You Are a Miracle

You know your writing career is really in the toilet when you're debating whether or not to put the anecdote about the sperm omelette at the beginning or at the end. Sometimes, it's difficult to write when you want to throw up at your own product. Some days, it's a miracle you don't chop off your own head.

"You are a miracle!"

Yeah, so writing this story for the soon-to-be-launched Double X is going fucking awesome! And by "fucking awesome," I mean I can hardly stand it. Without barfing. If that, then by all means, it's going great. Thanks for asking.

The idea part is the easy part. The research part is the fun part. The writing part is the I-can't-die-soon-enough part. Or, you know, maybe that's me. Or maybe it's Porn Valley. Or maybe it's what happens when you try and put into words things that dwell in the Lacanian gap into which you have bungee jumped, headfirst, yet again.

Oh, the hole you're in!

The Worst Porn Movie I've Ever Seen

Previously, I've written here about the best porn movie I've ever seen, which is, of course, the only good porn movie ever made, which is, obviously, "The Operation," which is great for many reasons, most significantly because it allows you to see inside of other people.

Over the years, I have seen a great many porn movies. For a time, I had it stockpiled everywhere, because people kept giving it to me, and sending it to me, and it was in the closets, and the cabinets, and under the bed. Eventually, I moved, and after the moving guys had removed everything else, I pointed to several large black garbage bags, and explained what was inside of them, and the men sort of half-smiled and ducked their heads, and they picked up the bags, and then they were gone.

For several of those years, I was interested in seeing whatever I figured no one had seen, or what was hard to see. I don't know why. If the point was searing my brain, I succeeded. I saw bestiality porn, puke porn, pregnant porn, 86-year-old woman porn, midget porn, Ron Jeremy in a diaper porn, bukkake porn, gokkun porn, the world's biggest gangbang porn, sideshow porn, golden shower porn, coprophagy porn, people pretending to be dead porn, handicapped people porn, hot dog porn--you name it, I saw it. Some of it I saw getting made in person. Because of this, I sometimes consider that I have something in common with those who work in the FBI's AOS or DoJ's OPTF, those who are employed to see the worst of the worst, the basest of the basest, the craziest of the craziest. Because that's what you often see, if the people in them go far enough. You bear witness to those among us who are in the process of losing their minds. Only, this time, someone was there to record it. The sex? That's pretty irrelevant.

When I was in Los Angeles not long ago, I met someone who showed me some videos, and in sum total I would have to say that they were far and away the worst thing I've ever seen. By miles. That they were porn movies was incidental. They induced insomnia. After I saw them, if I closed my eyes, they would replay across the backs of my eyelids. They are focused on conjuring madness, and depict moments in which human beings behave in ways that are not simply primal, or animal--they are incomprehensible. They are so singularly fucked up that I haven't been able to even come close to describing them since viewing them. To anyone. Including you. And it's not what happens in them. It's what doesn't happen in them. There is no stoppage. No limit. No boundary not crossed. Here, transgression reaches the bottom of the pit, and what we discover of the pit is that it is deep, deeper than one would have thought humanly possible. In the end, no one is saved. Above all else, they are deeply, profoundly, unbearably sad.

So, if you came here, as some do, from googling "best porn movie ever made," there's the other side of the coin. Best not to forget about it. After all, whether you see it or not, it exists, some apocalyptically fucked up moment in time, repeating in an infinite loop, for whoever happens to watch it.

[Update: Please don't send me emails asking me how to get a copy of "The Operation." I don't know. If you want to find it, you will.]

Here's Susie

I've blogged Thomas Allen's book art before, but this was worth a revisit. [via Boing Boing].

What I'm blogging elsewhere ... On Slate, "John Edwards, Sex Victim?" and on The Frisky, "That’s Vaginal!"

Stay classy, Susannah.

What I'm working on here ... A profile of the adult movie industry for Double X and revising my novel set in the adult movie industry, Nothing Is Real but the Girl.

Quote of the day ... "POOR IS THE MAN WHOSE PLEASURES DEPEND ON THE PERMISSION OF ANOTHER."

Song of the day ... Del tha Funkee Homosapien spitting lyrics to a motherfucking car alarm: "This is for the real people that take the truth and ingest it/Let it radiate in their soul and manifest it."

Outside, the rain is pouring, and the cement truck is roaring, and a dog is hanging out a car window like this type of shit happens every day.

Pretty Girl Shots

More shots I took in Porn Valley. Three ways of looking at a porn star. Location: Woodland Hills. Million-dollar mansion on the top of a hill with a 360-degree view of the Valley at your feet. They call these photographs pretty girl shots. The set photographer took the girl into the backyard. Near a fountain painted so the water looked bright blue. The green grass was lined with brilliant, blooming flowers. The only thing blocking your view was palm trees. A century ago, California state senator Charles Maclay overlooked this landscape and proclaimed: "This is the Garden of Eden!" And, by God, he was right.

