Latin Quarter – Paris 1995

Latin Quarter - Paris 1995

When I was in Paris in 1995, I walked around the city. I shot each day for a week. I came upon this window and inside the store were these elements: Mirror, antique statue, bedpost, etc. and behind me was a building and a bike on the street. It spoke of the medium given my being upside down in the mirror. The black and white spoke of timelessness. The age and articulation of Europe as the origins of my soul, that I could apprehend catharsis itself in an image meant that I could stop. I have never shot a better image than this. It represents me, my eye, and aesthetic capacity. I hope to continue this journey when I eventually get to London, another city with windows in an urban environment.

“It’s You,” Review of Alexandra Naughton’s Poem “you it’s all ways you…” and Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken”

“you it’s all ways you it will all ways be you it is you it’s all for you it’s all ways you it will all ways be you it’s all i do it’s all ways you all the little things it’s all the scary things i do are for you like you you you and I never tell you it’s actually pretty creepy god and maybe you like maybe you and maybe already know and maybe that’s why you keep me around but what do any of us do is this the way the only thing I do I guess it’s what I do like you you you” – Alexandra Naughton, from My Posey Taste Like


illustration for Naughton and Frost It's you copy

The first thing that comes to mind when reading the above poem by Alexandra Naughton’s poem ‘you it’s all ways you…‘ is how relationships are like awkward power trips and once you get on one side of the balance that person always remains either recessive or dominant. There is something about them that makes us admire them, they demonstrate mastery of our weaknesses or where our mastery is reflected by the greater content of life as insignificant.

As a poet, I often feel inferior. Everything about life seems to shake its head at me; what a sorrowful indulgence poetry is. But, then I think as with Naughton’s poetry, I can relate to it. It means just about everything in this time and place. It colors life with meaning and intensity. Poetry, literature, art makes life worthwhile. Without it, there would only be the breeze, the leaves, the stillness of architecture, and the movement of shapes. There would be no inward response, no shared understanding, just shadows and shapes, the dance of light and dark outside of the cave.

I’ve been in relationships like Naughton describes. In this poem, even now, I know this person, who I will probably never see again. There is no point. I feel so far from grace, that I can never be saved in her eyes. I don’t think we can ever meet even as passing ships because we travel in different waterways. She is exactly aligned with the every day, and I am enshadowed by the curse of trying to bring beauty and truth. Even at this I am weak, immature. She would walk into a room and command it. She was the perfect external manifestation of my beauty and truth, my hidden meaning. Thus, “it’s always you… it’s actually pretty creepy… and maybe [she] already [knows this] And why [she] kept me around…” But, to keep someone around only lasts as long as you can figure out what it is about yourself that the other person finds fascinating and then their use is gone. They no longer have anything to offer; in effect, we don’t need them, whereas in the case of the dominant paradigm it keeps reminding us of our weakness until we address the issue. Some of us can never change. Eventually, it drives us crazy. The spirit gives up. We can’t sit on our laurels. We have to confront our fears, become stronger.

I also want to address Naughton’s use of lower case, the words “all ways,” as well as “you you you,” or the phrase: “like do you.” I also note that the running together without punctuation can create different meaning or emphasis.

Lower case exudes a lack of confidence, a wanting to remain under the radar. The lack of punctuation implies a lack of commitment but also of the poet to imply any number of statements.

“All ways” refers to all the ways that this person is the focus of her attention. “All” of it is for him/her. “All ways” by definition refers to “by all routes,” thus, as with the first statement: “you it’s all ways you,” it means that “you it is by all routes you.” There is a centrifugal or central focus, where the protagonist from any direction moves toward her beau. “it’s all ways you,” means “it is by all routes you.” This is versus “always,” which means “at all times; all the time and on every occasion.” So, there is a qualification where it is not all the time(s) him, nor on every occasion, but she is talking about how everything leads to him. This is an interesting assignment, where for example, this person seems to be a cause in her life, something that leads her back to the same place and time. He is the embodiment of something, an event perhaps, that brings her right back. She is not concerned at any point in “at all times; all the time and on every occasion,” just with by all routes.

