I am a rather suggestible person. I like to think it's because I'm an artiste, that this malleability is integral to my Art, but I suspect it's really that I'm a wanker. When I read books, I tend to get a little . . . involved. And I start to feel, act and react like I am actually in the book I am reading. Before, when I was single, I tended to live out these book-related fancies solo, unless some friend or roommate was unlucky enough to cross my path. But now that I am with Katr, she has to deal with Dame Drama. In this last year alone, I have, among many other things:
- Emigrated to Atlantic Canada after barely surviving the Potato Famine;
- Watched my husband get lanced through the eye during a medieval tournament;
- Fallen hard for Ginny Weasley;
- Felt the wind rushing through my heroin-addicted bike messenger mohawk; and
- Bravely tended a plague-ridden village in England with naught but the vicar's delicate wife to help me.
Of all the books I've been in recent memory, I'd have to say that Sarah Waters' books of lesbonic historical fiction have had the most potent effect on me. The drama - the history - the naughty Victorian words for one's nethers - the twists - the turns - the agony - the ecstasy! When I finished Affinity, I nearly had to take a personal day to recover from feeling kicked about the head and the stomach. When I got to the critical halfway point in Fingersmith (if you've read it, you'll know which part I mean), I actually screamed aloud and threw the book across the room. So when Reol gave me The Night Watch as a belated birthday gift, I braced myself for the Blitz. But I forgot to warn Katr.
I'm not going to spoil el booko for those who've yet to read it, but here are the basics. The book is set in 1940's London, during and just after WWII. There are lesbians in it. There's a straight girl. There's the straight girl's brother, who I'm guessing is a big 'mo, but I haven't finished the book yet. One of the lesbians drives an ambulance around during raids, helping the folks who got bombed. They all smoke, drink a lot of tea, wear much powder and lipstick (the women) and have complicated, intertwined relationships. It's all very dramatic.
The problem is that Sarah Waters never writes books about happy lesbians in stable relationships who wear wolf sweatshirts and go to drum circles. She tends to write about relationships in transition, relationships in turmoil, relationships where jealousy, abandonment, suspicion, insecurity and trust issues threaten to tear people apart at any moment. And I am soaking it up like a gigantic lesbian Q-tip.
What's hilarious is that it always takes me a couple of days to notice that the book has invaded my consciousness to the point of thinking "Oh no! Jerry's dropping incendiaries again! Hope the warden has the fire boys on it. Better get to the Underground for shelter." whenever I hear a loud noise. I also noticed myself worrying about what will happen if Katr isn't "careful" and gets me "in trouble". I referred to our dinner from Pizza Hut last night as our "rations" and I've started hoarding sugar and eggs. I noticed a rip in my jeans and wondered if I had enough "clothing coupons" to cover a new pair. Whenever Katr mentions some other woman (a co-worker, a speaker at a conference, my mother), I immediately assume it's because she's having an affair this person under cover of darkness, in the bombed out buildings of London. And when she says to me: "Uh . . . the "seams" you drew down the backs of your calves with eyeliner are coming off on the couch," I come back with "Why don't you LOVE ME ANYMOOOOOOOOOOOOORE? Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah." [dissolves into tears while girlfriend looks on, bewildered.]
It does not escape me that this behaviour is at best strange and at worst pathetic. And it's especially well-timed, as today is Katr's and my 3 year-aversary! Hey, baby - still love me? As some of you may recall, Katr and I had to have our anniversary dinner at Jack Astor's, Brampton last year; this year we've opted for upscale sushi at the incomparable Blowfish. I'm planning to suck the red leather bound books in our library (to rouge my lips) and my permanent wave is holding up lovely. But I'd better get going if I'm going to finish drawing these seams down the back of my leg with my eyeliner. That shit isn't going to draw itself and Katr's not keen to do it for me.