Un Día Voy a Cantar las Canciones Sin Letra y Cada Uno Podrá Imaginar Si Hablo de Amor, de Desilusión, Banalidades o Sobre Platón

Last weekend, I got back to revising my novel, for the first time since I got back from Los Angeles, prior to which I had finished writing it, although now it needs revisions. During that time, I had been to DC and LA, so I wrote a new chapter for the book, a preface, which is set in DC. I had my character walk the same way I'd walked, exiting the FBI's Brutalist headquarters, passing the National Archives in front of which sits a stone woman with an open book on her lap whose pedestal reads WHAT IS PAST IS PROLOGUE, and down to the National Mall, except when I was there it was cold, and in the book it's spring, and he walks through a shower of cherry blossom petals.

After I got back from Hollywood, I had to take some time to let all the things in my head, what I'd seen and heard and witnessed, retreat, so it wasn't quite so BIG, because it can get that way when there are humans mating with machines, and porn is strewn across the floors of strip mall offices, and you end up in the back of a warehouse marveling at an empty raised Pepto Bismol pink stage with chipped paint and a stripper pole festooned with silver star streamers. I have to wait for it to abate, let the reptilian brain chew on it, so I can put it to words.

This has been a strange week, hasn't it? Once upon a time, there was a virtual me, and then there was a real me, but for a second there I wasn't sure which one was real, only that the internet flattens time, and you have to find a way to stretch yourself across it.

Have a great weekend, because there's nothing else worth having, is there?

[Music: Juana Molina's "Un Dia"; title translation here.]

When I Dream, I Dream of the Valley

This is my favorite shot from the photos I took in the Valley when I was there a couple weeks ago for a story. It was one of about 150 I took that day, which was, coincidentally, my birthday, and most of which were, well, pretty shitty, although there were some that were OK. I was out of practice.

I have this thing where I don't crop or manipulate the image after I take it, because I want it to be the closest thing possible to exactly what I saw, because anything else, I think, is fake or bullshit, but it means I have to get it right when I'm right there, and sometimes when people are fucking about six feet in front of you, and the crew is watching you, and some guy from Fox magazine is elbow-to-elbow with you, it can get a little challenging.

Anyway, I like this shot because a) it's pretty, and b) if you cropped it so all you saw was their faces, it would look like the cover of a romance novel. And who's to say porn isn't romantic? Just because they didn't know each other that well and went at it like dogs in a matter of minutes, maybe that's true romance -- the ultimate intimate performance in homage to our one true love: the almighty dollar.

Once upon a time, someone told me: "When I dream, I dream of the sea."

These days, when I dream, I dream of the Valley.

He's a Muthafuckin' Puppet!

This is the battery pack of the set photographer on one of the adult movie sets I was on. The sticker is for "Black Devil Doll," which appears to be a black "Chucky." It reads: "AND IF YOU THINK YOU'RE READY FOR HIM, THINK AGAIN, BITCH!"

Snapshot

My favorite part of being back in Porn Valley was taking photographs. That was the part that made me happy. Sometimes, I think I would like to stop writing and just take photographs, but I don't know if I'm any good at it, which is a silly reason not to go after something, but maybe when you were raised by someone who says things like, "Wishes aren't reality," things can get complicated on the way to happiness.

Flickr: "This is Jim Powers, a porn director. His ouvre includes 'American Bukkake 13,' which caught the eye of the U.S. Department of Justice and ended up in an 18-count obscenity indictment."

What happened after the US government handed down that indictment is another story altogether. Suffice to say, Jim is still hard at work in the Valley. On the set of "Fuck Machines 6," his black T-shirt reads: "IMMORAL PRODUCTIONS."

At Sonny Bono's funeral, Cher said Sonny was the most unforgettable character she'd ever met. In Porn Valley, Powers is that person for me.

"You're welcome on my sets anytime," he told me, before I left.

The Great Debate

Now that I've returned from Porn Valley, the great debate arises. From here, do I go back to LA, back to the Valley, or do I move on, move to NYC? Last night, I thought I knew. I had decided. At one point, I re-read an email that was sent to me last fall by a merchant seaman who understands this dilemma.

"But, I noticed a trend in that people who go to sea beyond a certain time stay at sea. They 'get the sea in their blood.' True."

I thought, Oh, that's me. I've got it in my blood. I can't let it go. It's hard to explain. If you think you've been there, you probably haven't. If you know you've been there -- well, you understand me completely.

In any case, I woke up this morning, and I wasn't sure what to do all over again. What was I thinking? I thought. And then there in my email box was another email from the merchant seaman.

