Repression brings with it sex. Foucault hit the nail on the head so hard that it hit his thumb nonetheless and it’s still bleeding - all over us. Women with morchas are raging around the city and the country, putting up banners and insidiously a truth is acknowledged - there are a thousand Paros sending their nude pictures across borders, for every DPS mms clip and for every Chanda caught.
While Chanda has her New Friends Colony Market momos, desire has snaked up. The film almost made heterosexuality cool again. Its pain, its tribulations, its necessary humiliations, its fervent mixed up desire for/of misrecognition. Its flippant offerings of your desires to someone else’s lesser consumption. Its silent sufferings, blank eyes, its awful, corrupting secrets. Its tangential lives to everything else.
But my heart also stopped for the most sensual look I’ve ever seen -- from an older, wiser Dylan for Helena, for all the emosanal atyachar gone and to be..
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