Dakota Has Yellow Hair

Dakota has yellow hair.

And she's not simple. Although, she is pretty. That makes it acceptable---her not being simple.

She watches The Dreamers (2003) at the end of May. And I think: I wanted to watch The Dreamers. The underbelly of the beast: France amidst a cinematic revolution.

Theo and Isabelle. Poor Matthew. What is this? There is a danger embedded within the lithe character of Theo. The idea that he struggles with Matthew's philosophy of anti-violence and how it all compels him to launch a petrol bomb at the police during a street riot. He becomes the mob of protesters and consumes their violence. Theo chooses to go against his own self.

The scene in which Theo has his hands around the throat of Matthew. He is aroused by the violence of denying Matthew a chance to breathe. This is one of the manners in which his development is illustrated.

What is said about the female body? Isabelle. The muse. There is a scene in which she compares herself to a statue without arms. To say she has no agency. She cannot do anything for herself. She is at the mercy of Theo's attention. At the mercy of the consequences of their sexual relationship being discovered by their parents. She says she will kill herself if that were to happen. The idea isn't even her own. It is a response to the discomfort of being found out.

Isabelle is more powerful as a muse. She inspires the boys to take action. When she tells Theo to do to the picture what he did when he thought he was alone. She asks Matthew to run across the museum with her brother and herself. He, too, is compelled.

I think about how important it is to be obsessive. That I wouldn't do anything with myself otherwise. I think about my bibliophilic tendencies. That like Theo and Matthew, I am compelled to read. Aroused. What does it say about my internalization of violence? I am tormented by the question of whether I have agency. That I find comfort in being the muse, the victim, in the same manner Isabelle was portrayed in the film. Perhaps it's a gross misinterpretation. The idea that she has no personal motivations. I am embarrassed by myself.

Dakota wears red lipstick (and she has nothing to do with the film). Red is her favourite colour. Crimson. She has honey-coloured skin, so she looks awful in true red. But she's pretty in the black-red hue of clotted blood. I am reminded of fresh chicken livers. I think she meant for it to be that way.

Dark red matches her lemon-bleached hair. She's a blonde. But not quite that shade. And I think about how much of her I connect to colour. The idea of clementines bleeding between the channels of her chipped fingernails, harvesting half-moons from its crimson flesh.

Liquid maroon Mary Jane's. Gifted. Because, like I said, she's not simple. But she is pretty. Pretty in the manner old Hollywood actresses are glorified for their classic beauty. Dresses with fluffy sleeves. Ice blue eyeshadow made from asbestos. Or, at least, I hope not.

But this is my journal. I can write whatever it is I am compelled to.

I think about that film again. The Dreamers (2003). Dakota called it ‘boobie’. My sister disliked movies with explicit nudity. I didn't know what I felt. And I tie so much of what I think to be right (or wrong) to her opinion of things.

A part of me thinks it's art---but that's only because of the 2017 film Call Me by Your Name (directed by Luca Guadagnino). It's problematic: I am now obsessed with the Italian director. That was the first time I bothered to remember a director's name. I try not to watch all of his movies. I know it won't be the same. It wouldn't replicate the beauty of Elio and Oliver. I don't think. The ripe apricot orchids on the family villa. Sufyan Steven’s score. Like the sound of cold-water in Italian ravines. The significance of the question: Is it better to speak or to die? All of the time they are naked, but not touching.

I think I'll devour The Dreamers.

I have this desire to indulge in obsession. To read too many novels. Watch too many films. There is an aspect of hedonism within the existence of an artist, I think. The idea that I consume novels and films and fine art to become compelled to write. Arrested by the desire to articulate my experiences. That I am motivated by my lack of self-control. I wouldn't have done it otherwise. Like having no reason to remember the name of a film director.