The use of “you you you,” is to repeat in echo, in overabundance, to the point of ad naseum. In the section: “it’s all the scary things i do are for you like you you you and i never tell you that it is actually pretty creepy god and maybe you like maybe you and maybe already know…”

She does scary things for him, which are like him (in the way he does them) and like him (as in becomes him), and with the redundancy, it is like a reminder, a nagging, everything is an egotistical romp for him, it feels like he victimized her and is a psychopath. It has been said that psychopaths keep people around to victimize them like cats play with mice as in a “parasitic lifestyle.”

The phrase “and maybe that’s why you keep me around but what do any of us do is this the only thing I do i guess it’s what I do like do you you you,” says she is kept around to serve the victimizer’s purpose, while she is questioning what do people like them do, as she seems to have become him: “is this the only thing I do?” and then she says: “i guess it’s what I do like,” and it seems like it is what she does, she likes him, but it is like an unwelcome response, as in, “so then this happens?” And there is a sense that she likes to make love to him (“do you”) as an effect, where she cannot control herself and she is blaming him: You did it. You, you you as in scolding him, but also as I mentioned earlier all roads lead to him. He is the cause and effect of her behavior. She has become him. The abused abuse.

What appears on its face as a romantic love story is actually a take on victimization and dependency. What do you think? I have also wanted to address the Robert Frost poem “The road not taken,” as it relates to external direction/environmental influence. For the main character in Naughton’s poem, we have learned that while she seems to like the road ahead, and where she was interrupted and forced to travel a dark one she could never see “to where it bent in the undergrowth.”

What does it mean not to have been given two roads from which to choose? Has she become someone else and thus like him she is inclined to upset someone else’s direction? Is she like a vampire, whose life now becomes one where she sucks the blood from others just as unlucky?

Frost writes that there were two roads and he wanted to travel both and sought to decide, where both roads were worn about the same and realized he probably would not have time to travel both. He figures looking ahead in time that having taken one he would have been distracted and never make it back, and so with the two roads ahead, he decided to take the less traveled one, and for him that made the difference. The persona decided to be different than most, like a poet perhaps, where his life, in general, began with his father dying when he was eleven, the family moved to New England, where his mother supported them as a teacher. For twenty years, after graduation as valedictorian, an honor he shared with the woman he married, casual attendance at Dartmouth and Harvard holding a variety of jobs, and having failed at running a farm. He and his wife had four children, they lived in poverty, he abused his family, his son committed suicide, his daughter had a complete mental collapse. Frost was not the man depicted in his poems. (Taken from the introduction of Robert Frost’s poems in The Norton Anthology of American Literature, Third Edition Shorter, 1989.)

So, in a sense, Frost was like the persona in Naughton’s poem. “Frost, perceiving in himself some of his father’s tendency to vent distress by abusing his family, became deeply distressed, even suicidal.” (Ibid.)

Yesterday, I smelled a dead man’s body


Yesterday, I smelled a dead man’s body.

And the flies knew before I did,

Like some new restaurant, they were

At the door, even going underneath it.

I knocked repeatedly and no one


One minute standing and the next

Unconscious forever.

I saw the man, thin, goateed, gray-haired

Seemingly viable, kind, and soft-spoken.

His car was without hubcaps, one of those

Light Toyotas, dark-colored like the night sky.

He always wore the same jacket, pants and shirt

That matched his car.

We had cordial conversations and not much more.

I never thought to bother him.

We have our own lives.

Maybe he lost his job,

Fell off a ladder,

Had a heart attack;

I just don’t know.

There was a gentleman’s silence

Between us.

No family, no wife, no children,

Perhaps the economy is to blame:

Enron, Bank of America, anything

Too big to fail?

