haneke's "la pianeste" = the piano teacher

I want to talk about the face Huppert makes at the end, which I once said I wanted to get tattooed on my thigh. The self-harm and anger as defiant, extreme emotional contraction, I think acknowledging that there is nothing there beneath the face. Like you get the autist's rage and you think, "woah, they're angry", and it's about some bullshit but then you're like there's that sliver of a person underneath there like an angry nerve inflamed and pumped up. And it's only a sliver of person.

I genuinely think part of a person is the lack of a person, the frustrating sense that there is nothing there. I imagine touching like a hollow of skin and feeling nothing but scar tissue and the person knows you're there but it means being apart of someone's trauma and NOT helping.

Having sex with traumatized people and depositing your experience in a apart of them that's just scar tissue and the other people's deposits and the few remaining cells working on breaking it down. Putting work on someone's shoulder's, burning through one layer of scar tissue. You're contributing and you're painful and want they want is not what you want. Knowing this and repressing it.

I have sympathy for the STATE OF MIND, I have sympathy for the KINK. Which is the formation in your brain, which you play around with, you digest like it's a pile in your asshole. You don't mind that it spurts blood, but when it does, when you're fucked, it's painful, and it's EXHILARATING. But it's still something fundamentally dead.

Or is it? Ultimately? Toi Derricote says she bloomed as a person in her fifties after finally processing that trauma. The danse macabre.

The dead dance, the dance of death. I love this dance, I love it's cold claw embrace and the puppeting and pirating. The feeling of something uncontrollably unconscious descending and picking up and rippin at the deeper brain, the inevitable pill thru the grey matter.