My dear Fans and Friends! Those of you who follow me on FaceNovel, which you should, know about my recent suffering caused by my neighbour Vasoline’s new face. I would describe it as unsightly, except I sighted it, which was a major mistake. Lassie, who is my dog, took off in panic. Her leash was wrapped around my hand and I fell, breaking my forearm, which hurt less than the vision I shall never be able to forget.
It feels like cruelty to even describe Vasoline’s new face in words that might be too evocatory for you, my Fans and Friends, and cause you to damage your mind and body such as I have (I’ll be suing for both damages). Let me just say this. Have you ever put a Borbie doll in a microwave? I think Vasoline had and really loved the effect, so she took that to a blind man in the alley who offered to perform plastic surgery on her in exchange for marijuana drugs. Which he took before starting.
There I was, suffering greatly for many weeks, unable to communicate with you except a few times, but at least being interviewed by The Grauniad by the way of Paolo, awaiting impatiently the removal of my forearm thingy (which was broken, the forearm, not the thingy, in the horrid accident of Lassie and me seeing Vasoline’s face) when the local rag, I mean paper, dropped through the letterbox. I, a bit desperate for entertainment of any sort, have taken a peek when Gunther brought it over with his face all weird, but not causing damages, and I almost dropped it. The paper, not his face. Last night, as I found out, an exhibition was opening. Called “just faces” (without Capitol letters, because the modern art is against anything normal) and photographed by most probably the blind man with marijuana drugs inside him, it would present Vasoline’s Journey (this time with Capitol letters) “from then to Now.” I wish I were joking.
Obviously, I haven’t gone, not just due to not having been invited although it would have been nice to be invited so that I could reject the invitation. My designer Paolo was, though, together with his husband Andreas. Paolo, who is a good friend and also values his eyesight, refused to go. Andreas, though, volunteered. The man leads a life on the dangerous edge. He was not gone for long. After perhaps forty-five minutes, a weak banging rapped on my door. I opened and first thought there was nobody standing in front of me, but Andreas is the sort of man who only stands out when visiting Paolo’s family in Brazil, so eventually I noticed that what I took for the pale moon was his pale face, which is always pale, but this time it was pale like the pale moon.
Panting heavily, Andreas whispered something about brandy. I gave him some of my good sherry and he didn’t even ask whether it was vegan, which was out of character for Andreas, who is vegan. (But very nice otherwise.) He didn’t get as far as looking at the photos, because Vasoline and her face stood in the doorway, greeting the (few, he said, not my words) courageous and/or stupid arrivals. Andreas, you see, is a fragile man of delicate complexion as well as all his other parts. Some of which spontaneously folded as he passed out. Once revived, he kept his eyes shut as he assured Vasoline, apparently shaken but not stirred, that her beauty blinded him. Her limo (Vasoline hired a LIMO for a ten-minute walk from her house into the gallery, which is actually the hallway of the library) took him to my address, as my sherry was closer than his non-alcoholic household due to Paolo not drinking. (But otherwise Paolo is truly a wonderful man.)
I was hoping to brag a little about my healed forearm. However, my healed (if still aching) forearm was not much to brag about when I realised that due to my in cognito life I had to keep the things I use my forearm for (steering my fingers while I type my novels and blog posts) secret. You see, my husband Gunther is kept in the dark about my art. Not that he reads books, but you can’t use a personal-trainer-turned-beer-lifter not to show his famous literary wife (me) to his drinking buddies. (Who I suspect are actually hussies that he visits to test his extra two inches. Short story.) In any case, Andreas’s suffering was greater than mine. He was handed The Programme of the exhibition, but left it in the limo, because Andreas is a kind man who would not want to cause traumatic flashbacks inside me.
When Paolo arrived to pick him up, Andreas was already in somewhat better shape (I always said sherry was medicinal) and his paleness back to his usual off-white shade of paint. All of us conferred worriedly about the weapon of mass destruction living next door from me where I am always potentially exposed to her. Andreas said that apparently the exhibition will grow with time, as Vasoline intends to remain not just a living work of art but an evolving one. I would say this can only mean improvement, but I have seen enough horror movies and news to know that is not at all certain.
We might have to move.
In fact, the entire town might have to move. And the library might spontaneously burn down.
Yours in terror,
Karen xoxo
PS. I know you are hanging on my words for updates on Ethel, Myrna, Harry with the male pattern balding, and Ray, who does not have a fetish, but I am still in enough pain to keep it short. Also, it’s almost six, which means it’s almost time to start on the medicinal sherry.
PS2. This is a photo by Ralf Steinberger from the Flickr website, whom I apologise to, since using his photograph while mentioning Vasoline’s face feels illegal.