It's been a long while since I busted out my Dulli. There's a certain mood that tends to precipitate his inclusion in my playlists, and oddly, I am not feeling those feelings. I think in lieu of sexual appetite and suave confidence, it's actually New Orleans that beckons the former Afghan Whig to my ears. Like New Orleans, Greg Dulli is at surface a polished, and inviting mistress, with a language that weaves about loin and heart, and a soulful gaze that pens fantasies in your mind. But with tips tracing the flesh, you can find the fractures and scars. With each kiss, the flame upon your tongue tastes like decay; and whispers spin spells that purchase the remnants of your inhibitions. In all, it's a decadent feast that ends only when every ounce of you is barely recognizable.
So, in addition to Mister Dulli's intrusion into my days, there's also been a flood of thoughts. Short scenes of enticing moments I'd love to share. Cuddled on a couch watching movies; preparing meals together; exploratory walks with endless eye candy and dialogue; and a shared inspiration what will become part of who we are, forever. It's not that I am engraving my expectations in stone, or writing intentions to paper and setting them to flame. But it is an intoxicating series of comfort that sells me on the idea of embracing something new.
Last night, I watched, "Broken Blossom", a D.W. Griffith film starring Lillian Gish from 1918. Sadly, even the stunning beauty of Miss Gish can resurrect how depressing this film was. Set in London's Limehouse District, we are first introduced to a young Chinese man's arrival in the city to spread his Buddhist wisdom. He immediately realizes that the brutality of the London is spirit-crushing and he finds himself living in the midst of opium dens which soon take hold of his spirit. Meanwhile, Gish portrays the daughter of a drunken boxer that funnels his frustration into beating her within an inch of her life. She's not allowed to eat while he's eating, and is expected to be home when he's home (which isn't exactly a set schedule), so just always be home. After one such beating, Gish wanders into the streets and collapses at the doorstep of the Chinese man's home. He mends her, takes her in, and falls in love with her. The whole thing unravels when it's discovered that Gish is staying there, and her brutish father arrives and takes her home where he beats her to death. Her new suitor arrives too late, and is confronted by dad, and he's shot-to-death by the Chinese man. He takes Gish's body back to his room, prays for her and then kills himself. I expected a lax respect for minorities, but D.W. Griffith still managed to hit my frustration point. Our main character is dubbed, "Yellow Man", and Gish gives him the pet name of "Chincky". An Opium-addicted friend of "Yellow-Man" is called "Evil Eye". Even the father, with his drinking, anger, and facial expressions is a stereotype. It's truly hard to enjoy a film, or appreciate what it offers when we've been so conditioned to recognize the disgusting elements of human behavior. Beyond that, the bleak, hopeless aspect is only barely breached with the building love between "Yellow Man" and Gish, but they are absolutely punished for that experience, and you are reminded that chincs are dirty, and you leave feeling that their love is forbidden because of only that. It's not even classicism, it's clearly racism.
Well, off to chores and breakfast. More later.
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