Part II: My Email Exchange With Morrissey

DamienDempsey

New Member
July 26th

My Dear Kate,

As I stumble and fall through this life I can't help Playing Easy To Get. Of course it makes no sense for us to communicate through this mundane medium - each word lacks vitality and the caressing thump of the singing voice, like strawberries without cream, velvet sans slap, or David Showie minus his make-up. All I have in my soul to give I transmit willingly through song, whether on record or on stage. This leaves me bereft. How could it not? I have nothing left to sustain myself or my relationships or to will myself out of bed and away into the bleak grinding machine we call society. The Germans call this property geist. That thing emanating from deep within, which disappears from the iris the moment death comes. We have no suitable word for it, being Anglo-Saxons. To us the concept is not meant to exist. 'Where's my geist?' 'Geist? You haven't finished that stitching yet.' None the less, in spite of my emotional anaemia and the limitations of this form of communication, here we are - writing to each other. Like all the best things in life it makes no real sense. Why else do I continue to write songs??

My life is merely a shadow. When I cry the tears are those shed by Nico, like dead freesia petals falling to a concrete floor - that frozen spring blossom of malcontent which was her rendition of 'Sunday Morning.' When I laugh it is an echo of Jimmy Clitheroe filtered through the mind-warping prism of Wilde's rapacious wit and mesmeric insight. From a certain point of view I do not exist at all, I am a trick of the light, a hoped-for poetic uncle, a child crying out for attention in a world where time is money and money is the only constant. The drip, drip, drip of marketing, the glad rattle of the corporate cash register, the endless round of interviews, meetings and conferences - these things slowly kill me. I know you understand. I know it.

If you are happy to write to a man with no hope, a shadow dancing on the carpet, someone who is already dead, then please continue. But like the others, you will soon grow tired and leave. They all do.

The so-lowers are indeed right c***s, as I observe on my quasi-anonymous blog. My laughter echoes with every pontification over its authorship. So many questions would elucidate the authorship of the blog - if only they had the wit to pose the right questions. That they do not see the game is intentional. They do not realise the inelegant use of mesmerise rather than the Oxford mesmerize is quite intentional, that the absurdly bloated narcissism is ironically-intended, that my denial I was the author of the blog when nobody had even heard of it was a clue! - In due course the authorship will be proven - and what of the so-lowers, then?

M.

July 28th
Subject: The World REALLY Is Full of Crashing Bores

How lamentable, my dear Morrissey!

Lexical semantics stumped the lot of them. Rather sadly, it extended past the SoLowers and encompassed, en masse, any wanker in cyberspace with a keyboard dangerously at their disposal. The stench of their collective imbecility, carcasses of brains once useful, is nearly palpable. I must ask, yet again, why do you bother?

Let me be your sole audience, I seem to be among the few who are still deserving. In doing so, not a single thing you say will go amiss, or adrift, or afloat, or find itself a tiresome 'trending topic' on Tawdry Twitter. Speak only to those adept at decipherment, your words are far too precious to be decimated by the many whose comprehension can only exist ephemerally.

If your pockets are sufficiently stuffed with coins and your chequing account swells robustly with bank notes, live as I do: in the wisest possible way. Where you leave your home infrequently, please solely yourself and answer to bloody nobody (except your mother, of course). The world is undeserving of your fecund endowments, as it similarly is of mine.

With the Government of Canada as my whore, both Kitty and I live modestly, but we do entirely as we please. If she could talk she'd say the food tastes better under such an arrangement. The stout, incidentally, does too. I'm a woman positively mad with depression, it never dissipates. If I had a shite job, it would be like walking to the gallows daily. I've squandered the last decade proper! Managing to both read & write a great deal (those dual-pleasures which matter utmost to me) it was well-spent.

If only you could liberate me in a profound way, My Morrissey, from this barbarous country. I could be the girl who never bores, your veritable pet: Miss Kitty at her utter best. One unusual enough to teach you otherworldly things, as only the physically-beautiful can. The conversation we would brilliantly conjure would likely ignite. It'd be a pyrotechnical display! Let's leave fireworks to the SoLowers & other dullards! My brain is a pleasing one to pick at, it is yours to wield in whatever way you would like.

The bombardment of words from you, how they gloriously luminesced! I was subject to a biological shift, artificial and natural highs coalesced to dance a hypnotic waltz. Or perhaps it was a rousing rumba? I'd like to feel that way always, but optimal brain-chemistry isn't eternal, or immune from rampant abuse, and I do not want to exit demented just yet.

