Boycott

I had been intending to write a certain something for a long, long time. And since I have not for whatever reason got that certain something written, uh, there is always the write about what I intend to write option. Here goes!

A classic flick, albeit unseen for now by me, is Max Ophuls' Letters from an Unknown Woman. That flick gots a probably super remake friendly premise because while I haven't seen Ophuls' movie, though if Letters played anywhere nearby I would for sure try to go catch it, unless of course it had played anywhere nearby already and I hadn't tried or just plain hadn't seen it, then if it played anywhere nearby again, and hopefully soon, this time I will really try for sure to catch it, it's already been remade. A Chinese movie English-titled not coincidentally Letters from an Unknown Woman directed by, also lead actress, Xu Jinglei is a decent very recent remake example. Probably there are any numbers of others that updates Ophuls' flick (or the Stefan Zweig source novel) or draw ideas, themes, structure and other such larceny. The remake I like best, however, gives credit to neither Ophuls nor Zweig despite the clear and ready resemblances, but which instead claims to be based on a work by Japanese writer Jiro Asada, a novel/story of some sort - I could not find out which exactly or much else about that Asada source material, not even from the www,(1) except for the novel's/story's title - titled Love Letter, which, I should state here because the internet don't make things clearer, has nada to do with Shunji Iwai's, as many likely will attest, though not me only because I haven't seen, magnificent 90's touchstone Japanese movie also titled Love Letter, the idea for which is from Iwai, but which I also cannot track down whether it was originally a novel, story, screenplay, whatever. The remake I like best, which claims to be conceived from a wholly independent source, though maybe that Jiro Asada Love Letter source was influenced by Ophuls or Zweig's work - which by the way, another Asada novel, an epic work, served as the basis for When the Last Sword Is Drawn, one of my most favorite recent samurai picture (direction by Yojiro Takita) – because I rather agree with others who find it very Letters from an Unknown Woman-like, even though, as I have said, I have not seen the Ophuls' movie (or read the source novel), as just minimal understanding the bare Letters premise, the correlation seems more than coincident, is Korean New Wave highpoint Song Hae-sung's Failan. Failan is a super terrific K flick, even if by sole virtue that it is not overlong, which, I don't know why, is a curse burdening much of Korea's movie making industry, or I can guess but not in much of an authoritative manner - Koreans hate editors? - except of course, Failan is filled with so many other delights, wonders, scales and heights beyond its pacing and directorial efficiency.(2)

Which is to say that I envisioned the piece to be titled Letter to an Unknown Woman, a sort of play on the classic flick's title. Technically difficult to pull off because a letter to a unknown person? Sheesh, awkward. But the previous letter thing I had written was so, much, fun, I had intended to revisit that well.

But of course, and I would have to start more or less confessing, it ain't an unknown woman. Awkward but possible though perhaps outside my abilities, writing to an ideal imaginary woman – which would be the natural implication if it were an unknown woman - doesn't strike me as meaningful as writing to an idealized, though I will argue no less imaginary and unknown, woman – which in fact is what or who I have plans to make the subject. Or the difference is that an imagined ideal woman, if conceived at all, would be one that is or possesses x, y, and z charms, features, and habits; whereas an idealized woman would certainly have some aspects of the desired x, y, and z-ness yet where she might be deficient in other x, y, z parts and not just deficient but deficient in a way that is wholly incompatible to my sensibility, and if anything would only end up makes her more appealing/longed for, even planting the seeds to reforming or modifying my sensibilities, that's something interesting. I mean, it's more interesting in what it (can/may) says about the writer/me, the world, the inner world, and that sort of mumbo jumbo. It's twisting that particular person who is not the ideal, but through blindness and illogic making her so that might be so fun. Or, more or less, it applies here, now.