Review of Sergio Y. by Alexandre Vidal Porto and Alexandra Naughton’s poem: “put my little party dress on.”

Put a party dress on - naughton2

While I was at once afraid of my illustration given that it may reflect my relationship with the author, keeping in mind Picasso’s statement that every painting he made was a painting about himself, I came upon the book Sergio Y. by Alexandre Vidal Porto at approximately the same time I was about to draw it and luckily the book by Porto relates to Alexandra Naughton’s poem. (Alexandre and Alexandra) They both, the poem by Naughton and the tale by Porto, relate to happiness.

Whereas the main character of Porto’s book Sergio realizes to be happy he must become the woman who lurks inside him, so too Naughton’s main character talks about having to alter herself to fit in, where there is this blasé attitude on the outside, but obviously internal turmoil. This is likened to the character known as Sergio becoming Sandra, where there is a cool, calm, and collected person with seeming no external evidence to the big change she eventually endures to become happy. Both characters seem to be externally subjected to a patriarchal system, where Sergio’s father had a hard time accepting him like the victimizer of the party dress wearer, who seemed to have demoralized her. The image of a shark comes to mind with its eyes closed, where the innocent victim is simply swimming. There is a sense that the water could be dangerous, but why is one gender more likely to be victimized by this beast? I think as the murderer (Laurie Clay) admits, there was a moment of madness, where she remembers her father’s not liking Sandra and telling Clay that Sandra’s transsexuality was “the devil’s work… And that must have stayed in my subconscious,” as she “pushed Sandra with all my might…[and] I can still hear the curtain tearing.”

The story does not have a happy ending and perhaps that is the point; there are so many unrealized and damaged people, that to live happily is to forget about the zombies. One person’s finding happiness forgets that there are others, who because of distorted perspectives and self-projected revenge act out their anger against those they feel threatened by.

The indictment that Sergio makes is about society, its professionals, even psychiatrists, aren’t trained or haven’t the sensitivity to see that one might be suffering from the desire to be a woman, where in this case, she is trapped in a man’s body.

What is great about Sergio Y. is, as with most Latin-American literature, is that there is the element of surrealism. What begins with simple sentences, where the “I” does this and that, the story seems to become a pattern of lines for something much more complex and yet becomes a parable that reveals an easy solution.

While Porto deals with the timely issue of transexuals and the simple joy in finally manifesting their internal desire, I hope to explore the unseemly craving of pedophiles, for example, as a future project, where both, I would think, are victims of as well as victimizers. In a society such as ours, where government is obligated to ensure the happiness of its people, how can one group’s desire involve the suppression of another’s rights?

And now a look at the poem by Alexandra Naughton:

put my little party dress on
put my little party face on
put my little perfume on
put my little record on
put my little body on
put my little lie on
put my little on
put my like
put it on


Alexandra Naughton’s poem “put my little party dress on” (above) moves architecturally from bigger to smaller, a building that might fall to the right. After reading the poem six times, I see the thoughtfulness in the equality of each line lessening as the poem descends by one less letter. There is something luscious in that. Put… Put… Put… She is putting things on, a dress, a face, a perfume, a record, her body even, to lie, to little, to like, to put it all on.

There is a lot of “little” too and everything is hers. Then toward the bottom, she says she has to put her “like” on. This implies that the persona is not happy, that she cannot find things likable in her world?

I know that we project our capacities to either respond to the world positively or negatively.

I imagine the persona: She is petite. She has a little party dress. She must be going to a party or out. She has a party face, a false exterior to something that is going on inside, something keeps her from enjoying life. She has to falsify.

She’ll don perfume to attract, to cover up? She’ll put a record on, I don’t know why since she is leaving; unless of course she is still in the process of dressing. She’ll put a lie on, which, I assume, relates to faking happiness/interest in someone else, to pay attention. But, what is it to put a “little” on. I assume it relates to a little effort, then she’ll put that like on.

