XXX’s Psychoanalytic Diagnosis

Patient                                                             Doctor

XXX                                                             Lorna May

Session N.1

Presenting problems and situation: 

XXX is an almost middle aged man with the heart of a child. As all musicians, he’s unstable and an asshole. XXX’s relationship with life is very much bound to his relationship with art.

PURITANISM seems to be the main concern. We might describe him as an “artistic puritan”. This remark is based on the foundations of his taste in music and cinema.

XXX presents a compulsive obsessive interest on whatever is related to the Jazz age.

An art critic, studying his case from a farther angle, might end up with the conclusion that as a jazz musician, his puritanism is only praiseworthy. XXX, being gifted of an inhuman perfectionism and a totalitarian control over the use of his hands (normally linked with classic pianists) doesn’t obviously want to be influenced (in worst case scenarios – contaminated) by other music genres. His rejection to art discovery is an early sign of senile dementia.

The same applies to cinema. XXX’s film education, unsurprisingly, also dates back to the Jazz age (note his shock after watching Mulholland Drive). The only modern director that XXX appreciates is Woody Allen, we presume the reason being the use of jazz music in his pictures, his fascination with neurotic women (probably linked to the complicated relationship with his mother) and the similar personality traits with the author.

The same puritan attitude applies to his circle of friends and lifestyle. We can finally agree, that XXX lies unthreatened, in his self-made bed of wine and roses, living in denial of reality.

His puritanism also extends to his romantic relationships. An example being his 10 years commitment to a “Blue Jasmine” kind of woman, someone who is  nearly always putting on a pretence caused by insecurities about her fading beauty which are continuously emphasised by her need to be hidden from bright lights and her need for sexual admiration by men.

In this specific scenario, by puritanism, we mean XXX’s need of comfort and stability, which was tragically provided by an uncomfortable and unstable woman.

After all, a golden cage of appearances, leaving XXX (a man who finds catharsis in love) emotionally raw.

Current Symptoms/Behaviors: 

XXX has recently came into contact with a young actress by the name of Lorna May. A woman who’s not excellent at anything, but good at everything.

The gods threw the dice – Lorna found XXX when she needed music in her life, and XXX found Lorna when he needed cinema in his.

Just to put things into perspective; we might fairly describe Lorna May as a fearless wonderer. An art time-traveller, an hedonist – opposed to puritan XXX.

Her open-mindedness at first enchanted our patient who soon became loving and a little over-exited, most recently showing signs of unassertiveness and fear (there’s only one fear and that is the fear of the unknown/ignorance).

It’s only logical to assume that the patient has been deeply moved by this free-spirited woman, artistically and emotionally.

Therefore, we categorise XXX’s sudden change of behaviour as xenophobic.

The patient presents a subtle mix of fear and pleasure by the emblematic nature of this woman, an actress, a thief, who steals souls and makes them hers…who influences/contaminates XXX’s puritan persona with art and kisses.

It’s with no doubt that we say that the patient is in a cloudy state-of-mind for the time being. This momentarily hesitation and perhaps scepticism could be translated into oblivion.

The patient has shown desire to drastic lifestyle changes – mostly to accommodate other’s visions, we’d assume. Changes which don’t fit at all with his nature.

We fear suicide.

Treatment:

Prozac – 20 mg once a day

Coffee – one New York mug a day

Cinema – one seance per week

Switch poems to prose

Substance Abuse Treatment History: 

None reported.

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By Dr. Lorna May

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Dance by the Sea

 

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Tonight, we will meet again to take a walk along the shore.

Walking on water, we will wait for each other in the middle of the sea, you will come to take me like a wave that envelops me in a timeless dream.

We will dance over the creatures of the moon, now scratched by the deep sea and the people of the sea will watch impotent, suspended in the abyss, creatures and monsters, whales and dolphins, mermaids without anymore deception and death will join the legend of the mermen, without anymore heroes and myths, and everyone will stand watching the reflection that wraps us, making us dance on the water like ancient immortal gods.

