Coco Chanel's Pussy
Dreamed 2010/4/26 by Wayan
My mom died nearly a month ago. My sisters and I just hosted her memorial. I'm wiped out, and more work's ahead--fixing and selling our childhood home, settling the estate. But I did manage a little time for myself today; uploaded this month's additions to the World Dream Bank.
At the San Francisco International Film Festival, I see Coco Chanel And Igor Stravinsky. Cool queenly Chanel, inventor of everything from Chanel #5 to bell bottoms and the little black dress, invites Stravinsky the composer to come live in her mansion with his whole family--he's broke and struggling, his music's too radical to sell.
Gorgeous film--Stravinsky for a soundtrack, and full of her bold, elegant designs ("I love color," says Coco, "as long as it's black.")
Coco and Igor are equally passionate and uncompromising in their visions of modernism, and soon they're deep in an affair... all in view of his kids and his wife, who's dying of TB. Yet Coco finances treatments for her, as well as Rite of Spring.
So were Coco and Igor geniuses who refused to let middle-class brainwashing stifle their creative vision, or were they selfish monsters? Or both at once, and more?
Not guilt but sexism tugs them apart; can he bear that she's the breadwinner in their strange blended family? As she invents Chanel No. 5, he still denies her scents and visual designs are even art; yet she recognizes the depth of his music from the first.
And few did. The riot at the debut of Rite of Spring wasn't a fluke; even the stagers and dancers didn't really get it. Diaghilev's setting was crude, and Nijinsky's choreography lame AND badly danced; the performers did it by rote, didn't get those rhythms yet. Without Coco's financing in the 1920s of a revised version, Rite of Spring might have faded to a historical curio!
In the end, Coco with all her flaws comes across as an art patron like the Medicis--history's first Merchant Princess! And the first great art patron (of either gender) whose wealth came not from trade in spices, slaves, foods, or drugs, but from her own art--just art not yet acknowledged to be art... by men.
I'm petting Coco Chanel's pussy. She has two, you know--a carefully matched pair of big, elegant females, each black-and-white--what else, with Coco?
Coco warns me her pussy likes to bite.
But I'm patient, and gradually the cat accepts me--and starts to grow. And grow part-human.
I feel a bit shy as our petting gets sexy. After all, we're on the rug in the main salon in Coco's mansion, and a lot of people are watching--Igor Stravinsky's improvising on the piano, Coco draped around him, while Igor's wife Catherine and their kids are lined up on the sofa staring at us, and several of Coco's seamstresses and perfumiers are huddled in corners, whispering.
But, strangely, the atmosphere isn't disapproving. Most of them seem to be glad Coco's pussy is getting laid! It's true that lately she has been quite thorny to her staff. Maybe getting some will sweeten her.
But as she raises her tail and I slip inside her.... I wake.
I want to be sweetened.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
I spent the whole summer overwhelmed by family and legal obligations. I didn't date; I had zero personal life. I even failed to update the World Dream Bank--the longest freeze in its history.
Grief and healing takes many forms... and mine was workaholism. My dream proposed a livelier alternative, and even said my relatives wouldn't fault me for it... but I didn't even try.
Interpreting a dream is hard enough; but sometimes, when you're down, it's even harder to implement.
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