Day 19

Mumsy’s Relics of Joy

04.13 Cannot sleep; cannot dream
Subject: Relics

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



It is past time to consider the Relics of Wonderment, those little physical morsels and slivers of our beloved SOG that make life so worthwhile (and which are beloved of our director of marketing as souvenirs and money-spinner). Fully cognoscente that the entire issue is fathomless in its complexity, and that the practicallyasanta refuses to stand still long enough for us to disconnect a section of her carcass suitable for shredding into microscopic pieces, I am still resolute. We shall proceed regardless; there must be a way.

It was with some trepidation that we agreed she might be slightly happier if left to remain a white saint, rather than a bloody martyr. All things being equal, that implied that any procedure causing her great bodily pain or anguish should definitely be ruled out. However, after thinking it through, may I venture that a possible compromise, one that would circumvent all manner of moral, ethical and physical dilemmas, would be to administer local anaesthetic while she wasn’t looking. It certainly would minimise the amount of thrashing about and screaming dire utterances during the dissection process. And if that doesn’t work satisfactorily, there is also hypnotism. Or cloning.

Did I say cloning? How utterly brilliant of me! Surely that would be the answer to all our prayers! Such unique and commendable advantages would be granted to us, for one, a beautifully symmetrical identical though greatly improved visage sans memory or experience. The new, improved Sancta Ultimssima™ would never bother us, or embarrass us, by blurting out little things you did when you were young and gay and had a song in your heart. Furthermore, she would be completely biddable. How does that grab you? Worth investigating? I thought so, at least for a time, but I must admit I’m now having second thoughts. Business-motivated second thoughts. It occurred to me that the procedure might backfire, in which case we would end up with dozens and dozens of perfect little Mumsys, all complete with voices and memories, as well as embarrassing tendencies. Also, an exact replication might call into question her sanctity. Who is real and who is not, that sort of thing. Which one among the billions and billions of not-so-petite wind-up Miraculous Almostasanta Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ Sancta Sanctorum Adorum ™ Healing and Prosperity Dolls®, all screeching and nagging at the same time, is the genuine article? Words fail me! I simply cannot describe the tumult this would bring. And what if the original prototype got lost in the shuffle and went of a rampage? It would lead to madness, to disaster, to the very edge of reason. I die yet am unborn. I shall bear you no gifts and yet am fulsome in magnanimity. Don’tcha know.

To circumvent this and all other problems, and to relieve ourselves of noisome responsibility, might I propose (nay, demand) that we compel her to sign a release? I had hoped simply asking permission would be enough, but to do that we would have to inflict upon ourselves one of her interminable diatribes, and that simply would not do. Of course, if your nature was truly generous and you had at your disposal an extra ten or twenty hours, could request from her a plan for her ultimate redemption. It would certainly occupy her full attention and, as a happy consequence, prevent her from pestering the nice salesladies in Monoprix for shop-soiled discount underwear, at least for a day or two.

I know you are about to interrupt me here and point out that she, as a fully immaculate conception, does not have a pressing need for redemption. My thoughts, however, are that a second one might come in useful when her hagiography is compiled. It would set a good example to other, less fortunate, more ordinary mothers – those not destined for greatness and sainthood – and would shine like a beacon in a world so filled with darkness and vile odours. And with her as an example, might it not inspire others to great heights? Would it not put a smile on their lips and a song in their hearts? Might they not proclaim I may now experience everything life has to offer?

Put it to her like this: how should a living saint of blessed presence continue to lead the miraculous south-eastern sub-section of Holy Mother Church, as pipette and patroness of clean drains and infectious habits, as well as being the inspiration for a thousand thousand shrines, if at the same time she is hawking relics of her blesses corpus and promulgating dogmas and writing cookbooks, all at the same time? Is she, in fact, fully capable of dealing with all this with only one immaculate conseption? We must know! The world must know! The universe deserves to know! The key to all civilisation, to the very existence of mankind, depends upon the answer. As for me, I cannot go on, nor can I reconcile myself to anything but bitter despair without her explicit blessing and absolution.

