7/20/11

In which our hero reflects on his beginnings in the cinema.


Welcome to my blog. Previous readers have expressed confusion as to whether the narrator of this blog – or what Henry James refers to as the center of consciousness – really is Jack Nicholson.  All I can tell you is that I, the writer of the blog, am indeed Jack NicholsonHowever, I should mention that the characters in this rather disjointed chronicle are NOT intended to represent any real people, living or dead. And so, I felt this preface necessary.

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Bored by sadness.

Letters:
I would like to formally apologize to the Lubavitcher Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, whose luminous face appeared to me last night in dream.







Interior. Jack Nicholson’s New York City Apartment. Day.

The Kabbalists say that a man must begin by putting on his right shoe, follow with the left shoe, tie the left shoelace, and complete the cycle by returning to the right shoe to tie its lace. I’ve put my left shoe on my right foot, and I don’t know how to fix it. I just don’t know. I sit here, not knowing anything at all.

It’s a depressing feeling, awakening to a clean apartment in full knowledge that it was cleaned with the intention of bringing a girl home with you. 


Exterior. Awards Ceremony. Night.

Hollywood. Some years earlier. A better time. Jack Nicholson steps out of limousine decked out in tuxedo, cigar in mouth. 

Actually, Manhattan. Still some years earlier, but not quite as many. The time remains considerably better than present day.

And it's not an award's ceremony. It's a bachelorette. A hen night. Nicholson dressed in tuxedo, smokes cigar. 

His agent had suggested he perform these bridal showers. "You know, cruelty parties. Where the girls tie you up with their pantyhose and blindfold you with their various undergarments. Either the bride or her sister puts her silk panties in your mouth to, like, gag you... Then they make you guess which one of them is giving you blowjobs! Until the bride-to-be has one last cowgirl romp with who else but Jack Nicholson!?! Then you cum. On the bride-to-be."

The arrangements had been made by Edith. She made eyes at me from a distance, but when we approached one another she looked away, annoyed that I’d realize she was older than perceived from afar. She knew that even if her hair did not, her face had always shown her age quite accurately.

Edith was in her late fifties. She recognized me immediately. I am Jack Nicholson. She was not very attractive. Not unattractive, just plain looking.


Although he repeatedly befouled young boys, Uncle Peter was not a particularly lascivious man; the company of boys merely brought out a confident charm in the otherwise soft-spoken war hero. Beyond the usual necessities of food and shelter, he provided the boys with triturated tablets for recreation; but he never forced the pills, nor did he hide their contents from our willing mouths. Once the drugs had loosened his callow ensemble, he felt comfortable operating the 16mm camera.

The raffish studio was a room painted black, construction lights diffused as softly as a proper exposure would allow, several devises used for torture, and a large pearl bed on which the naked boys fought for space. The round island of a bed – purchased from a studio backlot following the filming of an early gangster film – doubled as a dressed set and a place to sleep at night.

One early morning, Jack was embarrassed to find a yellow stain circling the milky satin between his bellybutton and his knees. In his dreams he embedded Danny DeVito’s mouth with a sweet urine, serrated the slouch of a bony boy’s spine, mezzotinted the festoon across the necks of Uncle Peter’s teeth and stippled his own eye with the remaining drops; or it may have been that boy DeVito inscribed the dreamer’s face with piss, joining the soothing mansuetude with which Uncle Peter gilded young Nicholson’s hair while little Jack flexed his asshole open for the intaglio of a surging jet stream from the bony boy’s power hose. Rising to consciousness, he envisioned his face on a seraph with wings of piss before awakening to the warm contact of urine on his skin. He understood that the sexual context of his paroxysm of piss must have been imagined in deep sleep. Most nights, however, were sleepless moils of sexual tortures with little to no time for dreams.




Some movement now came from the radiator. I get down on my knees, as if prostrating, and reach my hand inside to feel for the mouse. I feel nothing. I bring my head to the floor to look within. I see blackness. It is a heavy void that makes me feel like curling into a ball. The fireplace catches my eye, and I writhe towards it like a wounded snake, refusing either to stand my body up or to support myself on wrists and knees. I hug a tin box stored in the stone fireplace.

Inside the box was the rusted honorary badge that once distinguished our hero as a special secret agent detective – only for the limited duration of the case that indicted his late uncle Peter.













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