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{Thursday}

 
WE KNOW SO MUCH ABOUT THIS THING

Even with Mark-punk writing about it, I'm not ploughing through x paragraphs on Morrissey at 7:52 in the am; even writing about how you've never been that taken by Morrissey, BUT - ... kinda plays into his little 'the more you ignore me, the closer i get' min[e]d games.
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as little credence as I place in unattributable rock goss {maybe there should be a RockBitch, for all those ostensibly 'straight' fanboys who are actually ten times as bitchy and cliquey as any 12 year old girls locker room when it comes to their pop/rock likes & dislikes} I wouldn't swallow Morrissey's "celibacy", necessarily, as anything more than an essential part of a tightly constructed & codified mythos.
This is always the mistake his fan boys AND detractors make, and, thus misinterpreting, they have missed [as with the ham shazam of RADIOHEAD] that he's as media savvy and control phreak and image-sourced and bizness-savvy as Madonna, say {a not coincidentally close contemporary} if not far more so, and he always understood the Game, long before the rest, just like her.

How does anyone think they have a CLUE whether Morrissey is or ever has been "celibate" anyway - whatever that actually means, and I was always confused by its meaning, or lack thereof. (I always preferred to think in those early 80s POLYsexual terms - i.e., that everything can be sexual, and that everyone is or can be sexual, in their own way, on their own terms, from minute to minute, from the minutest caress to the most passing glance, to the most borderline sublime/filthy thought, the St Theresa syndrome ...

But it's part of the mythos that Morrissey is clean, and pure, and untouched by the filthiness of other pop people, the grubbiness of filthy lucre, or white lines on toilet cisterns, or career management, or snail trails of sperm down stockinged or denim'd legs ...

Into the woods? {Of adult darkness and wood and wet?

OH no, not Morrissey, dear, Morrissey remains in that cottage back over there, no, not that kind of cottage, the one made of clean gleamy sweeties ... smarties ...yeah, right, dream on children. And why not? I refuse no one the right to their own particular dreams, except I personally find something fanatically askew, disjunctive, about Morrissey's public pretence to a wholly wholesome wonderful world ...

Thus: myth number 87, Morrissey isn't part of Celebrity whoredom, and/or isn't interested in it: just like sex. He doesnt DESIRE: thus, he can't be corrupted [or disappointed].
Except ...
EXCEPT ...
that he PURSUES people he idolises, and loves meeting them, and WHEN he meets them, it practically looks like HIS EYES ARE COMING... [mutual inter-optic orgasm: these are the eyes that are looking at my eyes looking at those eyes that are ...]

ยท First ever Morrissey/Smiths 45 sleeve [and the only record of their's I ever actually bought, based on a Morley review, when Singles Pages were still things that gave you a 7" hard-on ...]: This Charming Man. And wasn't it - fanboys can correct me if my memory's wrong, for I am working on sheer memory here - Cocteau's lover {you only have to look at him to see he's} coming, arms around the fountain of his own image/gaze, how many men are coming here? How many men come here in a fountain around this unReal reel image, this look of self-love? Jean Marais as Jean Marais {an ACTOR, acting his part in a Masquerade, which was Genet's definition of femininity, or, a certain sort of identifiable or imitable femininity, a femininity of signs, and sighing, and endless mirror gazing ... and all mirrors are endless, if you think about it, which is why they are one of the most reliable providers of a certain sort of narcissistic coming, altho two can tango too, if it comes to it, do you c ...?}, Jean Marais as Orphee, a film about surfaces and reflections and coming and going, and in which terms, a PUDDLE can provide as much jouissance as the smooth pert buttocks of a pretty statue or the open legs of a fawn, the feathery copse within, Jean Marais as Cocteau's own lover, so the whole thing is a Coctease, and I could go on, reading kneading this image ad infinitum, stroking myself through the guaze and blinds of my own gaudy words, a performance thru a beaded curtain, but it'd be far more about mirrors than Morrissey, believe me, so - ...