In the depths we will see them illuminate the pitch black darkness of an abyss, and a thousand coloured lights will be our limbo, the eternal moment lapped by the siren wailing that turns into a sweet and melodic silent song, a whisper of passion and love that warms up the water and makes the sea sweet, so sweet that you would want to drink it one drop at a time, wave after wave, until the city of Atlantis can re-emerge in the light of the sun along with princes that will gallop on the victorious and impressive waves like kings.

Everything will remain silent while only our breaths will become enveloping echos between the world’s kingdoms, no more laments and songs, only faint breaths of passion that will become music ready to lead the homeless souls to the rediscovery of a new identity, fixed forever in a timeless place where even dreams become steps on water.

Until the sea becomes air and everything will be sky without limit and horizon.

“Cheek to Cheek”

Heaven. We’re in heaven.

The cast of our dark comedy short-film “Cheek to Cheek” is now completed. Follow us on our just-set-up Instagram page @cheektocheekfilm

Maybe all it takes to stop thinking of a lost love is to have one last dance. In perfect harmony. Cheek to cheek.

The W(b)itches of Harvey Weinstein

Witches Water Skiing

I spend a lot of time holding the fridge door open looking for answers.

Unimpressed by it all, dull and oblivious of the degree of hypocrisy in the world; I keep staring at the apricot jam that has been lying on the top shelf of my fridge since 1996.  Some things are, truly forever. Like apricot jam, of course. Oh, and bitchcraft.

Hollywood is a micro-society. Supposedly, let’s say that every society is like a human evolution pyramid, but reversed. At the top we have the Australopithecus Robustus, and at the bottom the Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Pretty fucked-up, hum?

It’s no surprise the most powerful individuals on Earth are, as Holly Golightly would put it – super rats.

Harvey Weinstein, for example, perfectly fits the stereotype: a half-bald headed, fat, ruthless, depraved son of a diamond cutter.

The world it’s such a roundabout ridiculous cliché, I mean, can’t you see why it is so difficult to quit smoking?

As you all know by now, many actresses have come out with sexual harassment accusations, following a New York Times investigation on the infamous mischiefs of Mr.Weinstein.

The news comes as no surprise, considering the fact that Hollywood has a history for bitchery. Before H.Weinstein there was D.Zanuck, film producer and studio executive, who was an habitué of the casting-couch. His office was basically a boudoir.

He surely wasn’t the only one, but that was the deal: desperate half-brained actresses would negotiate their flesh for some of that red-carpet flash. Yes, it was a flesh-flash deal.

Sadly, things have remained unchanged today. As an actress, I’ve been there too. I’ve met a few weirdos who promised me the world in exchange of some warm embraces. I’ve never accepted such trade, but I wonder where would I be now if I did. Probably up hill, complaining with the other witches.

Breaking news: perverts are out there kids, since the beginning of times, and so are prostitutes. What’s the big deal?

But, why shall this ugly story become a feminist crusade? What’s exactly feminist about it?

Wait a moment. Rewind. So, many Hollywood actresses are complaining about Mr.Pig avances in the past. Check. These actresses had major roles in Mr.Pig movies, some won a considerable amount of prices, gained international acclaim and quite frankly, hit the jackpot. Check-check.

It seems like all of these women are playing innocent victims of the bad fat guy. Harvey Weinstein is a King Pig, and there’s no question about it but the trade seems fair to me. There are many ways to success, these actresses chose the easiest one (and we’re ok with it, it’s a Hollywood tradition), but why exploiting it?

They are now praised by the media as survivors, the spokeswomen of a new, braver generation of feminists.

Feminism. I hate that word. What does that even mean? To be a liberated bitch? I mean witch. To each his own convenient meaning, I guess.

Maybe, but only maybe, women should learn to keep it down with w(b)itchcraft. That’s the reason number one of why men mistreat us and disrespect us in the first place. If there are so many women happily willing to use their bodies for trade, then we got it all wrong.

