PREVIOUSLY — Encouraged by the writing manual Better Than Luck, BBH, the protagonist of this column, promised herself (and us readers) she’s going to take us all the way to HAPPY DREAM, the novel/symbolic-place of her transformation from character to author. Meanwhile, between opinionated friendships and unfinished relationships, she begins to open up—sharing with us the early (and still blocked) attempts at the performance she swore to deliver for her friend Witch. What should she put on stage? How can she compete with her former showgirl self? BBH doesn’t know. The future show is still unimagined, and the novel still unwritten—but this weekly column takes shape. And with it, the one necessary action for a story to be written: writing it.
Let me just say it without much build-up: a performance—be it play, sculpture, novel, ballet—is always a dialogue. I say this because my page titled “Monologue for Witch’s Party” is still proverbially blank. But to explain my lovely opening sentence, I’ll need your imagination for a second. Are you with me?
Alright then. Picture the walls first: scraped down to the raw soul-exposed rusted iron grids. From the torn ceiling hung limp electric wires and sagging accordion ducts. In stark contrast to the rugged space, the floor was swathed in soft black carpet. The space (a gallery in its pre-renovation state) smelled of natural beeswax dripping from candelabras.
Against one deteriorated wall—between a beautifully eroded patch and a decadent bouquet of pitch-black dahlias—photographers and assistants stopped guests for a click-click snapshot, capturing the elegant mismatch between the crumbling venue and the couture-clad crowd.
The birthday girl welcomed guests with iconic Witch grandeur: green skin, copper-red hair, a black Valentino gown open down the back. Beside her stood her neo-husband, a blue-blooded Vampire.
Passing in front of the flashbulbs were a goatee’d Devil, a female Genie with a blue face and golden hoops, a sexy long-nosed Baba Yaga, and a Goblin with ears as pointy as his patent shoes. A Madonna too: the Great Mother with golden halo, cobalt-draped dress and a full-term belly, arm in arm with a Werewolf holding her heart-shaped minaudière.
And there I was—a pink-haired Fairy. Click, click. Thank you.
CLARIFICATION — It’s October 31st, last year. Witch’s 30th birthday. The soirée theme was Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious. Dress code: black tie and ballgown, with makeup and accessories evoking one’s personal mask. This was the night when the author of Better Than Luck (Empress) would hint, for the very first time, at the manual whose words now inspire these recollected scenes.
Unlike this year—where I still haven’t chosen an alter ego for Witch’s annual extravaganza—last year I had no doubts: I’d be the Fairy. My opening monologue? Ready, memorized. And I felt downright fabulous, thanks to the colour coordination of my look and the pose I’d perfected to hide (from Witch, Great Mother, Cerberus, and nearly even myself) the true goal of the evening: seeing Manticore again.
Faceless figures in black lycra offered crystal-cut champagne flutes on silver trays. Once we were all there, I’d slip away, prepare, and make my descent onto the banquet table to deliver my short welcome act. The archetypal guests (Doll, Yeti, Dwarf, Giant, Sphinx, Valkyrie, Kraken, Naga, Ogre, Troll, Ghost, Pixie, Mermaid, Chimera, Warrior, She-Boar, Zombie) mingled like a dream-clique curated by Fellini, Jung, and Andersen, and—there he was. Manticore.
Manticore, accompanied. Manticore, accompanied by a divine Medusa—every dread a snake.
Between us: cheerful greetings. Fairy! Manticore! And: “Meet my wife.” Medusa. Wife?
If this episode is a dialogue (an exchange) , then it’s your turn: picture my mask of astonishment. Bear with me—I was faking it beautifully: oh wow! What a delightful coincidence! Medusa and I …go way back! Don’t let it show that the reason for all that enthusiasm was that just two months prior, fate had seated me and Manticore side by side for what felt like a cosmic design.My life, after all, was no romantic comedy. (Oh, look—here comes Death.)
And yet, after the excited hellos, Manticore stayed to chat: why had I chosen an archetype that mediated between the human and the supernatural? Was I a messenger of fate? Did my colour scheme suggest benevolence? His interest in the inspiration behind my costume (or perhaps his physical proximity as he asked) seemed to irritate Monster—who, abandoning a half-naked Winged Nymph, hurried over to greet me: first, a polite double-cheek kiss, then a deep inhale—his nose buried in my hair. He smelled, as always, like amber and something. Ever since we’d re-met (a month before the party, the night my taxi from the airport dropped me off at Witch and Vampire’s place), our every interaction had been so visibly, absurdly tense that it had begun to annoy Witch—who insists Monster stay loyal to Nymph at least until her ultra-famous art-collector parents purchase one of his debut pieces (which she, Witch, is funding heavily).
