She continued to be cagy like that throughout the discussion I had with Marilyn Monroe, or as I insisted on calling her…Norma.
I have tired recently of talking to the dead. So many encounters with them bring me down. This was one of them.
In reporting this one, I am not going to take that prevelant “poor Norma Jean” attitude. I am, and have long been pissed at her. Her eyes don’t entrap me anymore…like they did. They don’t beckon to me as they did to the past few generations of men( and women, I’m sure) that lusted after her…ached to protect her innocence. A non-existent innocence that is, and always was the most egregious of the myths that surrounded this siren.
After spending an evening with her…and not in sexual congress…most of the legend fell away. As it would I am sure if we on the receiving end of such media fairy-tales would be allowed a candid conversation with any of our idols. Yes, as a young punk…like most young shit-heads…I idolized her. Wasted adoration that could have been spent on real humans. But be that as it may…the evening by the lake that I spent talking to this erstwhile sexual fantasy was sobering to say the least.
I first addressed a tired burnt-out drug-addled whore with scraggly bleached hair, that was wont to sing in her cracked voice and reticent to respond to anything I asked her. I soon finished with this hooker and called on her to show me they young Norma Jean so I could get to the bottom of what attracted me and millions of others to her. She appeared as an eleven-year-old wrapped in a tattered cloth coat and with a fresh, and expectant scrubbed face. A girl like any other adolescent her age. Full of wonder about the world and filled to the brim with talkative goofiness. There was nothing there for me. No revelations. “I wanna be a movie star”, she said. “Or a princess and live in a castle”. Typical, I guess. I never had daughters…but common enough aspirations for the age she grew in, I suppose. Nothing. Nothing that hinted of the concubine of the rich and powerful that she was to become…but why would there be,at such an innocent age.
I asked her to age to 17. She was happy to accommodate. When she did…and I watched this young woman dressed in tight clothes wiggling into the campfire light, I must admit…I was stirred. I began to envision her life of decadence. It was in her face even then. That innocence being lost to womanhood and more importantly, to greed. It was not pretty…but attractive nonetheless.
This was the girl I wanted to talk to. This was the point at which the bargain was made. Even before she agreed to disrobe for that first jew that promised her anything. She had made the decision at this age. Anything goes. Innocence. Normality. Human connectivity. The die was cast here.
I queried, “do you know what judaism is?”. She answered “not really, no”. “They are the ones that will destroy you”, I warned. “Oh yeah?…so what?”, she responded in a nonchalance that belied her future. “I’m going places”, she added. “What ever it takes to get me there…I’ll do”. “If powerful men find me attractive and want to take liberties with me…well…I mean, it’s not like they are going to actually hurt me…it’s only sex”, she posited.
I tried to get this young woman to understand that what she was willing to sacrifice would further an agenda of a tribe that fed on that kind of attitude. And that by succumbing to their sick fantasies…in film and on casting couches…she was empowering them. That she was setting a precedent of “shiksas” that would live long after they had finished with her. An unreal dream that thousands of people would follow, only to meet a similar fate. She didn’t get it. Or she just didn’t care. I must admit, I have never met a more self-centered and greedy person outside the tribe. Sober and young and beautiful…she fully wanted, and was prepared to give up anything she had, to become that princess of her little-girl dream.
There must have been something I missed while talking to that raggedy girl of eleven. Some seed within her that would germinate into making her the world’s most conspicuous prostitute. And yet, somehow she would retain a “victim” status through all that. Several generations would remember her as the quintessentially exploited woman. How can that be, I pondered as I looked into those sexually mercenary eyes that evening? I didn’t know then…and I don’t now. I hate that. Not knowing what moves me. What I can hate and yet feel drawn to. I resigned the evening being repulsed and confused by all of her. All ages that she showed me. There was nothing more to her…and I hated her.
I hated her and what she revealed of femininity raped. For what she did to the “American dream girl”. For the decadent pleasure she provided the jews that fed on her flesh and her will. For the loss of innocence that we all shared in her repulsive behaviour. And more than anything…the disenchantment.
At the very least…after all was said and done in her depraved life…she did finally get what she wanted in the end. To be dead…absolutely non-existent.