Every word on the surface there to soothe and comfort and assist.
Your sentences constructed so artfully make you appear essential and crucial to all operations. Whatever would we do without you? You have shoehorned yourself beneath your writing desk and appear immovable. One of the fixtures and fittings.
But I have turned over the page. I have taken a look at your ink strokes from the back.
The side where it bleeds through black, black, black. The side where the paper is punched and ripped; where your hate-filled pressure has perforated the bleached wood pulp like claw marks in flesh.
Here one can see the almost cuneiform cut of your lettering. The short sharp slashes of invective that lurk beneath the niceties. The subtle jibes that lie behind the acts of support.
I know how you work. How you compose your dark poetry.
Your sunny hand builds scaffolding, lays foundations, holds itself open to be taken or to offer advice and help.
But your true hand, your wizened crone hand, is black with dirt and tar from where you’ve been digging; from where you’ve been tunnelling under the protective walls of those who you profess to befriend; from where you have been literally undermining them, pulling the ground out from beneath them.
No wonder your ink stinks of brimstone.
I think I would respect you more if you were more honest in your machinations; if you didn’t prettify or disguise your siege engines with lipstick or the blush of friendship. It would be better if you let your nastiness shine forth au naturel; if you signed your letters with your true hand. Your blackened hand.
Because we all recognize your penmanship now. The disguise, the pretence is pointless. The affectations, the blonde moments, the senior moments, the gauche moments... we know they are distraction techniques. Fake similes. Oxymorons.
The central metaphor of your life is rotten.
We can smell it a mile away.
And so now, we confer. We discuss. We compare notes. We compile lists.
We write letters of our own.
Letters which we will send to you.
We hope you recognize the ink.
It is black,
black,
black...
35 comments:
Unless, of course, they have arthritis.. believe me, that plays havoc with yer curly-wotsits!
Eh?
Have you had another rejection letter?
OR Have you been stirring the mummy bloggers up again?
Don't let them get to you, rise above rise above(sigh).
The Dotterel: oh. I didn't think about arthritis. That may explain some of the twisted behaviour. Doh!
Joe: nope. Besides, I think we all know that the mummy bloggers are all my hos and bitches now. We're like that. And that's me on top. ;-)
Penmanship in an office? I thought everyone used email these days. Anyway, she sounds like a real Cruella de Vil whoever she is. Maybe she just needs a good seeing to.
Gorilla Bananas: you first. I insist.
Trish: only 'cos you prefer being on top yourself.
Didn't know you knew my sister in law....
So eloquent in your anger. I really must write to your more often...
The fly in the web: she speaks very highly of you. ;-)
Heather: don't worry, my lawyer has been saving all your letters up for me.
Oh for fucks sake Steve, I let the bonobos have a little go at letter writing and this is how you respond.
Trust me babe, you don't want to be on top - far too exposed!
BTW us bloggers need facts, sir. Metaphors and poetry will not allow us to hunt down the bitch.
Readily A Parent: I wouldn't want you to get your hands dirty, my dear. Stick to the bonobos. At least you know where they've been...! ;-)
Oh dear oh dear. Not the poison pen pal nut. Cant you just front it out and pin copies of ‘its’ handiwork to the office notice board, with a copy of your sharply, well written narration here? There must surely be a way of giving them a taste of their own poison. Time to get creative and start leaving a few dead rats in a live rats drawers. In the meanwhile, try reading Bill Fitzhugh’s book ‘Pest Control’. It’s a riot and it might just provoke ideas for a more fitting M.O.
Phil: sounds an interesting book. I take it we're not talking about cockroaches of the insect variety?
Did GB really say 'maybe she needs a good seeing to' ? Sigh. I have to say I am completely lost, convinced I am turning into a man because this is all too subtle for me. Is it metaphor or is someone really writing letters. How bizarrely antiquated. Wouldn't an anonymous twitter account be much more the today approach?
Kelloggsville: no bureau or fountain pen was harmed in the making of this post.
Clear?
Que? - she says in her best Manuel voice (remember him, Fawlty Towers)?
Beautifully written, but lets face it I'm a bimbo blogger :)
Suzanne: no. You're an artist bimbo blogger. And that's cool.
Thankyou. That made me smile.
Still don't have foggiest about your post though...
Suzanne: that's OK. Just enjoy the cloud formations...! ;-)
As a ho/bitch I agree with whatever you say Steve...always...everytime...ok?
Libby: that's my girl!
P.S. Been having trouble commenting on your blog the last day or so. I think Blogger is having a few "technical issues".
Absolutely no idea what this is about but quite enjoyed it anyway.
Blogger is sooooo having commenting issues. I've been leaving the wittiest comments all over the blogosphere but they just keep showing up as inane drivel ... See
Has someone upset you. Or is it just another of those rejection letters?
Steve, it's not worth the paper is written on. And while we're at it. You must stop writing to yourself.
Mark: that's the spirit!
Kelloggsville: you're telling me! I've been having the same issue and have reported them to Blogger... nothing seems to be being done about it though.
Marginalia: but it's the only way I'm guaranteed a reply!
Beautiful. Like a poisoned cocktail. Hey joebloggs some of us female bloggers with kids, are actually amusing. Truly.
Vix: you always amuse me, my friend!
Vix-no offence was meant to the "Mummy Bloggers" who are witty, articulate and have a wider horizon than posting about their kid having a poo or snotty nose . Unfortunatley there are way too many of this type with too much time on their hands and they start acting like they are 14 and in the school playground, getting all catty and cliquey, you know.
Now off to pick up the kids, where are my jimjams?
Joe: don't forget your manbag and your 'Chelsea Tractor'! ;-)
I have no idea whats going on here. However. This was a magnificently written post! And the comments have been entertaining as well.
Oi! Who are you calling a mummy blogger!? Wash your mouth out. On second thought, if it means I get the title "Hobitch of Bloggertropolis"....
So Steve, would that blackest of black pens be extracted for use from a bouffant, highly hair-sprayed birds nest atop the bitch in question's head?
I love the comments you get. Seriously, I read them with my morning cuppa.
Michelloui: it came out far more cryptic than I intended but perhaps no bad thing for that. Thank you!
Being Me: to be honest, I was hoping to be your hobitch. Maybe we could alternate?
Done, my friend. I'll take Tuesdays and Fridays. We can alternate weekends.
Being Me: cool. Do I get to dress up?
Aha! Now, you see, the difference is that if I write a post like this, one of the petulant children at work gets in to a tizzy thinking it is all "about them", and I have to remove it as too distracting (makes you wonder why they were reading it and not working in the first place).
If only they were actually that interesting in the first place.
LCM x
LCM: bizarrely, practically everyone who's read this has thought it was about them. And it was. It was about all of them. All of them together. So there.
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