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Sunday, February 19, 2006
Done, but with errors on the page - part 2 of 2
------ I stepped into the room. I could feel every inch of the carpet under my shoes. All touch was bullying against me. I wanted to be cool, interested, but felt infested by every piece of furniture in the room. And, now I think about it - that's a stupid thing to say because there almost was none. A long, oval table with chairs tucked neatly around it - nothing more. The two Mr Smiths were sitting at the end of the table, and therefore the room. They wore the same brown jumpers, very well-pressed and regimented. Otherwise they were different - the one on the left, plump and dumb as a walrus. The other snappish in face. In fact a walrus was the only image that came to mind for the quiet one. It's a cheap metaphor to describe a man as an animal and I was annoyed I couldn't do better - I'm even more annoyed about it now.
------
Mr Smith spluttered a derisory sentence at the other Mr Smith, but for me.
'Ah! He does come into rooms after all!'
He jabbed his open hand at the chair at the furthest end of the table. I had to edge past him, listen to him grunting at my pushing his chair a centimetre in. Until now I hadn't realised that the room was completely violet and only the soft brown jumpers the Mr Smiths wore stood in a pleasant contrast.
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If my eyesight was poor, the view would have looked like a serene abstract painting. I was thinking of Rothko of course and figured were I to describe this room I'd have to do better than allude to Rothko - although the name 'Rothko' has an appealing chain of sounds in it - consonant - short vowel - dental consonant - unvoiced plosive - leading to a closing diphthong. A gorgeous array of sounds - just like a set of perfect teeth. But, I'm not a poet and don't need to rely on such phonological devices too much. I decided I'd ditch the Rothko part when I wrote this down. If I did.
------
'Thank you for coming I suppose. We're here to discuss things about this site of yours. The one you sent us the link to. We want to talk about your place in the world of publishing.'
'Thank you for the opportunity.'
'Oh, this is an opportunity alright. We read this blog thing of yours. What's it called again? Jamrag? It's called fucking Jamrag, isn't it?'
He rippled off words as though they all tasted rancid, but I had to contradict.
'It's RuKsaK actually. Not Jamrag.'
He leaned in towards me making his nose an obnoxious size in my view.
'Look - for the purposes of this meeting we will call it fucking Jamrag! I don't need to remember the real name - it's Jamrag in my head as soon as you leave I'll be keeping it there until it leaves altogether. Capiche cuntsuck?'
In my bewilderment I got out a very quick, meek 'I understand.'
It was the last thing I said in there.
'The problem is your stories. They're not up to standard and going nowhere except on this frigging Jamrag blog. I hope this shit never makes print. Let's look at this recent one we read.'
He slapped down a few sheets of crumpled paper.
'What's this fucker called? 'Done, but with errors on the page' - I mean, for the sake of God's cunt lips! First rule of any writing - don't write from a nice sounding title backwards! You've got the title and you don't know where to take it. I'll tell you where you should have taken it - to the nearest fucking bin!'
I glanced at the walrussy Mr Smith and he was still silent, but an overly jolly grin was migrating to his ears. This didn't help me any.
'It's this kind of pretentious mulch which fucks me over! I'd rather have the Devil shaft my arse in front of my mother than read this cunting dirge again!'
Occasional spots of his saliva were hitting me now. Many of them were flying above my head, such was his rage.
'You see, what fuck stains like you achieve is to write yourself into a corner you can't get out of. I mean - here you are - in this room. You've written your way in here, spilled some outrageously bad 'like this' and 'like thats' along your way - fucking abysmal writing Jamrag!'
I may have attempted a 'but' put his continuing tirade thumped it back into my throat.
'And here you are. In this chair. Me described. That fat twat sitting there described. Your readers know this room is purple and you think that's enough - somehow esoterically relevant. Like the magnolia reception area - it means fucking nothing you fucking set of cheap silver-plated spoons! What was that crap about the vacuum cleaner? You didn't even use the word 'hoover' in case American readers didn't get it. You useless, despairing cunt! And, here we are - in this room, with no way out. There you are Jamrag - in your nice chair. Get out of this one you fucking homosexual bowl of felch-porridge.'
------
But, here I am - the Mr Smiths staring at me. Still sitting in this room. Stuck at the end of a poor story. Wanting to be able to bail out of this mistake and hope the few readers forgive me.
RuKsaK posted at 12:21 PM
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