Helene Cixous talked about how a story written entirely by a woman, without the phallogocentric grounding properties of the institutional male principle, would be unrecognizable. My friend Rachel Pollack has written extensively about theoretical languages -- of the angels, or the other side, languages of witches and women -- where the meaning and feeling behind the sounds trumps the phonemes and syntax of what we thought was language: That when people speak in tongues, or the loa ride them, they're speaking the language of heaven, which is universal because you don't have to learn it.
We tell different stories in the daytime than we do at night. There's a difference between Trump XVIII, the Moon, and almost every other card, because almost every other card tries to clarify the truth and the Moon takes you to places where that conversation doesn't even make sense. This isn't, I'm saying, a show for...
I tend to think of it as the antidote to Lost, which say what you will but that show was plot out the ass, with maybe two characters that had more than half a dimension between them, and God knows that's usually considered the high bar, at least among the autistic males that decide these things -- whereas this show is just feelings, dreams, shades and shadows, momentary situations -- the kind of feelings you get when you watch a really good movie trailer, or a particularly skillful fan-made video about a TV show; the kind of reverie you go into on long car drives, where a song on the radio somehow suddenly encompasses all meaning, or the exact feeling of something you forgot -- and then on top of that just the slightest dusting of the suggestion of plot.
Just enough of a semblance of plot to where, when you watch it, you don't actually feel like you've done a bunch of drugs. And no more.
Liars: "Will she always be like this?"
Anne: "With therapy and the right medications, people with these imaginary fictional personality disorders can get better. Often they become series regulars, acting as sort of like a Teen Hannibal Lecter."
I know they're watching me. I don't look bad, considering. I like this lipstick. What's it called? Toffee Tango? They think it's over. Loser Mona's going to the nuthouse, and those precious liars are going home to sleep with their windows open and their doors unlocked. Don't they know that's what we want?
So that's two awkward mentions of toffee. Hmm. And then, the A-Tag this week is pretty stellar too, along those lines. Mona gets a visitor in her padded cell, still looking like ten miles of hot mess crazy, and of course it's Red Dress, and of course these are the last words we hear for the season: