mlle_quink

I have this habit of forgetting about LJ until I get sent an update or something.
Also been busy with prelims and exams , so hey...

anyhoo, here is some stuff I've been working on, mostly folio pieces,
please comment

Not so Little Rouge Riding Hood

As a child I loved to play at dressing up, from grandma’s petticoats to Ali Baba, but my favourite was the red cloak that Maman made for me as a Little Red Riding Hood disguise. Disguise it was, for there was no way in which I was ready to wear the cloak. Looking back though there is an interesting parallel between little red riding hood and I, between the actions of my mother and the actions of Little Red Riding Hood’s mother.

Maman has always advised me on how I look, as Little Red Riding Hood’s mother helped her and as I’m sure all mothers help their daughters. There is one difference though as to the advice that she gives me compared to other mothers in Scotland. Far from chastising me for revealing too much and refusing to let me out until I change those high-heeled leather boots, she encourages me. Whenever I wear my favourite tight pencil skirt with my black killer heels and fitted shirt she always tells me that I am “superbe” – and that peu t’etre je doix me maquille?

The advice she gives me and the clothes she encourages me to wear are essentially an updated version of the red cloak given to Little Red Riding Hood by her mother. The red cloak is a highly visible sign of her now budding sexuality. The cloak mars her metaphorical whiteness as menstrual blood would mar the white linens of her underclothes. The red is also a strong hint at what is to come for in those days, the seventeenth century, it was common practice to hang the sheets of the wedding night out in public for all to see that the bride had been a virgin.

Whilst not consciously advertising my budding sexuality to the world, Maman is doing it unconsciously. It is part of her French mentality and it is the simply the way she, and now I, have been brought up to treat matters of our sexuality.

By actively encouraging me to dress and behave as I do Maman is allowing me to go out into the forest and attract the wolf, the Beast of my sexuality. She knows, as Red Riding Hood’s mother knew before her, that her daughter must confront and consequently accept sex as part of her life, as part of her raison d’etre.

The purpose of the original fairytale, written by Charles Perrault for the opulent courts of Louis IV, was to educate the daughters of noblemen about their sexuality. (It was a rather explicit euphemism then, “elle avait vu le loup” meant she had had her first sexual encounter) In the fairy tale we are introduced to the heroine as she physically begins the transition from girl to woman, as marked by her red cloak. Our acquaintance ends as she is eaten by the wolf, devoured by the beast of her sexuality and thus completing the metamorphosis from maiden to mother - as the girls of the court were expected to do and as is natural for all women. By drawing this parallel between French girls, thus myself, Perrault and consequently Maman are encouraging nature to take its course.

In crossing La Manche however the tale was corrupted to suit British sensibilities. In the English version of the tale there is a friendly woodcutter, a father archetype, ready to save Little Red Riding Hood (whether she wishes to be saved or not).

My father, though English, seems unaffected by the ‘woodcutter’ mentality. He obviously doesn’t encourage me out go out and get laid of course, but he doesn’t hold me back at all. He would only save Little Red Riding Hood if she shouted for help, armed as she is with an axe of her mother’s making; her sexual awareness. It could be a ‘modern man’ thing, or it could be a quirk of his personality; he did marry a French woman after all.

The Scottish mothers that I spoke of earlier have consequently been brought up with a different attitude to their sexuality then the women of France. Sex to them is something to be feared and repressed, something that must be killed before it’s too late. This idea they pass on to their daughters both consciously and subconsciously through their words and action, so deeply engrained into their psyche as it is.

To some extent then the clichés about the French and the British are true: The Brits are prudes and the French are great lovers. This is not down to the nitty-gritty of actual sexual ability/prowess as I said earlier it is all to do with the nations’ attitude to wards sex.

In France sex is actually acknowledged to happen, people talk about it, do it, rejoice in it –they have accepted the bestial urge to reproduce and the accompanying pleasure. In Britain there is no such thing as sex, only fornication –it doesn’t happen unless it has been talked about, and if it is talked about it is scandalous. The Wolf of British sexuality is thus constantly repressed.

Perrault’s tales still teach French girls about the transition from child to adult. Due to the French mentality of acceptance towards sex we get such clichés as ‘the French are great lovers’. They teach that confrontation and acceptance of sex and ones sexuality are part of this transition. Thus Maman encourages me to dress as a modern day red riding hood, flying my sexuality triumphantly as a banner in an attempt to attract rather than repress the Wolf.

The corrupted British version of the tale has the girl kept as a child. The father archetype, as represented by the woodcutter, ‘saves’ the child from sexuality, from completing the transition from girl to woman. The girl is thus stuck in transition as her parent/s resist nature.

This is still reflected in the UK today. Many of my contemporaries dress in the miniest micro-skirts imaginable– emulating the cloak of little red riding hood, they advertise their physical ripeness for sex. Yet like the Little Red Riding Hood of the corrupted fairytale their inherited mentality ensures they are trapped between child and woman – creating the confusing Lolita complex rampant in the UK today.

The Lolita complex can be highlighted by the recent up-roar over the children’s bed that was being marketed under the name Lolita. Whilst the mothers of young girls are happy for them to wear the red cape in the form of short skirts and high heels, once their actions are spoken of – consciously rather than sub-consciously revealed, the woodcutter engrained in their minds springs into action, thus the bed was removed from sale until a new name could be invented.

I always balked at this idea that makes a girl dress like a woman and act like a child (though the irony is that no woman would wear what these girls wear). It always seemed inherently wrong to send out such mixed signals to the world, to men, to push wolves into becoming woodcutters.

Going through the Red Riding Hood transition period, the journey from menstruation to sex, in the UK doesn’t confuse me – I know who I am – Maman has brought me up with the French mentality towards sex and sexuality. What has confused me is the perception teenage girls over here have of their own sexuality.

In the UK the wolf is ingrained into people’s perceptions of sexuality – It is something scary and horrible to be feared and repressed rather than confronted. The Beast of Sex is repressed every time it rears its head, and the life cycle is broken. (The original fairy tale features the traditional pagan trio of women, the maiden the mother and the crone – in the original tale the crone is killed and the maiden deflowered and presumably conceiving. Red Riding Hood then becomes a mother, her mother becomes a crone and her daughter will be the maiden. Thus the cycle continues)

In my mind and in that of my French mother, aunts, and my grandmother Little Red Riding Hood will always confront the wolf, and this is how I shall teach my daughters and granddaughters the tale of Little Red Riding Hood.

L’amort

 « Putain de bordel de merde »A book was launched across the room. The ensuing pause was occupied by a rattling breath, then there was a soft , dangerous click – the kind of click €300 stilettos make on marble - and a flame sprang into being. Madame had read the no smoking sign and Madame had carefully erased the significance of it from her mind. The sign was a ridiculous gesture anyway; once one got this far there wasn’t much worry about one’s health. Velvet coils of smoke penetrated to her very soul –the decisively masculine scent made her shiver as it blended wither own natural perfume; a heady mixture by His standard, by any standard.

She had no patience for books these days-her life was too short to read about the experiences of others without gaining some herself. The only book she still felt capable of reading, though extremely long, was “The Count of Monte Cristo”. Revenge is a fine sentiment and it was, after all, what paid for the Villa and the Cigars. It was also His favourite book.

What she wanted at this moment, what she really wanted was a cup of chocolat chaud perfumed with cinnamon and fresh cream- giving such pleasures as could only be aspired to by any amorous young man, even Casanova himself was said to have preferred on occasion a cup of such a brew over his more earthly delights. This hotel she knew, would only deliver the best, especially after her displeasure two days before at the insolence of the concierge - didn’t he know her by sight, she had lived there for the past two months.

Sighing she contemplated calling in that woman, but decided against it, they watched her with a strange mix of compassion and withdrawal. These people, they wouldn’t be doing what they did if they didn’t have some sort of sympathy for her state and yet she recognised that look deep in their eyes, half hidden behind the careful mask of emotion. They had left her; already withdrawn their emotion from their duties, as she had hers. Dammit, this wasn’t quite how she had pictured it.

Like all young women, for her, getting old had never seemed an option; she would live hard and die young. Her beauty and elegance forever frozen in time, she would be remembered as the toast of all fashionable parties, of the whole underworld which she had raucously invaded with her Chanel suits and killer heels.

God knows the average lifetime of her colleagues was very low, and so she had expected to die, indifferent to the fate of what lay beyond, a subject which a few of her more sentimental, and eventually defunct colleagues had indulged in. She had become too good at her game, never caught off her guard, a fine markswoman. There had been once or twice, in her forties, when faced with a more than worthy assailant half considered plans to make a fatal mistake, allowing them the glory of being her assassin, and herself the glory of being inhumed by someone who was worthy of the title of her killer. They had never been quite good enough though, and there had always been one last party to attend, one last contract to fulfil. And Him of course.

This was a better way than any, by her own hand in a discreet and dignified way, a designer death if you will. She had planned each detail to the very last- from the exact positioning of each flower, to the time of day when the light was just so, to catch her profile as she welcomed the sleep from which one never returns.  She had sat there in the ball gown she had persuaded that lovely boy at Dior to design especially for her.

She felt a little like a mirror image of that Dickens woman, Haysham or something. A woman who had grasped that pain and that anger, had locked it within her it to become untouchable, to create a new life in which no one could hurt her. There had been many men since Him, but none had ever meant anything much more than the wit they brought to the dinner parties, the skill to the card table and the pleasure to her bed. She missed them all, in her own way, but only as one misses a distant though amusing acquaintance. And so she had sat there, not in the tatters of what her life could have been but, in the riches that her life had brought her, staring into the mirror with her shoe half on and opals at her breast.

Later that night she had downed several drinks, the Caipirinha she had grown to adore during her brief stint in South America as the supposed divorcee wife of an oil sheikh, the liquid gold of the muscatel of her youth, a fine dry white with her fruits de mers, a full blooded red with the boeuf en croute farci au foie gras, and a deeper, plummier wine with her cheese course – and of course the Grand Marnier that she only began to appreciate after He left her, the bitter sweet nectar masking the tinny taste of her spittle which still haunted her.

She had played at the highest table; nobody questioned her presence there. A turn about the ballroom preceded a turn about her bed with a charming gentleman from Greece with the most divine accent.

Muttering she struggled out of bed – the mattress being some sort of apprentice duvet- and proceeded to inflict the customary one hundred strokes on to her dusky (yet disappointingly thinning) locks, only the beginning of a strenuous beauty regime that she undertook each morning. She was so lucky in that at least, though the rest of her seemed to be suffering from the ravages of time, her hair was the same as it had been when she was a sylph like slip of twenty three albeit a little thinner and a little coarser.

As she sat at the table, powder puff in hand, her mind inevitably began to churn through each step that would lead up to her death. She thought she had convinced herself that this was what she wanted – or at least better than what she didn’t want, and yet at each brief interval she thought of a needle, of the poison running through her, corrupting her. That woman and countless others had assured her it would be painless, she would quite simply fall asleep, and then so deep into the embrace of Morpheus that nothing could bring her back, not even He.

She had loved Him, still loved Him, in fact. Her enemy. Her nemesis. The competition had kept their senses sharp – they were the finest assassins money could buy (which inevitably meant the oldest assassins). They would test one another to see who could come the closest to killing the other. It had leant an interesting combative edge to them as lovers, as each would struggle for supremacy aware of every slight movement the other made. They had always failed of course, and always through equality of power. Neither had ever trusted the other enough to let down the guard on purpose, not even a little. A fascinating take on ‘till death do us part’ , of course, that was their way of taking a vow, as only death had any meaning to them.

It had all petered out a couple of years ago in Marrakech. It had been a hard day and she had just needed someone, someone to talk to, to hold, anything, any sort of human contact. And so when she sensed Him coming behind her she had offered no action other than to turn to Him, leaving herself open. He had stared. When she stepped forward to embrace Him something came over His face, a shadow. He had shot her reflection in the looking-glass on her left, and then turned and stalked away, leaving His back open to her. She had not followed.

The next week, during her annual check-up, there had been a shadow on the monitor of the CAT machine. In-operable. Three years. Pain. He would find out, she knew He would. Of course that didn't mean He would do anything about it.They had spoke once about death though, not as businees, butv as an option. For both of course a quick professionally handled death at the hands of a better rival had seemed to be the only choice on the cards, not to mention the personal preference.

If she could choose that option she would still take it of course. Though that didn't mean she was letting her guard down - to do so would invite the attentions of only mediocre assassins, not worthy of her name on their records. She had infact taken a contract out on herself, in the form of a training exercise for her protegees beseaching the young assassin charged with her death to 'surprise' her. Of the three, two were in hospital (she hadn't wanted to kill them, just teach them a lesson) and the third had yet to show up.She reasoned that he he had withdrawn from the challenge, waiting until one of his associates had completed the deed. He had always been a little too sentimental for his own good.

She looked round her suite, a residential  Imperiale in the 'Hotel du Palais'. Satisfied wiht the depths of each shadow she returned to completing her make-up. As she picked out a luscious shade of sherry for her lips she caught a pair of eyes in the mirror. His eyes. Her pistol was concealed under the cool linen of her pillow on the other side of the room. She was too weak to put up a fight, and though she had a throwing knife strapped to her ankle she no longer trusted her aim, in fact she scorned her aim. She did not want to be scorned by Him. So she sat and watched.

As he took aim, he realised She was watching him. Her eyes were a little dull resigned, but there remained hope, somewhere down ther. He knew why. They had discussed this once, choosing to be assassinated rather than die naturally. She was past dyiong naturally now of course, only the drugs she had been taking everyday but for the past few days had been keeping her alive. Slowly he repositioned himself, careful to aim for the back of the head. He was a little confused as to why she did not struggle a little, but then a struggle would have been useless on her part. He held her gaze and pulled the trigger.

ooops! i have been scandalously negligent of my account recently. Things suddenly hotted up at school so i haven't had much time, what with dissertattions due in and my Uni. application (it is rather complicated over here in old Blighty).
I'm doing my dissertation on Beauty and the Bestial: the nature of the Beast in "Nights at the Circus" and a selection of short stories by Angela Carter. How cool is that!i get to do a study on one of my favourite authors and indulge my inner smuttiness( because you just know that by beast i mean sexual politics-basically who gets to ride up top, right) at the same time without being embarassed about it.

Anyhoo i've been working on lots of bits of stuff for my English folio because i really desperately don't want to do a textual analysis in the exam because:

a) i really am wondrously shitty at planning and writing essays in a time limit

b) It would mean i would have to spend an extra hour and a half in an exam room

We did a lesson on creative writing and i was inspired to write a poem, however i don't like it enough yet so i'll try and post it in the next few days.

I read "Brave New World" by Alduous Huxley recently, it is such a good book,though really rather scary.  It basically dooms mankind to a souless search for perfection. One of the scariest thoughts though was a world without Shakespeare (in the novel, literature, especially the good classic stuff, is banned because it makes people think and feel too much)
aaargh, can you imagine?

Had the most geek festy and enjoyable hour for ages today, i spent a period writing a debate and quoting Blackadder with two (other,ha!)brainy geeky people-it was soo much fun. The general consensus is that  all Blackadder is genius(especially the last three series),Stephen Fry is a God, and the chap who hosts "Never Mind the Buzcocks" is totally wonderful and adorable

The mighty quinky has spoken,
sayonara! xxx
p.s. search Bill Bailey plus love song(/ballad ) on you tube

Hi, honey how was your day?
My day was kinda sucky and stressful. I just realised when i got home that i have practically no free 'me ' time anymore!! I'm doing some kinda activity like every lunchtime and after school most days. aaargh!
plus i think i'm getting a cold (sniffle)
i'm already feeling stressed and i haven't even started my dissertations yet for English(Angela Carter shorts) and Philosophy(Quantum theory and the cosmological argument).
if anyone has any ideas, please tell me
mwah


omg just watched the News and there was this horrible feature on some guy (i think from the eastern block) who'd killed like sixty people, so far they only have him down for 49 murders(as they don't trust his testimony or mental state or whatever) and he's going to trial even though he's confessed to all of them. The worst bit is that he says he can still remember the feel of the hammer he used as he killed them!!!