I can’t imagine putting on a face, a falsification of my feelings. I am my feelings. I do have a public job and it’s true throughout the day, I am gearing up to perform. I tend to be quiet when I can’t be positive. I quietly articulate, am careful not to offend. When I do get to work, its atmosphere helps me to adapt. I tell myself it is only going to be for a while and that it is necessary for me to survive. So, I guess I do put a party face on.

I need to also mention that the book from which the poem comes, My Posey Tastes Like, has as a reference: ‘choose your last words this is the last time cuz you and I we will be born to die’ – Lana Del Rey. So, one may assume that the poem takes the perspective of Lana Del Rey, her winsome, lazy, restrained participation in a world of parties, perfumed ladies, records playing, bodies not really interested in being viewed, penetrated, or having to be positive.

I feel the poem, as I have garnered from her work and has been suggested by Marta Pombo (See:, that Lana Del Rey and the persona may have been sexually abused or as Pombo suggested, her mother might have been: “A woman whose mother has been sexually abused by her partner will very likely produce the same in her love relationship(s) with men.” She seems to remain distanced and a victim of objectification .

The poem too may be an indictment of a culture, where women dress up, fake smiles, don perfume, and put lies on. What is underneath this falsification? What has happened? Why is one forced to like the world? Isn’t the world a lovely place?



You sit for a second on the bench and then the view is gone. It’s some room fit with equipment and a bathroom. The breezes blow across your face, and then there is only darkness and the “I” disappears. Every second is a gift. Every thought, a timely prayer. Every relationship, no matter how it differs from television or the movies, is real. I think we are always withholding love. We don’t recognize the people we are with, in every aspect, in each moment, but they are US. We are all the same, in the same thoughts, looking out eyes that cannot see ourselves, only each other and we still don’t recognize it. We are of one mind. On the level of the “I,” we are the same. We can learn to love if only we practice. Take risks with strangers. I believe in coincidence.

A Look at Alexandra Naughton’s poem “i am like a queen”


Alexandra Naughton’s poem “i am like a queen:”

     “i am like a queen on a throne cold as blossoms on a cliff side clinging to some
     thing any thing waiting and all ways cold and all ways waiting because that is
     how you are perfect.
     “i don’t want to settle any more, for dirty cushions or not enough time or the cut of
     your stare, like why am i always waiting for you. i don’t want to sleep in a fugue
     state alone i want your thick limbs around me sometimes. i want to feel like i’m
     in a world on my own and i just need a visitor so i can know.”


The persona in Alexandra Naughtons poem i am like a queen,is like a queen on a throne. She is also Cold as blossoms on a cliff that are clinging toanything.In every way she is cold. She is always waiting and in this waiting it makes her man perfect.

Still, she does not want to stay this course. She is tired of the mess in which she is forced to live. She doesnt seem to have enough time. She is tired of her mans severe stare. She hates always waiting. Shes tired of sleeping in a manner that causes her to forget who she is.

The persona in the poem wants her mans thick legs wrapped around her.

She wants to feel like she is on her own, and she just needs someone to visit her.

The persona of the poem seems to be a product of a man, who houses her in isolation. She is a queen, held up on a pedestal by him, but perhaps using emotional manipulation to do so.

i am

i dont

i dont

i want

These are the nouns and verbs of the sentences in the poem.

She uses breaks between the following words: any thing,” “all ways,” “any more,and some times,but she has used alwaystoo, so we know she is aware of the seeming pause, where any thingmakes you question how thingscould be different. A thing could be a vine or an event, the presence of her man. She is not on a cliff literally. She needs to be given a sign. In every way too she is cold, not just physically in terms of her feeling cold inside, but she affects chilly, and you might garner a cold personality. In every way she is waiting. She waits on her man, she waits on things to change. I dont know of any more ways someone can wait. Can you think of some?