Am I the 'Katie (my dear)' you wrote of? I do hope so, I'd like to think any grandiosity I harbour possesses some scaffolding, however modest its framework.

You bring long-departed words back to me: those abandoned when I mastered website design. Without such inspiration I'd likely implode. So, thank you for the magic only you can offer.

Boy cursed with a brain, can I bask in its glow? The desert is a lot less arid now, I am strangely hopeful. A deluge just might befall us.

I'll now go to bed with Thomas Hardy's Jude, you'll sing me to sleep with I'd Love To and I'll dream of Dolly Wilde.

f*** the world, sage Morrissey, for it is good for little else,

Your Dear Kate
 
July 26th

My Dear Kate,

As I stumble and fall through this life I can't help Playing Easy To Get. Of course it makes no sense for us to communicate through this mundane medium - each word lacks vitality and the caressing thump of the singing voice, like strawberries without cream, velvet sans slap, or David Showie minus his make-up. All I have in my soul to give I transmit willingly through song, whether on record or on stage. This leaves me bereft. How could it not? I have nothing left to sustain myself or my relationships or to will myself out of bed and away into the bleak grinding machine we call society. The Germans call this property geist. That thing emanating from deep within, which disappears from the iris the moment death comes. We have no suitable word for it, being Anglo-Saxons. To us the concept is not meant to exist. 'Where's my geist?' 'Geist? You haven't finished that stitching yet.' None the less, in spite of my emotional anaemia and the limitations of this form of communication, here we are - writing to each other. Like all the best things in life it makes no real sense. Why else do I continue to write songs??

My life is merely a shadow. When I cry the tears are those shed by Nico, like dead freesia petals falling to a concrete floor - that frozen spring blossom of malcontent which was her rendition of 'Sunday Morning.' When I laugh it is an echo of Jimmy Clitheroe filtered through the mind-warping prism of Wilde's rapacious wit and mesmeric insight. From a certain point of view I do not exist at all, I am a trick of the light, a hoped-for poetic uncle, a child crying out for attention in a world where time is money and money is the only constant. The drip, drip, drip of marketing, the glad rattle of the corporate cash register, the endless round of interviews, meetings and conferences - these things slowly kill me. I know you understand. I know it.

If you are happy to write to a man with no hope, a shadow dancing on the carpet, someone who is already dead, then please continue. But like the others, you will soon grow tired and leave. They all do.

The so-lowers are indeed right c***s, as I observe on my quasi-anonymous blog. My laughter echoes with every pontification over its authorship. So many questions would elucidate the authorship of the blog - if only they had the wit to pose the right questions. That they do not see the game is intentional. They do not realise the inelegant use of mesmerise rather than the Oxford mesmerize is quite intentional, that the absurdly bloated narcissism is ironically-intended, that my denial I was the author of the blog when nobody had even heard of it was a clue! - In due course the authorship will be proven - and what of the so-lowers, then?

M.


That certainly sounds like Morrissey. I can't think of many others who could write prose like that and also write in a completely different style on the blog. Is the person who wrote you this email definitely the person who runs the blog?

Well I am now convinced. I know you can't write like that Katie.
 
That certainly sounds like Morrissey. I can't think of many others who could write prose like that and also write in a completely different style on the blog. Is the person who wrote you this email definitely the person who runs the blog?

Well I am now convinced. I know you can't write like that Katie.

And so begs the question: how many usernames does one schizophrenic actually need?
 
That certainly sounds like Morrissey. I can't think of many others who could write prose like that and also write in a completely different style on the blog. Is the person who wrote you this email definitely the person who runs the blog?

Well I am now convinced. I know you can't write like that Katie.

What do you mean by 'can't write like that Katie?'

It is the same person who writes both the blog and the emails. I got the email address from the actual blog.

I still do believe it's Morrissey, but I also still find it strange that he cannot release a statement saying so and has to bombard us with all those stupid 'clues.' His game is getting boring real fast.
 
Hello Morrissey, I like your new username. Loser. I can actually write much better than you can. You're just a jumped-up vocalist, remember?

How sad it is that you must stroke yourself vicariously through the words of supposed fans.
You're likely cynically worldly, too. Utterly pathetic.

I'm discovering on here, to much delight, that the legitimate users are a lovely lot. I'm not so sure you are deserving of them, though.

Kate Ryan
 
Last edited:
Tags
blog email morrissey
Back
Top Bottom