Border Security

The first impression is that there are no limits. All seems to be open and wild and free. You may roam where you will. If you step across an invisible barrier of any kind, it isn’t immediately obvious. You could probably cross that line a dozen times without being aware that it is there.

It does exist, though. Each time it is crossed, it becomes slightly more visible, gradually, only very gradually. It is as if the keeper of the border is almost infinitely patient. Almost. If you choose to spend time here, you need to watch carefully, keep an eye on that line that at first doesn’t even seem to exist. Eventually, if you keep walking over it in your ignorance and haste, it will become solid, and you may trip on it. Take that as your warning. The next time you trod carelessly toward it, you won’t be able to cross, you won’t even trip over it. You’ll find, quite suddenly, that it is a brick wall, unclimbable. You’ll see the ‘Keep Out’ sign. If you persist, if you push on the wall, you’ll realize it isn’t even only impassible. It’s an electric fence, and your stubborn insistence on trying to bypass it will only result in disaster for you.

Much better to stay on the outskirts, enjoy the appearance of freedom of access, and resign yourself to the fact that some places are just off limits to you.

Surrounded by twits…

Dear Clueless One,

Here’s a secret.

If you like me, if you want to impress me… learn to spell! It isn’t ‘luv’, it’s ‘love’. It isn’t ‘yr’, or ‘u’, or ‘r’… it’s ‘your’, ‘you’ and ‘are’. Punctuation is nice. Beginning sentences with an uppercase letter is fun. Give it a try.

Yours in frustration and disdain,

Boh

P.S. Referring to Yourself always with a capital letter doesn’t actually make You my Dom. Idiot.

Oh, FFS!

Dear Dingbat Magnet,

You’ve really done it now, haven’t you? As if the capslocking wasn’t enough, you may have succeeding in turning me completely dingbatty.  I don’t know if that’s what annoys me, or you have annoyed me.  No, it’s probably you.  It is always all about you, isn’t it?

I know, it’s so out of character, isn’t it?  I’m supposed to be all nice and rational and unemotional and mainly placid, with just occasional outbreaks of stroppiness.  And, you know, I generally am.  I defend to the death your right to do anything you like, and I enjoy the honesty.

But quite honestly, I just have to say this:

Fucking hell, that really was a step or ten WAY over the line.

No, wait, that wasn’t quite what I had to say.  I think maybe it was this:

YOU HAVE REALLY PISSED ME OFF AND UPSET ME NOW.

(Yes, that was it)

Very much doubting the yours bit

Melograna

And another thing…

Dear Mother and Daughter,

I’ve been having a lovely time flirting for the past few months.  But now you think he might do nicely for me.

Cheers.  He’s lost all his appeal now.

Melograna

(daughter and mother)

And while we’re at it…

Dear Self-Centred Egotistical Pricks,

Get over yourselves.

Sincerely determined to remain free of you,

Bohémienne

P.S.  You weren’t that good in the first place.

Addendum to Fuckwits for Dingbats

Dear Dingbats,

Where did I go wrong?  Having eradicated you from my life, what possessed me to get involved with men who are addicted to dingbats and TELL ME ABOUT THE FUCKING DINGBATS ALL THE FUCKING TIME?

It’s not easy being the only sane one, you know.  I have to keep capslocking all over the place to keep dingbat-fever at bay.  It’s very wearing.

Yours sincerely and sanely,

Melograna

An open letter to all the fuckwits in my life…

Dear Fuckwits,

Enough already.

Yours very sincerely, more sincerely than you can possibly imagine,

Bohémienne

P.S. Fuck off.

Scuro, Scuro, Always Scuro

It occurred to me recently that the arbitrarily chosen categories here at Complicity (Chiaro, Scuro, Chiaroscuro) may in fact be encouraging me in rather a bad habit. The lovely and brilliant Melograna suggested these categories (she’s such a smartypants), and I thought they were a great idea — after all, they really do describe all of the types of writing we are likely to do: Chiaro (light / clear), Scuro (dark), or Chiaroscuro, that art term which describes a combination or, more accurately, contrast of the two. I wish sometimes that there was more of a sliding scale to describe feeling really fairly down, but not really suicidal. Or generally cheerful, but don’t indulge in any false hopes of getting away with anything. So, they are a great theory, all inclusive, pretty much comprehensive, as categories go. And of course, we also have a category called War, because sometimes we are just pissed off.

Anyhow, this very clearly delineated method of categorizing writing moods serves as a great temptation to me. Each time I am grumpy about something or someone, I think to myself… Ah, Boh (doesn’t everyone refer to themselves by their blog nickname?), you could just write that out of your system, and slap it up on Complicity under the pretentious but accurate Scuro designation. Then I go ahead and vent. When I’m done, sometimes I place it under Chiaroscuro, to give the illusion that I’m not really as morbid as I … well, as I really am.

Over the long term, however, this leads to a string of posts where I criticize and complain about pretty much every aspect of my life. He was mean to me. She is annoying. I’m tired. I’m bored. My head hurts. They make me work too hard. Wah, wah, wah. Pity me. Tell me I’m always right. Say you love it when I download on you.

So, what happens when I have particularly Chiaro moments that I want to write about? Ah. Really, I should have another blog just for that. It wouldn’t have a category called “Please Whine Here”, so I would be less tempted.

Since I don’t in fact have a blog named “All Chiaro, All the Time”, I resolve to try to balance my perspective a bit when I write here. I shall, in fact, continue to write snarly little allegorical tales about people who have offended me, and scathing but superficially amusing indictments of perceived slights against me. I shall also, however, return to over-analyzing the more positive and delicious bits of lint in my navel as well. After all, my navel is pretty gorgeous, and worth the time spent gazing at it.

Let Him Eat It

Sometimes things work out for some people.

I know this guy who got really lucky, all of a sudden. He spent a long time feeling kind of deprived, you know? Like he wasn’t getting exactly what he wanted. Sure, he had some good things. Some stuff in his life was going well. He had a good enough job, a new enough car, a pretty enough wife who was willing to bake for him, smart enough kids, and a big enough house. Not so bad, right? Like for the rest of us, though, there were some things that were missing in his life, from his point of view. He had a sweet tooth, for example. And even though there was food on the table every day, there was rarely any dessert. And when there was, it was usually apple pie. I mean, who doesn’t like apple pie, right? Well, he liked it well enough… but he wanted it with ice cream. And sometimes, he wanted it with chocolate ripple ice cream. Most people wouldn’t even want apple pie with anything other than vanilla ice cream, but this guy had a real taste for chocolate ripple. Lots of times, he didn’t even want apple pie at all. He wanted tiramisu. He wanted molten lava cake. He wanted raspberry gelato. He wanted a variety of desserts, and he wanted them when he wanted them. Gradually, he wanted those desserts so much that apple pie just became completely unsatisfying to him. He decided he’d rather go without dessert than to keep eating plain old apple pie.

Now, personally, I don’t get it. If I can’t have crème brulée, I’m okay with a slice of pie.

He wanted exotic desserts in unusual combinations so much that he started visiting different restaurants instead of staying and eating his meals at home. He was surprised at how difficult it was to find desserts that were truly interesting. He was worried, too, that if he ate out too often, his wife’s feelings might be hurt. She knew her apple pie wasn’t enough for him, but he didn’t want to shove it in her face, so to speak. One day, though, he walked into a cute little neighbourhood café that he hadn’t noticed before, and he was shocked to see every one of his favourite desserts on the menu, and others he hadn’t tried, but that sounded absolutely delicious to him. He began to eat there regularly, no longer even making an effort to eat pie at home.

His wife, who had always been willing to bake at least a little, as long as he asked for nothing but apple pie, began to realize that he wasn’t asking for any dessert at home anymore. She could have been angry. She could have told him not to bother coming home at all, to stay at the cute little café. Instead, though, she decided to learn to prepare some new and different desserts, to tempt him to return home. Her recipes weren’t very creative at first, but she did serve him chocolate ripple ice cream. Gradually, she took more and more of his suggestions, and began to bake him any cake he requested.

The man was beside himself with joy. Not only was he getting the desserts he wanted at home, but she agreed that he could continue to frequent the café from time to time, since there were exotic combinations there that she was unwilling to try in her own kitchen. The man ate and ate and ate at home, and sometimes, after eating one delicious dessert at home, he would go out and have another even better one at the café.

He got fat. Of course he got fat… he was eating more dessert than any man of his acquaintance, and such good dessert, too. But he was happy, delirious in his joy and the satisfaction of his sweet tooth. He had his cake and he ate it, too.

Don’t you just hate him?

Combustion

Dear You,

I understand through the word on the street (okay, not the street, more like word on the screen) that you have a choice to make. Can’t be easy for you. Oh! It is? Ah, yes, now I see. So right. Really, it’s black and white. No — red and white. Let’s look at the options.

White first. Bright, pure, smooth, easy. Yes, easy. The clean light surface of the water. Barely a ripple is visible. Make this choice for peace, for quiet. Beneath the surface? Nothing. Nothing is living there. Why would you want to see beneath when the surface is so nice, so calm, so cool; you can see your own visage reflected there. You’ll never need another mirror — just look and have your anxieties, your fears, your nervousness relieved and extinguished.

The other choice won’t work for you. Red is deep, and hot, and full of life and vitality. It would disturb your equanimity, such a bad idea. You might become overheated, overexcited. You would risk great despair and deception. Yes, you would also earn the opportunity for great joy and passion. Overall, though, such extremes will just worry you. Those flashes of blinding light, screaming chaos… they are not for you. You need a pillowed landing, not fire, and lust, and, heaven forbid, depth.

There is only one possibility for you, for You. Opt for ease and security. Cruise to the end in safety and security. Really. It’s your only choice. If I were you, or like you, I would probably do the same. Probably. The chance at extraordinary joy is never worth the risk of bursting into flame. Is it?

Best wishes and good luck.

B