I write. I manufacture alternate worlds. I like cooking. I dream
about having a massive kitchen with pale washed out peach walls.
My friends come over at all hours of the day; we chat, I cook,
they eat, we laugh. Shoshanah says I'm broody. maybe she's
Let me introduce myself:
INTRODUCTION: THE WET FISH
Down, down the dark we go
Into the depths of worlds unknown
You didn’t know it was going to happen. You were just minding
your own business, browsing through a selection of books, when
you came across this one. The title was catchy and the book cover
had a certain appeal so you thought: might as well just check
what the introduction is like, right? It won’t hurt, will it?
You open the book; page 1 is the usual copyright information,
page 2 is the title and there in between page 3 and 4 is a
squashed goldfish. It’s dead. With horror you drop the book to
the floor. Look around the place. No one else seems to have
noticed anything odd. You pick it up. Look again. Yes the dead
goldfish is still there. And just behind it is the chapter title:
Introduction: The wet fish. As you read it, the goldfish
wakes up and starts flopping around. It slides out from the pages
and onto the floor. You read on; the damp seeps deeper into the
book, darkening the pages and soon it’s dripping wet. The words
run on the page like water, sentences splashing to the floor as
you read them, forming a puddle of thoughts around you. In this
moment of complete interest you suddenly realize that you are
imagining yourself in the same place, soaking wet with the words.
You are watching yourself through this book and you think how
this is an uneasy feeling. As if you are just a character in a
story. A noun drips from the end of your chin. Your hands are
adjectively drenched, but you don’t turn away. The book is
growing larger and larger, filling your eyes, turning a hard
brown wood until you stand before huge gates and the pages you
once held in your hands are now doorknobs.
…and everything waits for you to read the next line.
You wipe a few sentences from your eyes with one hand to see the
doors more clearly. That uneasy feeling you had before is now
screaming at you. You close the book. The book the closes you.
You’re back and nothing’s changed, you’re dry and holding an
ordinary paperback. Breathe a sigh of relief. After all it’s just
a book. Tricky, but still only a book with words and nothing
more. You open it again.
You’re standing drenched to the bone covered in thoughts, with
these doorknobs in your hands. Should you turn them? You’ve come
this far. You do so very carefully, knowing that anything is
possible now. You throw the doors open and hide behind them.
Nothing. There is nothing coming out of them. Slowly… take a look
and there is the goldfish, just an arms length away flopping on
the floor. It stares at you, its mouth working, opening and
closing as if it’s saying something. It is whispering something.
You strain your neck to hear. Its blue eyes dilate, locking with
yours, its mouth works faster but not louder.
“What is it?” you ask. It stretches out a feeble fin. You reach
for it. Suddenly a wave of plot comes roaring out of the gates
and hits you. You get washed into its current, tossed around in a
swirl of its wild torrents and before you can realize you might
be drowning, it heaves you onto the little rowing boat. And in
the craft is a woman. Streams of adjectives pour from her eyes
but she is smiling at you. You can’t take your eyes off her, but
with a logic that can only be found in dreams, you know that
below the deep rushing waves is the goldfish, still pinned to the
floor, gazing at the surface. Trapped. There is no way out of
this book except to trust the girl who cries words, ride the
storm of lies and survive the story. And in this moment, at this
present, right now—you know that this is where the trouble
starts; the fun begins.
see you in the funny papers.