And no, a thousand times no, I do not feel the time is ripe for her new afternoon chat show. Not only that, but it will never be. And if you really want to know, now is the time for some really ugly home truths about our fair, variegated-eyed and bulbously girded pipette, the so called Miraculous Alostasanta Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ of the Pissoirs™ and Gentle Swellings™! Ask yourself, has she even once really given us a thought? What proof have we that she hasn’t forgotten us? Proof, not reassurances from her media consultant. For all we know, she is off somewhere with her latest toy boy and has abandoned us completely! Please, please, say she hasn’t abandoned us. Say it loud and clear. Have it shouted in my ear! Open your aural heart to my cry of anguish!

One other thing. Has she given so much as a single moment’s notice to the creation of the cumbersomely bloated and unwieldy bureaucracy necessary for our maximum corporate and spiritual growth? I very much doubt it. The clues? Well, for one, has our beloved SOG even so much as mentioned bishops? Aren’t you aware, that when it comes time for us to dedicate our very first Bagel-in-the-Bare™ Holy Theme Park™ and Shrine to Her Most Blessed Sacradotal Wonderment®, we must have bishops. Many bishops. Large and important bishops. Tiny and aesthetic bishops. Bishops with tumbling tummies and drooping noses. Blond and hunky friends of bishops, though only two or three at a time, and never on Wednesdays or Fridays, which as you know are days of penance. Even a couple of penitentially spurious bishops. And finally, one nice, rotund and twinkling bishop. And nuns. Nuns with smiles and haunted eyes. And whips. Big, fat, studded and razor-encrusted whips. And chains. And black leather hoods and hip boots. Speaking of which, while we’re at it, may we not include several of those nice temple prostitutes? Covered with raspberry jam and drinking syllabub? That would be nice, and would add a pinch of je ne çe qua.

Without delay, we must deal the with question of your absolution. Have you received it? Have you asked for it? I used to get it. In the past. But not now. In actual fact, I may be eligible for excommunication, though I’m not certain pursuing it would send the proper signals. I do so hate greed and ambition, as it is so galling to others less fortunate. You, on the other hand, being a sort-of Joo and a Sort-of vacant lot, cannot be excommunicated, since you do not exist in a state of more than meagre, natural (and possibly second hand) grace, at the best most. There is a chance you are not even eligible for limbo (which our reverend pipette has promised to retain throughout eternity, regardless to what others have said). I have, so to speak, lived, and will continue to do until everyone else has gone, or until Hedi Sliman designs his last pair of shoes.

The very tenor and intensity of this topic has tired me. However, before sleep overcomes me and, hopefully, grants me a merciful ending to my circumstance (starvation being the only alternative, given that you are obviously not inclined to dispatch nutritional morsels in my direction, and couldn’t care what happens to me) there is one additional item on my mind. I was on the verge of writing one additional item up for discussion, but with you not communicating with me, for reasons I can only guess at, a discussion is out of the question. So be it. But I digress. Wimbledon will take place, as will the French Open, in the foreseeable future. Why is it that I have not seen your bright and shining countenance on the sports pages or tennis journals? Why? Could it be that I am no longer able to recognise either your name or face? Have you aged so much or are now calling yourself something else, just to spite me? Or did I somehow err in my choice of coach for you? Was our director of marketing, sports psychology and personal motivation, possessed of such woeful deficiencies are a mentor and teacher that she plummeted below the exquisite level necessary to meet the desperate needs of my sweet Forsythia? Is that why you are angry with me? Or is it, hélas, due to the state of your soul? Oui? Non? If not, and I am always prepared to accept the worst, are the dire results in fact originating within our director of marketing’s own hallowed region? Or does she not have one? Is she, in fact, an animal and devoid of grace? Does she have four legs and a tail? Hooves? Are they cloven? Do you know? Have you even thought of checking? I beg of you, my dearest, you must be more careful in your choice of friends.

To sleep, perchance to dream, or not. To be horny would be much nicer, as well as more fun. But, hélas, even that glorious distraction has been denied me. Next time you are in the neighbourhood, perhaps you will come and kill me. - HWISGAAOMRIU®
***

17.50 Fuck I’m hungry
Subject: An Omission

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


You may have noticed that I failed to include Australia in my Miraculous Almostasanta Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ Queen of Heaven™ Guidebook to the World’s Beauty Spots and Luxury Resorts©. After checking with my media consultants and advisors, I am fully that such an omission is warranted and that no such place exists. As I wrote on a previous day, it is not mentioned in the Torah. - HWISGAAOMRIU®