I refuse to cut my fingers off, I refuse to hold my tongue

Tumblr famous Pirolt paintings, Yorgos Lanthimos' new film Kinds of Kindness, and becoming a woman

The woman sits at her desk and carefully saws off her arm in one of Pirolt’s most famous paintings “Flesh Black.”

Erik Pirolt

She looks down so delicately, without an iota of pain on her face, as her hand is severed and goes limp on the bloody desk.

What makes her do it ? Does she believe the mutilation is what she deserves - does the physical pain serve to soothe some sort of mental or emotional affliction? Is she crying for help? Does she do it for someone else? Does she believe that her suffering will make her more lovable?

She does it without expression, without emotion; it appears as natural to her as pouring her morning coffee or tying her shoes.

It is the nature of women to be caretakers, right? To provide for the family selflessly? Women are gentle and forgiving, socialized into desirable meekness.

And so, men are raised by coddling mothers who, in the gentle and empathic nature of their hearts strive to make their sons feel like kings. Kings who deserve to be pampered, whose disrespect they accept and brush off their shoulders. They are seasoned in it; smiling through tears when their husband yells and spits and lets his dinner grow cold under their tired gaze. The son loves what his mother can do for him, but does he love his mother? Does he look up to her, does he see her as a whole and complete person, or only as a figure whose existence hinges on his?

The son grows up expecting to be served in love. His mother washed his clothes and held his hand and told him he was right when he was terribly wrong. In relationships, he will not love a girl for who she is, but what she can do for him. Whether that be his own character development, a calm home to return to, a fantasy to be fulfilled. It does not matter the conditions he provides; she cannot fall short of her duties or his love will run dry. She is not a person; she is a machine for the processing of his desires. She is an element in his plot line, an experience to be felt and tossed aside. The son is always, always hungry. The mother never freed him, never taught him how to be a good man - in her eyes, he didn’t need to be. And so, he resents her, even when she serves him his favorite meal on his favorite plate. Insatiability compounded by a dopamine addicted generation, high on emptiness. The hollow feeling in your chest after a feverish puke, the rising puke in your throat after a loveless fuck.

When the sun feels like it’s shooting right at me and my body feels light as a feather; that is when my hands are rough and feet are tired and my love feels as precious as a newborn child. To a grateful heart the mere gaze of love is enough to protect with an iron grip. The insatiable hunger of lust has nothing but fantasies to be fulfilled. In the smooth and heavy hands of lust, love is just a weapon to be wielded on the sweet.

In Yorgos Lanthimos’ newest film Kinds of Kindness, all three of the distinct fables contained within the film speak to one idea. The idea that love can be weaponized, that our desire to be loved can be used against us, that some people don’t love - they just desire.

I found myself to be (likely) the only person sobbing in the theater during the second fable.

We follow Jesse Plemons as Daniel, a police officer, Emma stone as Liz, his wife.

The story begins with Daniel distraught over his wife having gone missing. He invites two friends over and asks them in tears to watch a video with him. They agree, despite discomfort, and the video is revealed to be a porno the four of them made together before her disappearance. When Liz is found and rescued, Daniel quickly becomes convinced - without evidence - that this woman is not his wife, but an imposter. Liz tries to garner some kindness from him after her traumatic disappearance and receives none. When she tries to feed him, he refuses - and starts asking that she mutilate herself in order to feed him parts of her body.

Liz, on multiple occasions, defends her husband. Her father, played by Dafoe, calls him a monster, and she expresses deep offense on his behalf. In one of the most powerful scenes of the film, she tells her father about a dream she’s had, about an island where dogs run the show and humans are underlings. In the dream, she says, you can either fight for the best food that’s gone early in the day, or take what’s left and easily provided. She essentially refers to love as a scarce resource - and tells her father that she’ll take what she can get. After her husband beats her and causes her to miscarry, she defends him to her nurse, justifying to herself the abuse she is experiencing. In the end, Daniel asks her to cut out her liver for him to eat and she complies, killing herself. In the final shot, he envisions the “real” Liz coming through the door and embracing him.

Kinds of Kindness dir. Yorgos Lanthimos / Searchlight

Do the dogs run the show? The hungriest, emptiest creatures who feign loyalty and devotion find subjects who will accept their insatiability. In each story, there is a figure demanding something of a victim. This figure is never loyal to them, or truly empathetic towards them; their desires can be met by anyone. The victim is entirely replaceable - the cycle will continue as soon they cut ties. The love they receive depends entirely on what they are willing to do for this person. Love becomes a sickness, an addiction that the victim will rip themselves apart to attain. For Liz, if death meant love, then death it was.

Liz believed that because love was once there, she could coax it back to life from its rotting carcass. The milk was spoiled and in her inherently feminine gratitude she kept drinking for hope it would again become sweet. We beg for scraps. We take what we believe we can fucking get - because nothing is worse than being alone.

I write this as a continuation of my last post. I have changed my mind about anger. It is futile and it is ugly but women must treat our anger as a sacred beacon of light; illuminating the path to freedom.

I have watched myself and countless women I love quickly forgive what we would never do to anyone. I have watched myself break and beg under the most juvenile guilting. I’ll do anything to just be okay, just love me again, just love me again. I have watched angels see themselves as worthy of scraps; desperate to show their dog-like devotion to receive the faintest whisper of gratitude.

I will not cut my fingers off if my food does not sate you. I will not sputter and beg for your gratitude to return from the war. For the loveless and the insatiable, gratitude is only found in loss. They say the meek will inherit the earth; and in one sense I believe this wholeheartedly. The meek are the grateful, the honest, the kind. But If this is the only life we are promised, the meek must learn strength, must bite when necessary. In truth, there is only this moment; and the grateful will inherit it again, and again, and again.

as I walk I listen to her prayer; all my wounds are mended, paradise is mine / Lingua Ignota (Kristin Hayter)