Dear Susannah-
 
I read your April 8th entry in RC: when I dream, I dream of the sea.  Actually, I have been reading you and your work continuously since I sent the note below.  I am the merchant seaman who wrote you.
 
If I may say, I worry about you.
 
I read about the loss you suffered, your headlong dive into the porn culture, and the success that followed you upon writing about this aberrant culture in an intelligent manner.  Your success and the people who want to see you tumble back into the abyss to send them back marketable, or remarkable, missives.
 
Golden handcuffs.
 
You have a strong voice.  I do not need to affirm this, many have said so much more eloquently than I.  Porn is a nitch, you are regarded as an expert, it was your entre.  Porn is not your muse.  Your voice transcends.  I see that when you write about the borders of sexual expression.  Write of it authoritatively, but not as a participant.  You paid your dues.
 
Don't let people drag you to what you have outgrown.  Your voice is clear and strong.  Write what you need to write, not what is expected or demanded.  You are not less, you have not missed your ride.  You are more than the subject.  Do not see yourself as the marketers demand to see you.
 
I wonder if I have said too much.  Rereading, I see that I have.  Maybe a bit repetitive, there, as well.  If you forgive me, I will not edit what I have written.
 
Be peace.  Please.

Redux

"When I was here, I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle." -- "Apocalypse Now"

Day

In the Valley, kept forgetting it was my birthday, more here.

Another Day in Paradise

On the set of "Fuck Machines 6," LAPD-emblazoned ghetto bird circles over 360-degree views of the Valley, the girl on a swing with the engine whirring, and the director cries: "It's like watching a fish tank!"

When I Dream, I Dream of the Sea

Before I got here, I thought I would be able to write about this story as it was unfolding. Now, I'm not so sure. Instead, what keeps going through my mind is this line from an email I once received. It was from a merchant seaman.

"The longer I spent away from the sea-going community, the more I realize how hard I had gotten. How wounded I was by what I saw and heard. How damaged I was becoming. Still, when I dream, I dream of the sea."

That's what keeps going through my head this morning. "When I dream, I dream of the sea." That's what I thought, upon waking from dreaming.

Porn's Walter Lippmann

Mark Kernes, senior editor at Adult Video News, the New York Times of Porn Valley, looks at his collection of 3D pornographic photographs through a paper viewfinder in his Chatsworth office.

Hollywood, Baby

Frenetic, frantic, all that. Flew across the country, drove across the city, pulled into the valet of the hotel in Hollywood, and there was Ron Jeremy. Like fate, perverted.

Sitting on the 10th floor in between time zones, the city spills out in the dark with a million scattered lights, and I wish I'd never left. I fall in love all over again walking the boulevard, from the crazy old lady in pancake makeup and towering green turban to the falling apart art deco theater fronts with dirty red carpets.

I wish I'd never left, but I can't go home.

I started putting the story together, bit by bit, getting everything together, so the week is booking up.

Starting tomorrow, I'll hit the ground running, tape recorder in hand, camera slung over shoulder, running and writing at the same time.

Oh, it's a flurry. I just got here, and I never want to leave already.

This Sort of Thing Is Exactly Why I Don't Have a Literary Agent

I've had four literary agents in four years. I guess that's something I'm supposed to be ashamed of? Or something.

When I lived in LA, I never had an agent, but that was then, and this is now. You know, it's just so hard to compete with people getting book deals when their books are filled with photographs of loose meat.

The whole point of agenting, it seems to me, is to take whatever the person is doing, and package it into something that is as marketable as possible to as many people as possible, which sort of sounds like you're in the business of selling chum.

But I don't want to be chum. I want to be Kobe.

Here's a problem for you. (To be clear, by "you" I mean "me.") I'm going to Porn Valley next week, and you know how I feel about that? You want to know how I really feel about that? Underneath all the caterwauling, and the rending of skirts, and the gnawing at wrists?

I feel bored.

The thrill kill cult it is no longer. Where have the world's biggest gangbangs gone? Bukkakes are yesteryear. Extreme is mainstream.

The only thing left is snuff, and it's best faux-purveyor has gone and got himself locked up.

They Shoot [Redacted], Don't They?

God, I wish I had a fucking cigarette. Why did I quit? I miss you.

In 1998, I moved to Los Angeles, and over the following five years I wrote about a lot of things, and one of the things that I wrote about was the adult movie industry. It was a very interesting time in the Valley, because Clinton's "screw that" attitude towards obscenity prosecutions and the increased competition presented by e-smut dictated that the porn industry become increasingly more extreme. And so it did. To compete. And because it could. Isn't it funny to think a president helped porn become more hardcore? (That's rhetorical.)