Her not wanting to settle any morespeaks of not wanting to settle on anything, not just from here on out.

Some timesalludes to a break between times, it holds us just as her mans intermittent leg holdings.

In these choices, we are made to feel the same waiting she must feel waiting for her man.

Knowing her poems in My Posey Taste Like are based on the Lana Del Reys We Were Born to Die,I can feel the singers long and her low maudlin voice.

This and Naughtons poem my posey taste like,from the book My Posey Taste Like manifests the seeming abused Lana Del Rey character in that Del Rey in her videos hangs out with extreme men, who are often older, tough, and seeming brutal. Why would such a beautiful woman choose such extreme men? Who do they represent? What makes them attractive to her?

When I read Naughton I sense a self-disconnected woman. She is powerful in her ability to wait. She is powerful in her coldness as we, or perhaps it is just me looking on. While she waits on the cliff, I am behind her in a meadow. I understand her. I am like her. All the women I have wanted were indifferent and for that reason they too were perfect. There was an absence, which must have/or still does complement me. My father died when I was ten. That event seemed to undermine all my security. He was a doctor. He represented the highest level of achievement: Social, psychological and economic status. I strutted around like an arrogant little boy whose father was a doctor. I was proud of him. I felt like I could become anyone and then he died and I lost all my confidence. I have withdrawn. Could that be the reason I am attracted to strong women, to women who appear as a mystery to me? My mother, a runway model and commercial artist, did not seem to be a mystery to me. Her energies and interests were my own. She represented beauty and she created beauty. The women I have truly yearned for were confident and beautiful, but they did not create beauty necessarily. I did not agree with their politics or ideas, we would often fight. I was jealous of them because of their practicality. My very existence is contingent upon an aesthetic consciousness and appreciation. The women I have appreciated most did well in business, kept moving from job to job until they were happy. I remain at jobs for many years until points of the inability to work there or because of some major change appears and makes it plain that I must move on.

Naughtons character doesnt want dirty cushions any more. She no longer desires not having enough time for herself and she is tired of her mans cutting stare. She asks why she is always waiting for him? She doesnt want to sleep separated from herself, where one would advice reconnecting, and maintaining her whole self. And perhaps the time has come when she is no longer interested or cannot compromise.

She wants his thick limbs around her. She wants to feel like she is in a world of her own.

I think we all come to this point, where the one we are with, who is not meeting us half-way starts to earn our disinterest, our distaste, and eventually we get it. They are either incapable of loving us or they dont want to. It has nothing to do with anything we can change. We cant change the things about us that they want. Maybe thats why we are drawn to them. They see our weaknesses. They remind us of things about us that we regret, and perhaps we should be moving to correct them. We sense the impossibility and yet we dont want it to be that way. I remember an exs mother coming to me and telling me that her daughter just didnt have fireworks when she met me and so it would never work. I understood that. There were fireworks for me. In fact, by that point, it became desperation. The die had been cast and there was no hope that she and I would ever get back together. I had to live with that: The stark reality of there not being fireworks.

Naughton does this for me as a reader. She does so much more as well about a woman and her control. And of course you can take away the gender assignments, this is a human problem as so indicated in Naughtons characters predicament. I wish her character well. She deserves to be happy. I hope her man wakes up and wraps his legs around her. But, as with me, I think the die is cast. These kinds of things inflict wounds and in time if they were together, the woman would exacter her revenge: Nature is always seeking an equilibrium.

Review of Alexandra Naughton Poem “My Posey Taste Like”

Screen Shot 2016-04-25 at 2.05.22 PM

Alexandra Naughton – “My Posey Tastes Like”

“my posey taste like coca cola. my stanzas snide like american thighs. i open up for a palm that’s colder. ashes fly like american skies.

