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

Procrastination is something that shouldn’t be put off until tomorrow.

I was supposed to start NaNoWriMo on November 1st, but I was too er… busy.  But I have written like a guilty writing machine type person ever since, not even remotely influenced by the fact that Bohemiénne has the number of words she has written slapping me in the face every time she surfaces.  So now I’m only two days behind – OK, three, counting today – and not at all smug that I have so far out-written her.   Hah!  Eat my dust, bitch!  (Oops, sorry.  I mean: Well done, Boh.  I’m sure you’re doing your best, honey, but we can’t all compete at the same level, can we?)

Anyway.  I’ve written loads of words.  I have a lowering feeling that what I wrote yesterday may be the sum total of my imaginary words (obviously it’ll be a while before I run out of the non-imaginary ones – my incredibly sedentary and uneventful life still holds endless fascination for me).  I’m also slightly surprised at what lurked in my imagination, and rather dread to think what will emerge next.

Actually, to tell you the truth, I more dread that nothing will emerge, and I have emptied out my imagination.  Or even that I haven’t, as there are stirrings in it, but they don’t seem to want to be written down.

OK, the truth is I’m procrastinating.  I think that I’m achieving something filling up some space with this rubbish, and am trying to pretend that it will count when it doesn’t (“You so did NOT write more than me!  I posted on two blogs, I’m definitely out ahead!”), and that if I just sit looking casually the other way, inspiration will grab hold of form and I’ll get something down in writing.

Shit.  It’s just not working, is it?  My last ditch attempt will be reverse psychology.

I will not write anything for NaNoWriMo today.

There.  That’s shown me.

Another Excuse Not to Write

First is the visual. I see sparks, or maybe sparkles. I’m not quite sure which it is, but it obscures, without blocking. Closing my eyes causes the shimmer to subside, but it’s not such an unpleasant feeling, so I try not to give in to that temptation. Really, if I move my head quickly enough from side to side, I can look around those glimmering triangles of light. Gradually, though, I can’t keep moving that quickly. I become dizzy, or the next phase starts pushing into my awareness. It travels. It begins in the back of my neck, just enough discomfort to make sure I’ve noticed and made the connection. I have. I know what’s coming next. The parts that will hurt will not be the parts that are causing the pain. My skin will hurt. My hair will tingle. My teeth will ache. If I can bear to keep my eyes open, and try to focus, I will see only through a milky haze. Fire-arrows will slice through my temple, from one side to the other, battering the insides of my skull on their way through. The nausea will eventually take over where the pain refuses to leave off.
Sometimes I persist past this point… I keep typing, or writing, or talking, or walking. Normalcy is almost beyond me, though. My speech staggers, my gait falters, my temper hesitates. Now the dim autumn light assaults, the noise of breathing aggravates, the presence of bodies in my vicinity becomes unbearable.

Eventually, I give in. I close my eyes. I seek the dark. I crave the quiet. I ride it out, however long it takes.  Some tiny bit of my brain that acknowledges reality and patterns knows that this will pass.  This me, in this moment, though, knows no such thing. There is no connection to likelihood. The future itself is too much to contemplate. I hide from consciousness, endure, pray for sleep and deliverance.

Battle Fatigue

I return from the field with the spoils of war in hand, blood-spattered but head held high. My tight smile stays firmly in place as I march past the waving and cheering ghosts. They, the apparitions, are the reasons for this war. I fought for them, for their pleasure, for their pride, for their ego gratification. They know they need to show their gratitude now. Because they know the truth behind the frozen grin and stiff-gaited step. They know that the blood is not the enemy’s. They know that no prisoners were taken because I am too weak, too tired, too drained to hold the vanquished in restraint.

Behind the bluster, beneath the bravado, my victory is hollow and futile. The white flag was hoisted with a look of pity and compassion in your eye. You gave in more than you gave way. Your words say that I have won, but you have offered no guarantee, no promise besides the immediacy of your surrender. From the moment you handed me your weapon, you knew and I knew that capitulation was one way out, one way of stopping the bloodshed, one way of creating a diversion to make full and utter retreat possible.

I carry on holding the weapon and the flag before me as evidence of my strength and my power. You and I know the truth, though.  We both know that domination is only possible with willing submission. If you are gone, and you are indeed long gone, no ground has been gained. But at least the battle is over.

War Zone

We pretend not to be at war. We wear our mufti, and keep our camouflage well hidden at the back of our closets, accessible but invisible. We disguise our weapons with the prettiest of words. We hide our wounds well beneath the tinkling laughter. You’d never know that we’ve left a path of destruction in our wake. The bodies are carefully interred, the blood stains covered with flowers and delicate objets d’art.

The truth is that I am broken, and tired of the fight. I wish for nothing more than to raise my white flag, acknowledge my surrender. The price in casualties has been too high. I no longer have the strength to keep this battle going. The screams are becoming deafening. I am confused, and don’t know which way to run off the field.

How about you? Are you exhausted in your bones the way that I am? Do you dream of peace and tranquility? Are you willing to do anything to make our gentle appearances reality? You can. All you need to do is give up. Admit that I have conquered you. Make me the victor, grant me the spoils. That’s all it will take.

Otherwise, I will continue to ignore the begging of every nerve and impulse in me to be done with this. I can keep this up forever, if I have to. I can sustain this beautiful pretense for as long as it takes. Keep fighting if you wish. It doesn’t matter. Eventually, I will win.

Cut & Paste

The insides of my mind are covered in wallpaper paste, with bits of torn up Deep Thoughts half glue-submerged and half blowing in the draught. I find a bit that says:

“you are totally exposed, open, pliant… the natural instinct is to protect you, cover you, shelter you”

which logically must go with:

“Yes … I remember trying to get a reaction out of you. You were very disciplined, and I felt like seeing where that might break down.”

but apparently doesn’t, because it can be summed up with:

“I think he gets protective of me because he thinks my vulnerability shouldn’t be exposed. I think other people want to try to expose it”.

which rather kills the discussion dead. Trawling through reasons why some people would want to break me down and others want to preserve my strength doesn’t really yield up anything particularly edifying about anyone much, so I end up abandoning that train of thought.

Then stuck to the glue I find a whole lot of prickly bits about fathers, the lack of, and Alpha Males, and things my daughter has to say about the kind of man she’s looking for (how come it took her 20 years less than it took me?). I could write a whole plethora of posts, I think happily, but they elude me.

I’m sucked into a black hole of advice-giving, which leads me to wonder why it is that every single man I’m involved with appears to have some inability to resist dingbats. Or is it me? No, apparently not: I’m the dingbat antidote, I’m told. But maybe this is because as an ex-dingbat I have the inside scoop on them, I’m subsequently told by someone else.

This morning a colleague asks me to be the union representative: I’m diplomatic, I don’t kiss ass, I’m not self-serving, I can say my piece, I don’t take sides, I can negotiate. Huh. So it’s only lovers who want to cut me off at the knees. Or alternatively, all the people I normally infuriate with my impartiality suddenly see how this can be turned to their advantage.

Underneath it all runs a little thread of worry and dread and anger, and that’s the mouldy paste my thoughts are sticking to – the things I don’t want to write, that pervade everything I do write.