When I was around the biz at that time, it was -- well, it was fucking nuts. There were apocalyptic gangbangs, and bukkake (American-style, that is) was born, and gonzo porno was looking to get harder and faster and push things further than ever before.

I saw a lot of things. Some of them were pretty fucked up. Some of them were grotesquely beautiful. Everything was fascinating. That's how it was. That's how it is. That's the kind of place the Valley can be.

Eventually, I left the Valley, and other things happened, but I never stopped thinking about the Valley, not even for a second. When I had something of a breakdown in early 2005, during which time I spent most of my time thinking about various ways I could kill myself, it was hard to tell if I was the problem, or if the Valley was the problem, or if something else was the problem, or if my insides were some kind of Gordian knot that I could not untie no matter how hard I tried, or if I would ever unravel the story of my life.

Then, things got worse, worse than I ever could have imagined, and it appeared, at least to me, that the sky inside my head would be black forever. But after that, after what seemed like forever, things got better. Maybe. Some days, I'm not sure.

Now, I'm going to back to the Valley. In a week. To do a story. But what's the story, really? Is it about the Valley -- or is it about me? Or is it about something around the bend that I cannot yet quite see, no matter how far I crane my neck, no matter how I toss and turn as I sleep?

It's hard for me to say, from this vantage point, what the Valley holds.

The Pornographer Speaks

"Porn sleeps for no one." -- porn director, email. [Image: Nevver]

Hell-Ay

Yesterday, I booked my trip to Los Angeles for the feature story I'm doing on the adult movie industry. I'll be there for about a week. I'm staying in Hollywood. I'll be driving back and forth over the Hollywood Hills, which divide the real Hollywood from the Other Hollywood, just like old times.

I got a camera. I will be taking photographs, as well.

At this stage, there is a lot of talking on the phone, a lot of poking around the Internet, a lot of jotting of random notes that will be revisited in several weeks and deemed incomprehensible.

There's a bit of a balance to be struck here, between planning and chaos. Some things I expected to be happening while I'm there are not, but you never know what will happen when you are where you happen to be.

I guess it's sort of like this photograph. I went out on the front porch to take some test shots, so I could download the photos onto my computer for the first time and figure out how to use the software. I took some shots of bright flowers in pots that looked like photos taken by someone who had escaped from a Hallmark insane asylum. After a while, I jutted my arm out and took this random snap of the trees against the sky, of which someone said: "The tree is like a dendritic forest--like a slide of the brain of a rat who'd been raised in an enriched environment."

A rat in a maze.

Shooter

Last week, I started chronicling the "story" of creating a feature story I'm doing on the adult movie industry. This is the first story I've done with this editor, so last Friday I shot her an email summarizing all that had come together thus far. I got an email back from her today asking a few questions and pointing out a few things to bear in mind.

There are lots of different ways to do a story like this. One is to have "your story" be the lead story that takes the reader through the story. Another is to have the story tell itself. In all likelihood, I'll be doing the latter. I'm not nuts about writing about myself. Maybe if I was Hunter and freakin' on acid, I'd make a different decision, but generally I'd rather be a shadow character.

I had also asked her if she was interested in photographs to go with the piece, and she said: Yes. And suggested the possibility of a companion slideshow. And I found that to be very interesting, indeed. For a variety of reasons, now more than ever, I'm interested in taking more photographs. To be honest, I'm probably more excited about taking the photographs than writing the damn thing, probably because I'm so damn used to writing, and I'm so not an expert at taking photographs.

Way back when Nerve had a brief run as a print magazine, I did a piece on -- I don't know -- it was either "freak porn," "bukkake," or -- I think it was "freak show porn." (Ah, the shame of my so-called career never ends.) When I was about to head out, the editor asked if I would take some photographs, something I'd never done in my life in any professional capacity, so I borrowed the digital camera of my boyfriend at the time, and went to the bukkake, and I took some photographs. I think they're around here somewhere, but I don't know.

Now the prospect of taking photographs is thrilling to me. I haven't taken any photographs since 2005, so I may try starting with a camera suggested by Clayton Cubitt, who is a real photographer. That's a Panasonic Lumix DMC FX-150K, and I could say a lot of different things, but the bottom line is that it's cheap as fuck and Terry Richardson uses one.

I'm really excited about the idea of taking more photographs. My brain changed in the last few years, and I think the idea of what I'll be doing with the camera is a lot more like how I experience life now, and while sometimes that is not a good thing, sometimes you have to do the thing to get to the thing, to get through the thing, to get to the other side of the thing. And that's why I'm doing this story at all.

As a sidenote, I've added my Twitter feed to the sidebar of this blog. It's got random thoughts, quotes, and other inanities, if you're into that story of thing.