|-paul fryer's 'heaven and hell|
i want to write the story of us.
expose all those moments
you've forgotten and meant love to me.
swim inside those details
that have been falsely accused of being trivial.
it was inside the minuscule that you became a god
and transmuted my reality
into unrequited, overlooked memoirs that have defined my life.
i want this story to be my thank you letter.
a confession that perhaps will redefine
the words that have become dull from overuse,
the truest i love you i can submit.
perhaps it will slay the beast of apathy that lives in your breast.
the small indie doc tells the tale of two sisters who were victims of sexual molestation. by their father’s best friend. who lived in close proximity. NO,WAIT.ITGETSBETTER. after their parents find out…they confront the molester who promises never to do it again. in response he gets castrated, lobotomized, and left wandering the desert without food or shelter. oh wait. that didn’t happen. cue the reality reel - he promises never to do it again, goes to counseling once, and for the next decade these girls are forced by their parents to see this man in various different contexts, the main one being fucking everyday life.
the documentary is squirm-in-your-seat inappropriate (favorite moment? main character stating…”oh it was normal for me to play with my dad’s penis”) but what is most evident is the utter failure of the parents to protect their daughters. i have many opinions on the fuckery their parents put these girls through but bottom line – the doc’s main storyline is about these two women confronting their attacker many years after in an attempt to gain some sort of closure.
it is heartbreaking, provocative, and in some moments so endearing, but ultimately if you are looking to find hope in humanity – this film is not going to give you that. it’s a testament to how society fails the victim, even long after the victimization has occurred. meeting the molester on camera, the silence and tension in the room was alive with emotion. and once the scene was over and the credits rolled, i’m not sure if i was better off never having heard of it in the first place.
what remained was an intense desire to find out the man’s name. there is about ten seconds devoted to revealing that the molester’s son had been arrested himself for sexual attacks and you see his family struggling to find answers. is sexual misconduct, violence, and violation genetic? is it taught through behaviors only a genius psychotherapist can deconstruct?
the documentary tries unsuccessfully to allude to the dangers of pornography as some sort of ass-backwards explanation to this horrid human being’s conduct. but in a society that is closer and closer to complete censorship, is this the right course to take? pornography is not dangerous as long as there isn’t any exploitation. and as long as mainstream media continues to lace their messages with religious morality, things like speaking out about sexual abuse will continue to be taboo. talking about sex will continue to be taboo. which will always be counterproductive in identifying the demons that prey on people. sex isn’t bad people. what is bad is the exploitation, victimization, and violation of anyone who isn’t a consenting individual. end of story.
you are intrinsically bad, little girl. axiomatic said an old writer once.
axiomatically inherently intrinsically bad.
i threw the bottle with a flick of my wrist and enjoyed the sound the glass breaking on the wet asphalt below my window. grabbed the other that was still full and waiting for me, a little present of possibility. sweet tasting oblivion. the liquid had a way of burning that made me think of antiseptic.
the thoughts overcrowded and jumbled, the codex of the rapture, the epistle of the sorrowful.
gospels they all were. the gospel according to the forgotten.
i emptied the second bottle out of spite in just a few minutes and found myself once again staring back at the distorted reflection at the bottom of the hollow glass. this time, without blinking, i smashed it against the wall and felt around for the edges.
i would cut you out of me in order to no longer to wear this victim’s skin. and as i began to raise the jagged point towards my face, the void came up in a wave and swallowed me away.
i slept the sleep of self-inflicted martyrs, heavy and empty and devoid of all comfort.
what woke me was the sound of the violin playing softly and as i blinked sleep away slowly, i realized that it had all been somehow undone. the years of being tossed to one jackal after another, the living fear and then the hatred and disgust, the breathing husk of a girl that was my existence.
the violin. the song weaved itself to me, a cradle. and on the dresser, as i looked for the source, i found that it was coming from a music box. i stepped gently out of bed, anxious that a heavier footstep might crack this reality and have it all fall around me unexpectedly.
wooden, smelling of cedar, it was smooth, deeply etched with a vine pattern and nothing else. it was empty and unlike most music boxes, it did not hold a dancing figurine. it simply played for the dancer in my mind, the figure i had once dreamt to be.
delicate but strong, like the violin strings that weaved together the melody that held me in a sway of subtle ecstasy.
with a smile, i picked it up and for a moment, felt an immense sense of relief, gratitude, and the purest of love flow through me. and once again, without the blink of an eye, i raised it over my head and smashed that sweet serenading object. with a twang in objection, the song wound down, now only a sickened parody of its former perfection. the world wavered in the lightest of quicksilver and i was back where i belonged. back to where truth is always ugly but it will always let you know where you stand.
the splintered wood was evidence that it had been real. but who the fuck said i needed rescuing?