Chapter Four: Nostalgia Land
Howdy folks, here is the photo (and, in this case, video) dump for chapter four.
I felt sad when Dad left, vulnerable and exposed. I remembered the time I caught the flu when I was seven. Dad had had to go to work so he had asked Nana and Granddad to come and take care of me. I had hated him for leaving me. His abandonment of me had made me feel unwanted and unloved; I managed to convince myself he preferred his miserable old clients to me, his sweet, lovable little girl. I was open about my misery. I wept into my pillow. I screamed and wailed and kicked when Nana tried to comfort me. In fact, I refused to calm down at all until I was presented with a huge bag of sweets; I sucked on them continuously for hours. I chewed them silently; the only sound in my room was the obnoxious clicking noise produced whenever a sweet knocked against my teeth.
Irene subscribed to it and back issues were scattered all over the house. The sleek-haired models that occupied its covers always looked the same: they boasted the same forced smiles and pink glossed lips. They looked maddeningly insipid and I hated them.
Ironically, I could be one of those girls now. I look starved, courtesy of my illness; my looks are dark and well-defined and my face is strikingly hollow. All I need is crimped hair, bangs and a great big smile.
Click to viewMTV never ceased to amaze me with its weirdness, and the music video that was playing on this occasion was no exception. It featured, among other things, dancing ninjas, leather encased teddy boys, and youths who pranced about artistically in their underpants. Incredibly, all of these elements were packed into a film that was barely five minutes long. After a few minutes of intermittent strangeness, the camera pulled back to reveal a group of demon-eyed, slick-haired choir boys. They chanted the chorus and, for no easily apparent reason, one of them swooped across the screen, seemingly intent on terrorizing the poofy-haired singer. Her lack of reaction suggested she saw flying choirboys all the time. At that point, I changed the channel. My life was disturbed enough as it was.
A young woman in an elegant gown was traveling through a moodily lit corridor. She wasn’t walking, she was gliding. Long, billowy curtains blew towards her slowly, brushing the hem of her dress as she passed them. Eventually, she reached a door that spoke to her in an obscure whisper; it was lit by a candelabrum that was clutched by a human hand.
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The film being referred to last of all is La Belle et La Bete, by Jean Cocteau.