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Sunday, Jun. 09, 2002 / 5:50 p.m. ~A Recounting~ Mark and I were just going to see "The Piano Teacher", or "La Pianiste", or is it "Le Pianiste"?, but we then went to a very groovy pizza restaurant, Fellini's, next door, sat outside by the fountain, on the very Fellini-esque patio, under the very Fellini-esque strings of red and white lights, and umbrellas covering the tables, and talked and talked, and ate pizza with mushrooms, real Italian sausage, black olives, extra cheese, and sprinkled on garlic powder... while I drank two glasses of Bass draught. Slowly. I am a slow, slow, drinker. The movie was intense. I give it 4 stars, just for its intensity and unbelievable acting. Unbefuckinglievable acting. It's a slow movie, no music but for the compositions the Piano Teacher teaches, or plays in recital, or her new lover plays in recital or rehearsal or in class. Long shots of the Piano Teacher, Isabelle Huppert's, face, her expressions so repressed and subtle as is her character, and then so ultimately more fucked up than you can imagine. This movie is about a person with serious serious problems, a lifetime, perhaps, of problems, manifesting themselves in one new encounter. With one of the most handsome men I've ever gazed upon. One Benoit Magimel (I wonder if I spell his name correctly?) plays the handsome young pianist who falls in love with her, and little does he know what he has gotten himself into. Oh my god. Or should that be, OH. MY. GOD!!!!! Pages and pages of a letter she writes to him, describing in great and tremendous detail how she wants to be bound, hit, beaten, possibly mutilated, humiliated, forced to do any number of things, sexual and otherwise. And this, to be done with her new lover, this young, unassuming man who is in love. With her. Oh my god. Mark says he knows no one to whom he might recommend this film, but well, maybe I don't either, but I'd see it again. I would. Certain scenes were intensely erotic, certain were incredibly difficult to watch, and all of it left me amazingly affected. Truly amazing filmgoing experience. Wonderful to sit outdoors on an evening in which the temps have cooled, the humidity has left us, the wind blew almost constantly, the fountain trickled as fountains will do, the pizza was excellent, the slices so huge I took some home, and Mark, my companion, wonderful to talk to. And he listened to my incessant chatter about Moby, and played Moby in his CD player in the car, humoring me, letting me know I'm close to stalking, but me clarifying that no, I just want Moby's love child, that is all. I told him so much about my previous evening with Branford, due to its amazingness, that we decided to duplicate a portion of it, deciding to go walk in the same Midtown new neighborhood, the one built over the old one, as this city is constantly stuck on its origins.....rebuilding from the ashes. Now we/they simply create our own ashes. No one rides through burning us down anymore, we do it ourselves, for the express purpose of rebuilding, anew. A lovely walk, more wind, a pass by the beautiful and fabulous FOX Theatre, where a wedding was in progress, much fanciness, limos, flowers, photographers, and I'd asked one of the photogs was it anyone famous, or just a regular couple, to which he nodded and smiled, and I added, "...with a lot of money!", and he laughed heartily, said, "You got it!", or something similar. We even ducked into the groovy new industrial club where Branford and I had gone previously, Branford waiting outside, punished for not having ID. Mark and I both went in, remarked at the HUGE piece of onyx required to produce the beautiful bar, and then on how young the patrons were, and I remarked how they all had on that same uniform: halter tops for the ladies, straightened hair, and the men had the tight short sleeved collared club shirts, short, short hair, moussed and gelled. The solicitous bartendress described all the drinks she could make for me, then made me a Cosmopolitan, which I tend to like an awful lot, and it was quite good, and Mark had a bottle of fancy Italian water. For $14. Ouch. We sat on a stairway leading to nowhere, watched the people pose, the women laugh in groups, and I could only think we needed to go to my favorite club, if for nothing else than to see the intense contrast. Onward. Walking down the new wide pedestrian-friendly sidewalks, noticing the brand new plantings of trees and flowers, the brand new lampposts, the brand new everything, and the few remaining original trees. Thinking how we could do a walking tour of trees left standing in the city. Someone needs to draw up a proposal to do just that. Stopping to sit on a bench outside the new Federal Building, listening to the cheers outside the Sports Bar across the street, wondering if Tyson or Lewis won, and isn't that what's happening? The Velvet Room across the street, the bouncers outside allowing only the most beautiful inside, Mark remarking it must be soft inside.....mmmmm.... velvet. The constant breeze, almost cool for a change. And on to my favorite club. Sitting at the bar illuminated by a red light, cheap imported beer, watching the people filter in, the beautiful Asian girl at the end of the bar, swaying on her stool, her eyes closing as she moved her head to the beat, a permanent smile on her face. We deduced she was on X. But we didn't know for sure. Later, as we danced, or Mark watched as I danced (you're SUCH a good sport), she thrust herself against the pole in the center of the floor. Beautiful, and high she was. I couldn't help but dance, it overtook me, the rhythms, the beat, the drums, my lower body doing one thing, my hands carving out whatever melody was audible, uncontrollable, and I didn't want to control it. Water. Dance. Water. Dance. Orgiastic dancing, people all throbbing together, the crowd peaking around 2:00 in the morning, packed with people. And in walks Branford. I tap him on the arm. "Branford! This is my friend Mark!", Branford says, "This is weird". Yes. But it was bound to happen, was it not? Who doesn't end up there, at that place, with the black men with shaved heads, the dreads, the white girls dancing together, the Asian club kids, the black and white together, writhing, humping, the beats, the cheap beer, the smoke, all under the ground, literally underground....? And we wandered into the other part, the newer part I'd not been in before, like being in someone's basement, exploring the room previously hidden, and I couldn't breathe, the claustrophobia was intense, and as I write that I recall dreaming of claustrophobia last night, what, why? I got home around 3:00, an early night! Hah! Ate my leftover pizza, fresh fruit, took vitamins with orange juice and passed out watching "Hellraiser" on SciFi. Today I slept, past the time my body was through sleeping. Mind over body. Mind tells body, Oh, NO, we are SO not through sleeping yet. The mind needs it, even if you don't! Up around 4:30, coffee, wash face, online, email from Branford, email from Mark, writing, writing, reading, and now this. A recounting. Of sorts. What a weekend. Hermione and Lilly, in from out West, with Hermione's friends, the Goth kids, the married couple and the one's activist vegan sister. Lilly ignoring me, me worrying that at 3 1/2 she's already forgetting me.... Mexican food. Branford, tasty gourmet hors d'oeuvres, a 10th floor apartment overlooking the most phallic skyscraper ever, two bottles of wine, a laptop with DSL, a walk, wind, clubs, dancing, smoking, drinking, sleep, then a French movie about a sick and twisted S&M freak, and her handsome could-be lover, Fellini-esque pizza and beer, another walk, flying with feet on the ground, pretentious club kids, expensive drinks, then black and white and Asian together, no pretensions, dance alone, dance together, hands in the air dancing on their own, hips can't stop moving, cheap beer, clouds of smoke, surprising Branford, leftovers, sleep........... Now? Laundry? "Guiding Light" on tape? More sleep? Work at 8:30 in the morning tomorrow? Jon on Tuesday? Movie in the Park? I'm wasted. I need a banana. Food. More rest. But it's been great, really. I'm so glad I've reconnected with both Branford and Mark. It's all good, really. Cost of the War in Iraq
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