Instead of encouraging women to hate men and seek revenge, because that’s what’s happening, we should instead teach them to be graceful, cultivated and opinionated. Oh, but that’s just a dream of mine.

Another fancy term will come up, and we’ll yet have another reason to hate each other.

But after all, it’s funny that way.

Happy Halloween!

Notes from a Dressing Room

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When I observe how early happiness handicaps people, I do not regret to have been deeply unhappy to begin with. There’s something romantic about falling.

The world embarrasses me.

* I might as well not quit smoking after all. To star in a French film you must be smoking at all times; even when you are in a bath, in the hospital, or wondering through a warehouse full of dynamite. Cigarettes might be my big brake.

* Wednesdey: the sound of this off-key flute mixed up with heavy rain, and the so familiar and guilty smell of old cigarettes buds makes me think of J. I’ve never been with such an unstable person. I feel safer being next to a dying dog. It must be midnight somewhere. Not here.

* The wild me, the animal me. Me, in the ultime role: myself. What is myself? Myself is when I’m alone. Who claims the opposite is a liar. Myself is the animal me, the untrained me, the “me” that doesn’t have to act to accommodate social standards. The “physical” me. How do I walk when I’m alone in my apartment (my back is facing down more than usual, almost as if imitating a monkey). How do I dress, sit, eat, masturbate. How do I look when I’m eating? How’s my posture? I have an over-relaxed expression when I eat, read, sleep, pee. Idiot face. Monkey face. Idiot monkey face. Notice the plastic of your face in these moments of deep intimacy, and then compare it with your physical behaviour in social activities. I talk like a fucking anthropologist. An ACTRESS must have no mouth, no feet, no shoulders. Loose, loose. Hanging loose. Focus my thought on the partner, feeling it at the end of my fingers. It starts from the feet. Below the feet. It’s all in my feet.

* I find myself tormented by conflicting feelings. My heart is divided between two men and two cities. It’s like being in a damn ice-cream parlor.

* How many times do I say “I” per day? it’s so egocentric.

* My dad, a kind of bourgeois nudist communist, sent me off to strict catholic schools to let me know the enemy first-hand.

* I’m finding out that sincerity and to be simple or direct is often mistaken for stupidity. But since it is not a sincere world, it’s very probable that being sincere is stupid.

* Get an interest in broken people, as broken people are unbreakable. How to recognise them? They have sad-like abandoned puppy eyes.

* You don’t realise that people act (instinctively) much more than you do, because when you act, you’re fully aware of it. So, are they better actors than you? In day-to-day life? Real life is only what’s going on in your mind. Is it? So, are you the worse actress in the world, inside your mind? If that’s so, you must be the best one outside your body. Is it?

* Challenge: find a Parisian psychotherapist that doesn’t have pastis for breakfast.

* VOICE. Husky voice, nasal voice. Sweet and strong at the same time. Talk from your mind (sexy). Talk from your stomach (stupid).

* I will take my rightful place on the stage and I will be thyself. I am not a cosmic orphan. I have no reason to be timid. I will respond as I feel; awkwardly, vulgarly. But respond. I will have my throat open, I will have my heart open. I will be vulnerable. I will admit rejection, admit pain, admit frustration, admit even pettiness. The best and most human parts of me, are those I’ve inhabited and hidden from the world. I will work on it. I will raise my voice. I’ll be heard. Stop laughing inside.

* Acting is just making stuff up, but that’s okay. I’m going to have a special microphone placed in my coffin so that when I wake up in there, six feet under the ground, I’m going to say: “do it differently”.

* London is becoming like Monaco with bad weather. It’s depressing. The only thing that keeps me alive is the thought that I will be soon in Paris… But tonight, I’m stunned, amazed, absolutely blown away, looking at some portraits made by famous Belle Epoque artists. I’ve decided, if my life would be a portrait, it would be a Boldini one.

* My ex-boyfriends have been my best critics so far. That’s why they’re exes.

* I don’t excel at anything, but I’m good at everything.