“honey’s in the bathtub singing like she’s in a movie. dressing up my eyes. honey’s in the bathtub singing and it’s making me crazy. i just want to feel alive

“or like I know what this is.” – Alexandra Naughton, “My Posey Tastes Like”

I tried to analyze the poem above by Alexandra Naughton as follows. I read the poem and applied the denotations found in various sources, like dictionaries, mainly focusing on The Urban Dictionary ( given Naughton’s contemporary meaning. Words I never knew were so defined, I learned about through The Urban Dictionary and in conversation with Naughton.

While I have shown Ms. Naughton the following interpretations, she said she did not like them.

I have included her poem above, so you can draw your own conclusions. But, where I once believed that poems were separate entities, whose secrets could be revealed through denotation and connotation, Naughton and I were in conflict about this particular poem’s meaning. As a poet myself, I have simply left interpretation to others because I have never felt that I wrote poetry to tell anything but what I felt. The words were never mine, for example. They always came to me either as the words themselves or as the emotion within which words seemed to have been born. Still, when I go back, I have clear ideas as to what the poems mean, but then again, I do not presume to know what they mean to others. I just hope that they are as powerfully felt as when I felt them.

In the poem “My Posey Tastes Like” (also the name of the book) Alexandra Naughton is talking about the narrator’s behavior, which is affected or attempting to impress others, to gain something from them, whether love, attention, approval, respect, or some other personal reason. It matches the emotion or mood of Lana Del Rey’s music and specifically relates to the persona inherent in Del Rey’s “Born to Die:” “[or] partying [that] is fueled by a knowing sadness, and sung in that laconic, hypnotic voice, which ultimately saves this thoroughly dissolute, feminist nightmare of a record for the romantics among us”.- Empire, Kitty (January 29, 2012). “Lana Del Rey: Born to Die – Review”. The Observer

The narrator/persona is personifying the character affected or inherent in the actor-singer Lana Del Rey, who said, “People weren’t taking me seriously, so I lowered my voice believing that it would help me stand out. Now I sing quite low… Well, for a female anyway.” – Copsey, Robert (November 23, 2011. “Lana Del Rey: ‘People didn’t take me seriously with a high voice’”. Digital Spy.

In the lyrics of “Born to Die,” there is a sense of uncertainty and co-dependency in the persona in Lana Del Rey’s song “Born to Die.” The persona wants her lover to love her and want her exclusively. The persona feels alone, and wants to know that if she tells her honey that he is hers then will this make her feel at home? She wants to be the kind of girl he likes and will accommodate him. The persona asks her man to choose his words carefully. It has been said that the song speaks of a doomed relationship. (See: Lana Del Rey: “Born to Die” on Wikipedia.)

This behavior or attention-getting in the song matches the poem, where the persona’s “posey” tastes like cola — a vanilla, cinnamon, with trace amounts of orange, lime, and lemon and spices such as nutmeg and serves as a good example of how to advertise a product, first marketed as medicine, curing headaches, to revive and sustain, which seeks to repeat business and to create brand loyalty. Today Coca-Cola is one of the most visible companies thanks to a successful ad campaign. (See: Wikipedia)

The narrator’s stanzas exist in a derogatory or mockingly indirect way. They are sexy, thick, full-bodied due to diet and culture.

The narrator opens her thighs (exposing her pussy) for a person, who is heartless and absent emotionally. Here, the event of great consequence to very few will work in an acceptable way, and take place in reality.

Like America, which could be construed as mindless, stereotyping, bigoted, ignorant, and could be related to what the American government ends up doing or could be friendly and intelligent is something, in this case, the skies are the only thing known to science that has been made more beautiful by pollution.

So, the girl is in the bathtub singing, like she is in a movie. She is putting eye makeup on that is more dramatic for night time, but tires often of the “smokey eye” style, and it makes her crazy. She just wants to feel alive or certain about what kind of relationship she is having, but in her uncertainty and compromise, we sense the relationship is doomed. Power cannot be wielded, where there is no interest.

