Chapter 41: Right of Reply to Ms Ruth Slieker

The response to my last missive - during which I confessed a disturbing dream about having sex with my best friend Ruth Slieker, and in which she sported a monstrous, huge, grey pubic bush - was overwhelming. Many readers emailed me to say that I mistakenly wrote public instead of pubic several times in the piece.

I have been wondering whether perhaps this was a Freudian slip, highlighting a hidden unease at deciding to make public my dream about Ruth's pubis? Who can say? Simone de Beauvoir said that to write about one's life is "exceedingly rash", and I may be starting to agree. Lucky I'm not telling you everything. (At the Sydney Literary Festival which I attended recently, Maya Angelou said the trick to memoirs was to "tell the truth, but don't tell everything". Good advice. If you're interested in the Literary Festival, where I also met Edmund White, check out my other blog, How I Gave Birth to a Novel (link at right).

Anyway, after the deluge of emails, I deem it only fair to offer Ruth - who is in all likelihood the most utterly divine person who ever lived - right of reply. This is what she emailed back:

I TRIM RELIGIOUSLY! You fucking bastard, you told that Barr Gilmore about your dream. That man can't be trusted to be discreet. I ran into him last night in a movie lineup and he says, "Oh, my God, I just finished reading about your pubic hair in an email!" You can imagine my horror as heads swung my way.

So I trim AND there's no grey. As for your near wet dream, you should go see a witchdoctor about that one. Just a shot in the dark but is it possible that you're becoming more aware we're getting old, or should I say, that I'm getting old?

Love you too much Ruthie; you'll never be old to me!

Two readers (thank you Teva and Sigs) proffered suggestions for the German word to accurately describe the emotion I felt at having dreamt so horrendously of Ruth's grey pussy: fahklempt and schwankung. The former means, basically, fucked up, I think. (I'm not 100% sure since I'm not sure if this spelling is right and my best attempts to look it up in an online dictionary have been futile. If you think you can do better, try TU Chemnitz online German-English dictionary.) And schwankung means oscillation between two poles of a duality. (Sigs, I'm still not clear how the latter word properly describes my emotion, but it has a nice ring to it, I agree. If I ever have a child I'll name it schwankung.)

Anyway, my strange dreams have not stopped. Some have been just downright disturbing and sick. However, if you're not Catholic, last night's dream-episode might amuse, so I'll tell. I, and the rest of the world, were divided up into these strange little Catholic cults of 20-30 people, with each little cult having it's own peculiar dress code and it's own room in a big Victorian mansion. (I know, I know, the numbers don't quite add up with a global population of 7 billion, but it was a dream after all.) Anyway, my particular little cult had all thin bearded men in lacey confirmation dresses. It's hard to describe these dresses, but I've searched the web, and I've found the exact picture of what I mean (see left). It's spooky, it's almost like this picture came directly from my dream!

All the other men, including me I hasten to add (I may be bearded, but not in that pasty thin Jesusy way that betokened a lacey white confirmation dress), wore these tight fitting black Victorian dinner jackets with excessively high black top hats. The women wore dark stuff, lots of jet jewelry, and furs. All very Victorian. And finally, these giant-fat-people- cum-balloon-robots (kind of like the navigators in Dune) floated in the beautiful spring air outside the mansion windows to distribute Koolaid poison to all of eager cult people inside, for we were all embarked on a mass suicide. SOMEBODY PLEASE COME AND HELP ME!

What else can I tell you? My very antiquated laptop is driving me crazy. I installed a webcam and a mouse and ever since then it sometimes types V E R Y V E R Y S L O W.... sometimes missing letters, until such time as it crashes, which curiously seems to fix it. Rebooting does not fix the problem, however. Too weird, too annoying, too arghghghghgghghg. So this afternoon, off I went with my friend Duncan, my who-to-go-to man in Sydney, to Bondi Junction to buy a new laptop. And printer. And software. And carrying case. And external hard drive. Coming so soon after the $2200 I spent at the dentist on Wednesday, just on the first of 5 planned visits, my credit cards are starting to acquire a slightly melted look. (But at least I will have a spanking new laptop with a fingerprint reader - very Mission Impossible 3 - and a gold crown on a back molar that will make me look like a gangsta rapper if you stick your head well into my mouth.)

And my other recent big purchases have gone swimmingly well. Remember those boots I paid $800 for in New Zealand? Well, they are more amazing than Dorothy's red shoes. They are MAGIC. When I wear them, people fall at my feet, and begin tearing off their clothes in preparation for sex. Although maybe I should stop wearing them so much. There is a rumour going around Sydney that I am an escort. Hilarious.

What else? Oh, the weather, yes, I must tell you about the weather. Yesterday in Sydney was a typical mild spring day in London or Vancouver, i.e. wet, grey, windy and about 10 degrees. But Sydneysiders were absolutely hysterical, afraid to leave their houses. You would have thought that The Apocalypse itself had arrived (see right).

I have to confess that I too got caught up in the hysteria; a year of chasing the sun has left me somewhat effete as regards the weather, a Real Big Weather Wus. I looked outside and saw the driving rain, heard the wind shaking the windows of our appartment high on the 21st floor and thought There Is No Way That I Am Going Outside, Not Even For Fresh Food. So this morning I used soy milk on my cereal that was about 8 days past its best-by date. Now I'm worried I will die.

Well, that's all. I suppose someone will contact you if the soy milk does me in. My will is with my Mom.