something beautiful and beneficial through the healthy expenditure of energy and concentration. And, perhaps, above all else, the most important ingredient -- trite tho' the expression may be -- is love, which, when true, can only be positive: love for food, love for cooking, a healthy love for self, and a love for others. When cooking is steeped in, and based on, love, it creates more love -- love within the cook's heart, love for one's guests, love for life, and by extension, love in the world. And this is precisely why it must come from the heart, and speak to the heart. Indeed, as the French have it, "La cuisine est un révélateur de l'amour."

- Lisette

The Louboutin Lawsuit: Heart and Sole

Tho' it happened back in August, I am still thinking about Louboutin's red sole lawsuit. We all know what happened: Christian Louboutin sued YSL for copycatting his famous red sole and lost because the judge felt that Louboutin had no right to have a monopoly over one color, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, despite the fact that Louboutin registered the sole as a trademark years ago. Louboutin rightly continues to fight this fight, and I am completely on his side in this matter. Why? Because it's not really about soles. It's about soul.

If people truly understood the mind -- and heart -- of an artist (a true artist, one who is such to the core), they would realize that this issue is not petty, nor is Louboutin being unreasonable. This isn't a matter of monopolizing a color, it is the unique placement of this color that makes it his intellectual property; he first thought of/exectuted it, so it was, simply, his idea, the brainchild born of his own peculiar creativity. The man built a reputation, a look, a style, and indeed, an empire, out of red soles -- quite literally. He had the sole trademarked because it was his trademark; everyone knew a Louboutin by the famous red sole, and everyone wanted one because of it.

For an artist to see his unique vision knocked off -- yes, I said it, knocked off -- by a competitor, is not only aggravating because of the obvious commercial issue involved; it is aggravating because Louboutin's red sole represents his persona, his vision, his soul, as it were, as an artist. An artist's art, whatever the medium, is an extension of his being and personality, what he stands for, his aesthetic, and his world view. To imitate that is disrespectful and often, unnerving. To adapt someone else's creation for one's own use, benefit, edification, or what have you, is indelicate and tantamout to identity theft. As someone who despises self-profiting copycatting, I would go so far as to argue that such blatant imitation is, artistically speaking, dangerously close to soul stealing. It is unjust, it is ugly, it is twisted, it is hurtful, and it can be frightening.

Because of this, I applaud Louboutin for continuing to fight and defend his work, and I applaud Tiffany & Co. for standing by his side. Obviously, I believe Louboutin should win the case, and not really because he did, legally, copyright the red sole in 2008 (which should, in theory, make this a non-issue). I believe he should win because it's in poor taste to imitate another artist's calling card. As we are emotional, creative human beings, and not unfeeling robots or functional cogs in a machine, the only humane thing to do would be to recognize Louboutin's right to practice his art in his own unique way and award him the suit.

Indeed, art is born of emotion and sentiment. To reduce an artist's claim to a nuts-and-bolts understanding of commerce and the color wheel is not objective and just; it is nearsighted and inhumane. Without quirks, details, and uniqueness, there is no art. If one were to deny Louboutin his right to reestablish the red sole as his alone, one might as well do away with art altogether. Without unique thinkers like Louboutin, art cannot thrive, so the implications of this case reach further than one might think, at the outset. A win for Louboutin would mean a win for art and artists, and as art is both the expression of a society's soul, and the means by which it is nurtured, such a triumph would actually resonate across all human lives, whether they realized it, or not.

- Lisette