Around page 50-something I started to doze off,
there was too much argot, hootin' and hollerin', and the magic realism wasn't holding intact.
Neither was the vaunted "incest" stuff so awfully shocking to me. Anyone who does sex work implicitly is "permitted" to do so by their Mother or Father. Big wow.
But as I read on and found myself in a somewhat overstimulated state.
I started writing like crazy in my diary and realized...
I had been seeded. My mind was racing (and still is) - the effect was fermentive... Perhaps this effect is what must be making everyone so alert over the writing.
The central perfect image of this book is the boy transformed: a hermaphrodite glory, lying on a fresh bed, locked in a room, blonde, young, eminently desirable, quivering with anticipation, protected by the powers that be.
A very metaphor for the adored Artist.
The focus of all the johns/publishers/flaks,
quivering under tentative blue collar worship,
and not to mention that of not-so-hirsute/intellectual males,
but hey they're all doling out the cash and the homage.
Now every artist dreams of such attentions: to be a Maestro by virtue of one's syntax.
Over-worshipped, yet the thing worshipped remains untouched.
This again seems a metaphor for where JC is now in the media eye. Like his protagonist, he escaped the hermetic seal.
Once the perfect artist, alone under the colored lights...
now subject to every kind of vile caress by crass lovers.
He has earned his "bone." But there is that inevitable vitiation after the drugs (i.e. adulation) wear off.
[This message was edited by S'tan on 09-24-03 at 01:06 AM.]