Museum of Capitalism Proposal by Mario Savioni

As follows are two drawings I did for the Museum of Capitalism contest. The statement follows that explains my submission.





The project 1044, AKA “Rosebud,” is a courtyard design with three sides that is open at the front. On the sides are high walls, outer and inner. The inner wall is lined with small skylights that cast light down into the basement, where there are small “support rooms.” Each contains a bed on the floor and one chest of drawers. The outer wall is black with the exception of real or faux leg and arm bones lying horizontally in the wall material. In the courtyard are umbrellas and tables with topiaries as well as a fountain containing a “Rosebud” sleigh as seen in the Citizen Kane movie. The back wall of the courtyard houses a bas-relief of Karl Marx, three embedded guillotines, two stairwells leading down to the basement, and a quotation from Marx’s Capital. (See: 1044-1.jpg)

The outer wall of the courtyard with the horizontal bones has a cut-out shape that resembles half of a mechanical wheel that represents a ladder that cannot be climbed. The inner wall has a slanted top. The three guillotines align the back wall and are under the bas-relief and next to the stairwells.

The ground of the courtyard is black with odd, white broken porcelain inlays, symbolizing crushed/broken human bones. This view is seen in the middle section of the 11”x17” image (See: 1044-2.jpg).

In the basement of the Capitalism Museum, at the bottom of the stairwells, is a great room containing only a grand chandelier celebrating opulence but also having the feeling of emptiness and aloneness.

Small rooms align the great room. They have ceilings no higher than 5 feet and are no larger than what it would take to house a chest of drawers and a small bed. The skylight shafts, one for each room, are connected to the inner wall in the courtyard and cast light into the rooms.

“Rosebud” symbolized a psychological event that either created an inhumane personality or triggered/validated a genetically predetermined one. We have learned in psychology that we can create personalities or bring them out due to environmental influence. Capitalism is that type of manifestation of a dark side of humanity that is a velvet glove, at best, with an iron fist. It is fascism, dictatorship, and the delusion of hope for The People, and plays on their greed. I am hoping one gets a sense of this during their visit to the Capitalism Museum.


Looking down at Capitalism Museum

The Good Writer

A good writer gains some distance from what he has felt and thus if you ask him, if this is him, he will smile. This is because he can’t quite remember what he has written. That is the old him, a shadow of himself.

Scarcasm, Introducing a New Word

scarcasm image

Scarcasm, a new word.

The effect of sarcasm on someone who likes the sarcastic person, but who can’t get a word in edgewise. Eventually, the person gets it that they aren’t ever going to be liked no matter how many times they try. It is also the signs of someone wanting to break it off with you. “When will this person get it? I have been so mean!”

This person has power over the other person because they have something the other person wants, whether sex, friendship, to be acknowledged by, to be seen as a part of their intellectual class, whatever. The power dynamic is usually one, where the other party would be willing to receive insults. These insults attack the recessive person’s self-esteem chipping away until finally the recipient believes that the relationship is so scarred that there is no point in continuing. (“No one wants to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with them.”) But, underlying the relationship, not that there ever was one, is the idea that while the sarcastic person thinks they are being cool or clever, he/she is actually making a fool out of themselves because to harm another person, who is genuine and sincere, is ignoble. The fact that the recessive person only sees the good in the person being mean is proof of their own goodness/correctness in this dynamic/relational event(s). It is the same as bullying, where the psychology behind the act is a transference from the past or associative experience that causes the sarcastic person to be mean, but what is horrible is that the sarcastic person does not take ownership or perhaps they can’t, an injury is still an injury. In addition, the sarcastic person sees weakness in the other person. That weakness is akin to the weakness the sarcastic person reacts to in him/herself often without realizing it or even taking evil satisfaction in the application. In this sense too, the sarcastic person is still being weak for attacking another person, who exhibits recessiveness/innocence that they themselves have: The abused abuse.