The intended titular unknown woman would be, um, let's name her T for now. In the most technical sense it cannot be said that T is unknown as I met her about a year ago at some soft-lit, disco-blasted club/lounge in a somewhere neighborhood that stockpiled such establishments, one right after another; if such a thing existed as infatuation at first sight, well, I have been infatuated with her for a year, unless of course that time I met her was over a year, in which case, it could very well be as it sort of seems well over a year, maybe even two years, then I have been infatuated with T for a year or years. But the point is however long the association, and the fact that we have met, does not mean that I know her. T is still every bit mysterious. In one sense, it is easy for me to feel that way because my general attitude is to assume everyone is unknown and mysterious and take him or her as he or she is while he or she is present and accounting before me. I try to avoid prejudgment, and that's one of the simplest ways to do so. Another sense is the perception that space is infinite, as much as there is new and more to be learned reaching outward, the same applies while looking at thing inward/closer. Either way (and I can come up with more rationale) knowing of her is not identical to a claim of knowledge. Meeting several times since that year or years ago day does not change that, not helped by talking very little with her during the intervening time, other than enough to know she is candy all over sweetness.

Or actually, I had of late revised to start off with something to the effect of: "T, you weren't there." Because I was somewhere out in the city late at night one night, and I guess T wasn't there. Which lead to noticing that she wasn't there and what expectation I had or should/n't have for her to be there, and how long it has been since she and I were at the same place, and those such commonplace observations/obsessions. The point being that there was no reason for her to show up that night nor for me to expect her to, and yet when she wasn't there, well, she was not there. In fact, she had not been there wherever there happened to be for some time; I had tried to resist saying I miss her, but, "I miss you, T." The thing about good luck and miraculous happenings, when it does not happen, does it noticeably does not happen? I was surprised not to see her, yet not surprised because I wouldn't have an idea when or why she would appear. But when she does not, it totally sucks. For not-to-get-into-here reasons, now surprise, good luck and miracles are my allies to getting to see her. See, pretty smooth way to lay out some of the obsessive and compulsive themes I got on plate.

I had a bunch of filler about how I tried to get with T but by having zero game the hooking up has not happened, (feeling slightly optimistic) yet. And somewhere in that bunch of material somehow a hopefully gracefully transitions to this: something something the best/main/only thing I want/hope from T is her conditional love. The gist of which is that unconditional love, what the hell is that suppose to mean? That you want your lover to be unconditionally in love with you? I don't get it. Even if you are - okay, I mean a hypothetical you, not you you. Okay, instead, I mean why would I want my lover to be unconditionally in love with me. What if I am an underachiever, lazy, stupid, and all unrepentantly so? What if I am a failure? Or get flabby? I hardly figure such docility as to ignore or not even notice to be a highly prized virtue. I hardly figure being undeserving to be that which lovely T deserves. Short of pure whim, T can (must?) test all those minutia of her impatience, intolerances, and, why not, indelicacies against any and all parts of me, test against the gratifications of her present, the worries of a future, and all those standards hoisted by her memories. I would only want her most conditional love.

Which is frightening because whether I would be acquitted if T judged me, now there is a fucked up question. Underachieving, lazy, stupid, but repentantly so? - moment of greatness flickers; the footman snickers? I do feel - and I am not asking for sympathy - I have spent so much time failing, or even worse, spent so much time not positioning myself to fail. Okay, the whole conditional love idea was something I toyed with for a piece of a poem, and god, that's not leaving the ground either. So I thought I'll squeeze it for my Letter to an Unknown Woman thing. But in regards to love, I had this sketched out early on to sort of quickly summarize my so-called attempt to capture T's attention:

There is nothing in my personal history that prevents me from accepting that I cannot make someone who does not love me fall in love with me.

Or "love" is too strong of a word. Or is it too weak? Love has the most meaning if it can be fallen easily into. God, enough about l-o-v-e. That word leads only to a pitfall.

Which is to say my intention, from the beginning, was not to talk about that word. And as well, that self-directed negativity just above? my failures and whatever, that's going to be a boycott too, it's unproductive and D-pressing. I am not perfect, that is not (by itself) a fault. Imperfection, as a rule, is a glory. But it is yet true that if I were to be tested now by T, I would be stressing. I have more flaws than most. And as a tummy pinch confirms: flab city. Which is the point, that T should be with someone of talent, potential, capability, and so forth deserving of her attention and passion, and 86'ing whoever is not.

