They broke the mold when they created Eva, so how come you are stuck inside a box? said Elias, and I just shook my head. Witchcraft has been failing me lately and I don’t know why.
They broke the mold. What a crap. Who are ’they’ anyway? As a matter of fact, I broke it myself. It just so happened that one day I grew too big for the mold, (must have been that enormous butt of mine, at least it was not my heart that had grown bigger) and I literally heard the mold cracking. And then, as I gathered the fragments, wondering how to remold or if perhaps molding was not critical, he jumped out of my head, a repugnant little creature with horns, a long slimy tail and a split tongue. So it wasn’t my ass after all. I had just been growing a creep inside my head. Well, that happens.
The night before, I had made a contract with the Devil. He had promised to send me a servant to fulfill my wish, provided that I was serious enough about it, to put my sanity at stake by making an effort to face myself and the world in which I’m living. Swallow the sheer irony of it, cope with it without getting crazy or abusing drugs. Not because there is anything bad about drugs and craziness, but because that’s accumulating to the irony rather than coping. And then again it’s quite ok to surrender if that’s what you want, but you won’t get anything for nothing and old Dev was not going to give me a genius –or anything else, without being rewarded with the pleasure of seeing me suffer. Not because suffering would do me any good, (that’s just a Christian nonsense) he’s simply doing his job being evil.
He immediately started humping my leg, that horny little devil, who now was supposed to be my satanic servant. Not that I had expected a cultivated lackey but I felt kind of disturbed, which just seemed to amuse him. I wouldn’t take it and fortunately I had invited some friends for dinner, a roasted lamb, the night before, and still kept the leg bone. I gave it to him and he humped it, ejaculated on my bedroom floor and then he squirmed into the bone. He has been living there ever since, providing me with everything I ask for as soon as I’ve paid the prize. I gave him the name Mouldy of course, it was appropriate, besides he smelled like that.
So here I am, summoning him to service once more, not at all pleased by his work for the last couple of months.
-Weren’t you supposed to bring me an opportunity to make a living by writing, you useless little creep? I said, and will you please stop licking your shithole in my presence!
-Your cats lick themselves all the time you racist, he said somewhat offended but obeyed my command, reluctantly. He’s also envious because I let the cats sleep in my bed.
-Cats don’t speak human language. Not out loud at least. It’s just disgusting watching someone lick his arse while talking to me. Anyway, we’re off topic, I’ve been using all the right runes without anticipated results and now you have a thing or two to explain young –well- young slimy thing?
-Magic works! he said. I’ve arranged for everything you’ve asked for.
-Yeah right. I asked for an opportunity to make a living by writing. Does it look like I’m anywhere near to that?
-The opportunity is there, stupid witch, he said. Then he crawled up my back and hunkered on my shoulder. I felt his foul breath on my neck and wanted to tell him to bugger off, but since I needed to stake a claim, I decided to bear with him.
-Look Mouldy, I said, musicians ignore me when I offer them my lyrics. So do publishers. It doesn’t matter if I give them poetry, political writings or translations, they don’t even bother to reject me. Just no reply. How am I supposed to interpret that message and what are you going to do about it?
He laughed, loudly.
-You are trying to make a living by writing for about ten people, most of who couldn’t distinguish jelly beans from Belgian chocolates when it comes to poetry? Just how deluded can you be? You are spending your time translating Bellman for people who put crap like this on their hit lists? He started singing a popular Icelandic song, with lyrics so terribly bad that it makes knitting needles really dangerous as you might give in to your urge to hammer one of them into your ear, hard enough to give you a permanent brain damage.
Þú varðst að ganga rekinn í kút
Til þess að verða ei fyrir aðkasti mannanna.
Þótt þú lítir ei út fyrir að lifa
Eftir lögum þess bannaða.
Will you please stop this immediately! Driving me insane is not your job, I said.
-Well, that’s what the typical Icelander wants. Why not try the other way around? Translate this song into English and offer it to the band.
-Common Mouldy. No matter how crappy my English is, I could never write anything so bad. Not only is this abominable poetry, it doesn’t even make sense. ‘Whack fol my dadio’ has a deeper meaning, besides it sounds better.
-And in that Mecca of dabble, you are trying to get your work acknowledged? Or maybe you wanted me to cure the stupidity of the whole bleating herd? Did you think there were no limits for how much you can ask from a tiny little devil like me? What will it be next? Peace on Earth, and a bar of chocolate for all of them poor African children?
-Well, it’s not like I don’t know how hopeless my situation is you old fool, what the heck do you think I need a devil for? And I’ve paid the prize, haven’t I? I’ve faced the fact that it’s not going to happen. Even if I get a book or two published, I’m not going to make a living from it. I’ve swallowed that fact time and again so where the fuck is my unexpected lot, that you are supposed to get me in order to make it possible for me to spend all day doing what I want?
-I don’t recall anything about an unexpected lot. As far as I remember you wanted people to appreciate your work. You wanted to sell. What you want is what you get, at least when you go shopping at Satan’s.
-And who are you writing for? Someone who’s interested or someone who ignores you? he said chuckling and licked my ear. I hate ear lickers, so I grabbed his slimy little bulk and placed him on the table in front of me.
-Are you writing for your admires, he continued or just for publishers who think that merely by reading the manuscripts they get, they are doing the author a big and undeserved favor?
-Well, I’ve got a few regulars visiting my blog site, but since my biggest and probably only real admirer is myself, I would say yes, I’m writing for my admirer, me! But I can’t buy my own books, at least not while no one wants to publish them. Unless of course, you are referring to that person, who according to my counter, google-translated every single line I write. And yes, I expect that one person who actually likes my stuff well enough to make that effort is worth more than hundreds who could read but aren’t interested, but the problem is that this person, or even if there are two of them, does not read Icelandic so how can I write for them?
Mouldy jumped down to the floor, scurried to the sheep bone and started humping it, like he usually does when he gets excited (which is whenever I am about to explode.)
-Dunn recall anything about Icelandic in that contract, he squeaked.
You bloody trickster, I thought, but since I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing me surrender my composure, I kept my serenity.
-You know quite well that I don’t write English and there actually was a line about no unpleasant strife, just enjoyable effort. – I said. He stuck out his split tongue gloating over my disability.
-You think learning to write proper English would be unpleasant strife?
-Not to put it like that. English is actually a fascinating language and they have a lot of good words. Some that I would like to use but are untranslatable into Icelandic. Words that are representative for my everyday reality, like ’manipulate’ and ’patronize’, I actually like those words. But as you know my goal is not to equal Leoncie as a poet and my English is probably worse than her Icelandic. Since it took me 42 years to develop my Icelandic skills to the point that I finally got one book published, we may assume that by the age of 84, my English skills will be satisfactory. So even if I might enjoy it, I’m hardly going to make a living from writing in a language that I hardly know. Which would mean unpleasant strife for 40 years while becoming good enough.
Mouldy crawled backwards into the sheep bone.
-Magic works silly. But almost never in the way that you expected, he screeched, right before his black snout disappeared into the hollow bone. Even after he pulled back his horns, I could hear his malicious laughter.
By midnight I sat on the ground in my backyard, amplifying the enchanted alphabet, hopelessly hoping once more. And once again I could hear the mold cracking.