... so, back to front this Plotting boyman, this Peers unPloughman, Morrissey, who 'comes out' as a Pop Star, with a song about an Older Man and a callow/shallow image of a lad, and the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat, his pop virginity goes 'pop!' in a song about a young lad losing his (possibly, probably), seduced by an older man, and wasnt that what all pop used to be about {cf my own 'The Broken Glass' and Ferry/Bowie as seducers of my generation of children}, whereas today children are relieved of their pocket money by imitations of their own little hip-tot selves, mirror stage school puppets, but why did Morrissey go HUGE whereas Green say, withered in the shadows, Morrissey wasnt shy of showing his huge SELF LOVE and narcissism [two very different things, b/t/w] in public, whereas Green was frightened to let the world in on what all his Echoes and friends already knew, that there was NO ONE Green loved more than Green, the SWEETest boy [neurosis & neurasthenia = a good blind for what is ultimately a chorus which goes: how could anyone prefer THAT - ie the world - to THIS - ie, me] and that where Morrissey's cool-gay sensibility wasn't shy of fumbling with mirror images in public, Green had to carry on pretending, it wasnt about bodies it was about brands, and plans, and penetrating the marketplace, alone; "She left because she understood / the meaning of defiance ... " - possibly, possibly mind you, the most fraudulent line in the history of indie pop, or at least, a masquer-aid pretending it wasn't, WORD girl, never mind, I'm going off the plot here, this charmless man literally who could not STAND before the public's gaze without having a HEART tremble, how stuck at the mirror stage is THAT, children?, it certainly makes self-branding a difficult trick to turn, so castigate the whole Imaginary image-construction process [while insisting on your own personal make up artist for photo shoots, and going & cooing through a Diana esque train of disastrous image changes, mirror probes], whereas ...

... whereas Morrissey just sat there and had CHARM in buckets, and spades, and arcades, look at it, coming on as "natural" as the freakiest I.D. bracelet in the world, I mean look, really look, his first issue, this charming man, a man hugging himself {I could of course have this ALL wrong, I could be remembering the wrong image/45 entirely, in which case ...}, and it's a great problem, men have so much trouble writing about womens bodies the way gay men have writing about other men's bodies, {how many male author descriptions of women as reverential - as toucing and as TOUCHy - as Genet's of his men? And we're not even talking about "beauty" as commonly understood here, no, not at all... or even cock and cunt, although that comes into ... it ...} but Morrissey goes one further, and says: this body gives me more pleasure than any other, why should I change {not that I necessarily believe him, when it comes down to it, and that there isn't a whole Other Morrissey world, say, with secret box numbers and "Henry would like to meet fellow gladioli enthusiast: must be willing to hose down the hot house,' or whatever}, but OTHERwise, I'm with him on this, there is a prurient hypocrisy at the heart of the UK's Tabloid Nation, which is: wanking is the unmentionable, the original sin, the loneliest, saddest, thankless, desperate last resort... {unless it's a sexy girl of course, and we're squatting at the qui-hole...}, but if Morrissey gaze is a poly ... sorry!, just lost interest.

You want to think any more about Morrissey, be my guest.

{Not that I've really been thinking about Morrissey whatsoever, while we were doing this, or at least I wasn't, I thought you understood. Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you KNEW that was my 'thing': I was looking over there, in that mirror, the entire time ... oh for god's sake DON'T start crying, like all the bloody rest, we're both adults, well, I certainly am ...}

Talking of sex, tho ... just look at Philip Larkin and Alan Bennett.
Two great Morrissey-esque figures who for the longest time were thought of as celibate or ambiguous/ambivalent at best, shrug faced, pasty organed, so on ... and how does it turn out? Ambiseuxal or omnisexual Neros the both ...

posted by Ian 8/07/2003 09:07:00 AM

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