Newsgroups: alt.butt.harp,alt.postmodern Subject: RICHH: MY BROTHER--LOVE AMONG THE RUINED Message-ID: <1992May4.055653.24774@tigger.jvnc.net> From: richh@tigger.jvnc.net (RICHH) Date: Mon, 4 May 1992 05:56:53 GMT Sender: news@tigger.jvnc.net (Zee News Genie) Organization: JvNCnet, Princeton University, NJ Originator: richh@tigger.jvnc.net Nntp-Posting-Host: tigger.jvnc.net Let's see, then. When we last saw my brother, he was enjoying his hugely successful party. We catch up with him a few weeks later, when he comes to me for some brotherly advice. "Rich," he said. "I need some help." "Sure, Howard, what's the class." "No class, it's Karen." Karen was the girl he had been seeing ever since the night of the party. She was the one I called the Dachau Darling. "Karen, eh? How is the Auschwitz angel?" "Not so good. It's kind of hard for to talk about, but I don't know who else--" "Howard, listen. I'm your brother. You can tell me anything." "I really want this thing with Karen to work out. I really love her. I do. But it's (sotto voice), it's our sex life." "I understand completely. You want to take it further than she--" "No, not at all. In fact, what's so silly is we've tried to marginalize sex in our relationship. That's why the whole thing's so ridiculous." Kids, I thought. Things were so much simpler when I was his age, all of three years ago. "You know you can't marginalize sex. Because then your whole relationship becomes defined by exactly that. And what did Oscar Wilde say?" "Deeper?" "Besides that." "To define is to limit?" "Exactly. Do you see now?" "We were just trying to take control of our center." I smacked myself in the forehead. "Details, Howard. I need more details." "She's really into pain." "Kinky, eh? That's odd, she never struck me as the type. So what's the prob--" "No, that's just it. She *only* likes pain. Not pleasure at all. She never ever comes. I feel so inadequate. I would kill to make her come." I shook my head. "Howard, Howard, Howard, didn't you read 'The New Our Bodies Our Selves'?" "Skimmed it. Just the dirty parts. But I see what you're saying. Her orgasm isn't my responsibility, it's hers. But that doesn't change how I feel." We were getting nowhere, so I told Howard I was going to have to talk with Karen also. She came over. We talked. "Karen," I said. "My brother tells me things are kinda shaky between the two of you--" "We can work it out ourself. Besides, what the hell do you know? Why don't you get a job? How do you *eat*?" "Karen, you're projecting. Now then, my brother tells me that you can't seem to, er, never, um--" "Come? I don't come? Is that it? Well did it ever dawn on you that maybe I don't want to come. It's *my* orgasm and I'll do what I want with it. I'm an artist, dammit. All I need is pain." Her eyes were wild. I was beginning to see what my brother saw in her. "Pain? You know, the line between pain and pleasure is a tenuous one." "Don't give me any of your horseshit. Pleasure is nothing, pain is everything. Our minds can conceive of very few pleasures, but the pain, the tortures, oh. . .That's why Dante's Inferno is so much better than Paradiso. I mean Beatrice, who really gives a fuck, right? I mean, you're much bigger and stronger than I am. You could easily tape me to this chair, cut the cord to the lamp there, strip the ends, force it between my thighs," She leaned forward and took a breath. "--until it pressed against my cervix..." Karen was hardly your average freshman. I looked at her more closely. Her wrists and ankles were improbably slender and the angular, birdlike features of her face, including her sharp, high cheekbones bespoke her excellent breeding. "Karen, tell me about your family. Howard says you're from Manhattan. That your father--" She spit. "He's a plastic surgeon with a Park Avenue office, isn't he?" "I loathe him." No surprises here. My brother was going to owe me *big* for this one. "Karen, you've never masturbated, have you?" "Ha," was all she said. "You know, it would mean a lot to my brother if you could be a little more responsive. Hey, I've got an idea. Wait here, okay?" I went to my closet, and dug through a bunch of videotapes, finally finding one with a skull and crossbones attached to it. I pulled it out and put it in the vcr. "What's on the tape?" Karen asked. "Just watch. I'm going to talk to my brother." I closed the door behind me as the screams on the tape began. "Well," said Howard, "what do you think?" "Karen's an odd bird, Howard." He smiled sickeningly. "Isn't she great?" "Remember that tape we got a hold of, that we stole from Amnesty International?" "The torture tape?" He looked pale. "Yeah, what about it?" "Nothing." I knew that tape had given him nightmares. I changed the topic. "Howard, tell me exactly what you love about Karen." "I love her face. I love her high, sharp cheekbones. I love how she calls attention to herself when she walks into class. I love her pain." "But you know her pain's a sham. She had the most privileged upbringing imaginable." "Of course, but I love that. I love how completely deluded she is, how completely lacking in self-knowledge. Oh God, I love her so much. If she could just come--" "So Karen is your project then?" "Yeah," said Howard. "My project. That's it, exactly." "Didn't I tell you to read 'The Denial of Death'?" "Is it in the bookcase? Who wrote it?" "Ernest Becker. Yes it's in there--" My brother was laughing. "What's so funny?" "Ernest Becker wrote 'The Stars My Destination', not "The Denial of Death'" I punched him and he doubled over. "Don't correct your brother. It's rude. Besides, I'm right. Alfred Bester wrote 'The Stars My destination.' Now get up. You remember what Becker said?" "That the natural human inclination is toward the heroic?" "Not that. About the love object?" "I don't remember." I'll sum up. Becker took 200 pages to say what Groucho Marx said in one sentence." "Why a duck?" I punched him again. "That was Chico. Now don't interrupt. What Groucho said was he wouldn't belong to any club that would accept him as a member. This is basically what Becker says, only with a lot more footnotes. It's also the basis for Annie Hall. You remember how Diane Keaton, in the beginning, was very shy and sang very nervously in the club, but by the end, after she had taken all those adult education courses--" "That Woody encouraged her to take--" "Bingo." My brother thought a while. Then he looked up at me. "So are you saying that all love is doomed to failure? That's so depressing." "Not at all," I said. "Do you see me singing the metaphysical blues or wallowing in existential self-pity?" "No, but you hide from yourself in promiscuity and you'll probably get AIDS soon and then where will I be?" "Ouch." "I'm sorry." He stood up and hugged me. "I love you, bro. Thanks." "I'm gonna check in on Karen then, okay? You wait here." I walked over to the tv room. I heard through the door that the tape was over. I knocked. She said, "Come in. It's okay." First, that smell. The room was full of it. That familar, heady, yeasty, pissy smell. Karen was chewing on a finger, one foot on the edge of my desk, the other on the floor. She looked at me and giggled. "Could I keep this tape," she asked, sheepishly. "Of course. It's yours." I hit eject on the machine and handed the tape to her. She unzipped her backpack and slid the tape in, right between a book of the collected lithographs of Edward Munch and a book by Hans Georg Gadamer, 'Truth and Method'". She zipped up her backpack and we left the tv room. She took Howard's hand and whispered something in his ear and the next thing I knew they were gone. Now I've got a new job. Troubled kids come to me and ask me to deconstruct their relationships. I'm not proud of what I do but it pays the rent. RICHH