Two further Cradle of Filth albums arrived in the mail this morning at this cradle of filth, where I write: Bitter Suites to Succubi and Lovecraft & Witch Hearts join Midian in a collection of their records, which will continue to grow as I really like them. Despite falling into the black / death metal genre, Cradle of Filth produce some really quite complex arrangements and pleasant melodies. Some of their lyrics are giving me inspiration for some pretty fucked up short stories as well.
On the writing front, COGS is in Schlock magazine tomorrow and I’m told by my editor that the cover artwork is inspired by the story: should be interesting. Two of my other pieces – Two Wishes and Ticks – are due to appear in the following two weeks’ issues.
So, death metal on the hi-fi, shocking stories planned for writing and I’ll probably watch a video nasty tonight. Welcome to my world. But I’m okay really.
Incidentally, in my research into video nasties, I learned that the very term was derived from “Nasty”, as previously applied to writing and before the advent of moving pictures. There are many more pure writers than film writers, we’re more prolific and books aren’t subject to certification. There is the Obscene Publications Act of course but it would be impossible to review every piece of writing produced. So I’ll see what I can get away with. But I’m okay really. It’s just my imagination.
Proof that I’m alright came this week when I was adopted again: as a daddy. Another teenage girl thinks her real dad is a dick head – because he is – and adopted me, because like the others, she can talk to me about anything. She can’t talk frankly with her own dad, for fear of the consequences. If a teenage girl can’t talk to her own dad about the things that teenage girls do, who can they talk to? Me, as many of them have chosen to do. Just like the others, this one will do wrong and get into trouble but not with me. Young girls do what young girls will do and I won’t stop them. I’ll advise caution sometimes but there’ll never be any punishment doled out by me. I’m just the one who picks up the pieces when it all falls apart, then waits for the next thing to happen. I’m the one who won’t hear from them for a while, then one of them gets into bother and needs me. I’m always here for them.
Like the clingy one and the fold-up one, the flutterby one may not have any social media contact with me, for fear that her real parents may object on the grounds of our relationship being somehow inappropriate. These girls are just fifteen, just sixteen and almost seventeen respectively. To boys their age, I’m sure they’re all fit little things but I don’t look at them like that. It’s just a shame that they all have to conduct dealings with their “Daddy” in secret and that I have to have code names for them. Code numbers as well: 36C, 32D and 34D. They tell me things.
None of the girls are due to visit this weekend, as far as I know. They’re off being teenage girls. So I have the place to myself and I’m taking advantage of it. There are many advantages to living in a bedsit above a pub but chief among them are: 1. It’s above a pub; and 2: it’s a bedsit and as such it doesn’t take long to do the housework; nor move things around for that matter. I had a little shift around last night and the place is transformed, a bit. It’s still wonky and cosy though and that’s the way I like it: like me.
So, everything’s in its place and I’m alone. Time to get writing and to create some filth in this cradle.
After writing this, a reader has commented to me: “I know all of these teenage girls say that they hate their fathers and their fathers hate them but at least they have one. I did not from nine years onwards so I did not have the fortune to say I hate my dad. They should be taught by you how to love and get along with their dad’s (sic) again.”
I’ve not published the reader’s identity to protect them but I do know that in the absence of a father, this person sought out a surrogate and that is exactly what my girls have done. They have dads of sorts but those people can’t give them what I do, which is patience, understanding and empathy. Above all, I love them, unlike their “real” dads. One is physically bullied by her real dad, another disowned and the third, psychologically bullied by her step dad. How can I teach them to love that? They know I’m not their real dad because they’re all intelligent girls. They know that they should try to get along with their dads and I tell them as much but they can’t, because of what those men represent to them. I on the other hand, represent everything they should get from a dad but which they don’t.
Frankly, I found the comment from the reader insulting to my intelligence and to that of my girls but I had to respond. You can no more teach me to do what I do, which is considered, measured caring for those girls, than you can teach me to write, punctuate and exercise good grammar. My post was deliberately ironic but that seems to have gone over a head. The girls get me because that’s the way we are and what we do does not require interference any more than our relationships involve it.