Hi guys. When I promised to update this blog regularly, I lied. Let’s get that out of the way first. So, yes. I am a liar. My pants are on fire. I have already hung them on the telephone wire, in violation of multiple city ordinances. Okay? Can we just move on?
Good. Because the thing that snapped me out of my writing hibernation, in addition to the prospect of mixed metaphors, was this little gem I found written on the back of a postcard, tucked into a book in a used bookstore in Melbourne:
Thank you very much for the chance to read this. It’s quite inclusive, but the overall effect is of wonderful complexity, rather than indiscriminateness. Amy Witting is especially interesting and of course I love Gillian’s style. The Ken Inglis piece is helpful, as I expected. He’s so knowledgeable– I’ve seen him add so much to seminars.
I loved the Penguin Summer Stories. Thank you. And I hear that A Century of Story has the most remarkable design. I’m looking forward to it.
“Who cares about someone else’s forgotten postcard?” I can hear you grumbling. (That is, if I flatter myself to believe that 1.) someone’s reading this, 2.) someone cares enough to have feelings about it, and 3.) someone would then vocalize those feelings in the form of a grumbly inquiry.) But don’t you hear it, too? No, not the sound of your own grumbling (it’s lovely that you care), but the subtext screaming beneath those well-chosen words! Screaming, I tell you! There’s layer 1, of course, but I find layer 2 even more interesting. Here it is, as I understand it:
1. Dear Clare
2. My darling Clare, sun and moon to me,
Thank you very much for the chance to read this.
1. Thank you for giving me the excuse to write you.
2. I love you.
It’s quite inclusive, but the overall effect is of wonderful complexity, rather than indiscriminateness.
1. I know and make use of many big words, some that contain both suffixes and prefixes. Are you impressed?
2. I ache to show you my wonderful complexity.
Amy Witting is especially interesting and of course I love Gillian’s style.
1. I’ve read very carefully. Or, at least, I give praise to suggest that I have. Impressed?
2. I’ve always been a woman-loving woman.
The Ken Inglis piece is helpful, as I expected.
1. I’m very familiar with the work of Inglis. Seriously, how impressed are you?
2. I’m not, however, averse to men; I’m not a stereotype, Clare.
He’s so knowledgeable– I’ve seen him add so much to seminars.
1. Like I said, me and Ingly go way back. Impressive, is it not?
2. I do, however, attend seminars. Some stereotypes are true, Clare.
I loved the Penguin Summer Stories.
1. I even know who published this. Impressed much?
2. Please let me touch you.
1. I am delighted to have had this opportunity to impress you.
2. My fingertips quiver with anticipation at the mere suggestion of your smooth, buttery skin.
And I hear that A Century of Story has the most remarkable design.
1. I’m in the know about other books as well. Welcome to Impressiveville! Population: You!
2. My vagina is opening like a slow-motion rose blossom.
I’m looking forward to it.
1. I’m going to tell you about that book as well. Get ready to be impressed, my little friend.
2. You are my sacred, only, truest true love.
1. Love, Brenda.
2. I must anchor my name with punctuation mark, my darling, because I am adrift in the sweet, salty, tumultuous sea of Clare.
Lest you guys think I’m being imaginative and fanciful (Oh, how I would love for someone to accuse me of being fanciful! And then slap me lightly on the cheek with a hand-stitched, goat leather glove!), all of this was written in rich black ink on a black-and-white postcard featuring, what? Well-dressed old ladies riding camels. Don’t make me spell out the subtext on that, you perverts.