What I at first and most of all wanted to have a go at with this letter writing business is fidelity. Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a lovely writer and a prime example of his lovely writing is his novel Love in the Time of Cholera. Pynchon describes,(3) in his kick ass style, the novel's premise as:

At the same time, where would any of us be without all that romantic infrastructure, without, in fact, just that degree of adolescent, premortal hope? Pretty far out on life's limb, at least. Suppose, then, it were possible, not only to swear love ''forever,'' but actually to follow through on it - to live a long, full and authentic life based on such a vow, to put one's alloted stake of precious time where one's heart is?

A little later:

This novel is also revolutionary in daring to suggest that vows of love made under a presumption of immortality - youthful idiocy, to some - may yet be honored, much later in life when we ought to know better, in the face of the undeniable.

Which I will digress for a sec to say that Pynchon's writing always blows me away and that includes whatever he adds outside his novels.

For Garcia Marquez's lovestruck dude Florentino and his vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love to teenager Fermina, while waiting for his love to be receptive and available again (some years later, the actually number you have to read the novel - or google - to find out), he goes through 622 diary-documenting-worthy affairs, along with many, many ("countless"!) shorter-duration dalliances. In the end, he has the nerve to say he remained a virgin for her. Wow, talk about magic realism. Anyway, that's a bit of a sidetrack. The point is fidelity. The point is a confession to my unknown woman, T, and my fidelity to her. Okay, I had never been with her long enough nor with sufficient intimacy or privacy to come out and say I love her and always will. Okay, um, probably it would be slightly premature for me to do so even if that occasion presented itself. But to the degree infatuation or a deep, deep crush can be love, sure, then those vows are applicable and exist without my having said them. No? Okay, assuming yes then.

Anyway, the confession is more or less that since my infatuation at first sight, I probably have dated – "date," that term is as good as any other - or tried to date, and in the future I do intend to date. I am too much a cynic to say that position is wholly consistent with an eternal vow of love. Florentino presumably distinguishes his extracurricular fucking from spiritual fidelity, and spiritual virginity I guess. El realismo mágico!(4) I will say that I will/might end whatever preexisting relationship I would be in(5) if T ever becomes receptive and available: as far as I can tell she has been more or less attached with some dude or another for the one year or years that I have known of her. Though I have to guess what that means to my other former (or future, for that matter) deep crushes. Sticky business.

Which is all very confusing and terrible to say/admit, opening myself to all sort of questioning or critique on my character/principles.(6) To me, T is just about the most wonderful, inspiring, and foxy lady, like, ever. At the same time, waiting with nothing but the faintest prospects is strange. I mean, staying at home, masturbating, that's bound to be not too much fun after awhile and hardly, hardly figures to make one more commendable to oneself, not to mention to a prospective sweetheart. Maybe within the context of eternal love, as Florentino examples, it is the spiritual component that is chief. And love is wide enough to allowing dating, long term liaisons, even marriage even when a lot of affection is reserved for someone else. Widening love's pie so we can accommodate more of love's slices while also having more of each love's slice, that does not seem terrible, - as long as good character and fair principle guides the action, that is. But with my infatuation and crush for her, I have not and shall not remain faithful.

Anyway, this seems all and overall not too much to write about, which is why I haven't written it. So fin.




-------------------------------------
1. Wikipedia, you suck.
2. Such as Cecilia couldn't be cuter and Min-shik couldn't be nuance-r.
3. A NYTimes review: http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/05/18/reviews/pynchon-cholera.html
4. I know I'm misapplying magic realism, as the virginity part is Florentino's POV and not what Garcia Marquez, the novelist, is saying is the case. But whatevs.
5. Somewhat mandatory qualifier: if any.
6. Cuz, like, what I write is totally, like, what and who I am. Or not. You know what? I take that back. The cynicism/defensiveness/frumiousness is over the top. It is especially unfair for me to presume anything about the reader(s?). Otherwise, I wrote (or 1/2 wrote) this thing and stand by it. I can go on, but I'll let it go.