I also find this behavior in cliques, where even the seemingly nicest people: religious, new agers, hipsters, etc. have limits as to who they include. This limit speaks of the inherent incapacity of human beings to ever truly get along with everyone else.

How used in a sentence.

It finally dawned on him that he was spinning his wheels. He cared about her, but it was pointless. She hated him for some reason unknown to him. No matter how kind he was to her, how complimentary, she would always respond to his posts or even in person with a coldness that kept him at bay. When they met it was through her work, which was perhaps the antithesis of his own. He wrote about how men looked and thought about women, which from her point of view was suspicious and nasty. He understood her perspective and respected it, but in so doing, it felt like he was being negated. He was open to her and infatuated. She was almost half his age. She was 30 and he 55. She had a clear complexion. She was thin and sexy. Every word she mouthed was an act of intelligence, but they also felt like veiled threats. He initially attacked her for things attributed to her in an article about her writing, but later he realized that there was nothing he could say. The layers of her criticism of men were steeped in an underlying event that forever changed her. She had been raped. All bets were off. She was anxious. She smoked marijuana and had a medical marijuana card because of the anxiety it had caused. She wouldn’t actually meet his eyes but for looks that were attentive but also weighty and seemingly plotting. She was always careful with her words, but they hurt him. She was always correct. Everything he talked about seemed to be of no consequence. His total life experience, his honesty, and his very being seemed to be negated by her experience. She said he reminded her of an ex. He took that as a compliment, but then again perhaps it was not. Perhaps, her ex- was the one who created this exacting and vacant woman, who he could not help but be drawn to. After all, she represented, or at least her work represented, the great chasm that men and women could not cross. They had different intentions for getting involved with one another that never seemed to be compatible. At one point, he realized that such relationships were about power. He wanted to know what she knew and she held it over him with her indifference and insults. He was attracted to her and she cursed him for it, made him feel like it was unacceptable.

As time went by he had bought her books, which were at least five in number. He loved each one because he could see in them a depth that her spare writing disguised. He loved how they were written and felt to his ears. The protagonist in her latest novel, for example, was both interested in her lover but also at a distance. It reminded him of a poetry book that was based on a femme fatal, who also seemed to have been injured and who was attracted to damaged men, who were much older and almost like criminals compared with her lithe, virginal beauty.

This is what she meant to him. She was exactly what he wanted, someone young and intelligent and impossible in any other context, except that she encouraged a kiss and even allowed him to kiss her stomach, where she was complaining about how fat she was getting, which of course was not true. She was petite and it distorted him. He could feel her spirit saying no. Her never actually looking into his eyes, so much body language telling him not to go any further and so he did not. But later, she would text him and ask him why he didn’t continue kissing her on her lips or on her stomach. He said he felt a coldness, a disallowance.

He learned from a third party that she was now “In love;” not with him, of course, and knowing this, confirmed his suspicions. He tried to stay away from her, she frightened him. On the last occasion, he has promised to buy her book. He was excited by it, but when he arrived, at the corner of so and so, it was awkward. She was never so far away. She wasn’t even attractive to him. She seemed dirty and sinister. Her teeth were, he assumed, darkened by the weed. As usual, her hair in black-highlighted, thick curls reminding him of dreadlocks, was tilted as she seemed to look down as they engaged in the transaction. He had promised to pay double for her book, but only had two twenties. He gave her both telling her to keep the rest. He said he wanted to support her.

He understood the awkwardness of being attracted to someone, who clearly didn’t like him on the level he was beginning to understand himself. He sensed her entertaining him, the kisses, two in number, were like exhibits in a case against him. If not for the lines he drew in the sand, he could understand how other men might not draw them. He knew on some level, she was playing a dangerous game, but her intentions were innocent; she just wanted to control what for her was not controlled in the instance that brought all this on. Some other man had done a number on her and he was now paying reparations.

At this point, he finally realized there was no point in going on. He would read her books and perhaps comment on them as his heart felt they were true and call it a day.