I had remained neutral: I didn’t encourage his flirting, but I didn’t reject it either.
Some might have thought I was playing it cool to increase his desire. Or that I was just too ethical to entertain the advances of a taken man. But to be honest, the real reason was simpler: I was reluctant to reopen a plotline that had ended with perfect symmetry. Our YA, or better yet Middle Grade, storyline had a beginning, a middle, and an end. To reopen it meant disrupting that tidy narrative balance—just to make a bad sequel. And sequels, are mostly bad.
“Interesting,” Cerberus whispered in my ear, offering his arm. “Now he’s sniffing your hair.”
I blew a pink bubblegum balloon (according to Great Mother—official stylist for the evening—a Pink Ladies reference softened the Glinda vibe) in amused assent.
“Gentlemen, if I may,” said Cerberus, lowering all three of his heads to Manticore and Monster, and leading me away. Note of gratitude for Cerberus: I’ll tell you more about him someday, but just know he was wearing a Philip Treacy headpiece styled to resemble three heads (thank you, Great Mother).
Stay with me: between the reception hall and the dinner room was a pitch-dark tunnel, through which guests had to pass to reach the dining area. Now imagine: walking into that engineered darkness, arm in arm with your best friend. You feel safe. You skip the gossip about the artist who’s hitting on you, and instead ask why that gorgeous man—
but suddenly: a hand grabs your waist,
Cerberus vanishes into the murmur of the tunnel
and before you can fall or scream or vanish into the void,
a firm grip anchors you, a hand supports you from the nape, and your strawberry bubblegum scent melts into amber and… tobacco and in a fleeting, passionate whirl,
you’re through the second pair of velvet curtains, eyes blinking at even the faintest of light.
“I lost you for a moment,” Cerberus said, reappearing at my elbow. “So. Why the wedding? She’s famously insane. And he must be one of those.”
You see me? Blocking the stream of guests.
“Excuse me,” Nymph said with a smile. And just like that scene from The Virgin Suicides, when Kirsten Dunst kisses Josh Hartnett—my hair was tousled, and Monster, with a brief evasive glance, popped a tiny pink gum bubble as he placed a hand between Nymph’s shoulder blades and led her to her seat.
“He must be one of those what?”
“Oh, you know perfectly well. The easily bewitched.”
Where was I? Right—the dinner hall. Circular. Walls draped in black. At the centre, a mandala-carved table, burnt along the laser-etched edges. The setting: classic elegance, white linen, silver cutlery, thin baccarat glasses. Witch’s goal (achieved): an atmosphere of art, exclusivity, culture, wonder (and, why not, envy).
“We’re all fifty-four,” confirmed a figure in an earpiece, pointing me to the rig where I’d be strapped into a flying swing for my opening speech.
But before I got harnessed, I excused myself for a moment of pre-show solitude. In the bathroom, I checked my powder—and my mood. I had this stupidly amused grin plastered on my face. And that’s when Empress walked in: golden crown and sceptre. That’s when we spoke. A conversation I was too dazed (by all the dumb little love triangles) to understand.
Then I was on stage. From above, I could see Manticore seated next to an empty chair (mine). Witch, green and radiant. Monster and Nymph—Witch’s only same-seat couple. I don’t remember the monologue I’d memorised. Only the suspended mood—and my closing toast: to the unfathomable riches of the psyche!
STOP EVERYTHING! — What did BBH just do? She told a story. Well—not quite a full story, more like an episode. But what a leap from her one-word diaries! She felt compelled to dedicate her fourth instalment to the messy night that kept her from recognising Empress’s oracle: “I’m working so that you write.” But why share this memory now? Why linger in this (mostly aesthetic, let’s be honest) recollection—rather than working on the piece she’s meant to perform soon? Is she planning to show up mute in front of Witch (who so wants her genius friend to shine) and the other archetypal guests who still believe in her magic?
See, if I’m learning anything in this improbable race toward HAPPY DREAM, it’s that a story—once it’s written, as Better Than Luck says—is never a monologue. It’s a dynamic between the author, the narrator, the character, and the reader. Just like the guests gathered around that mandala-carved table.
When we were all seated, the curtains parted to reveal mirrored walls as a nod to our two selves: the visible and the hidden.
It’s been almost a year since I floated down onto my friends like a Fairy ex-machina—blessing, as a form of art, their vanity and elitism. (That dream-clique curated by Fellini, Jung, and Andersen could easily be mistaken for just a bunch of privileged peacocks).
Manticore and Medusa divorced six months ago. I haven’t seen either since. Monster is still with Nymph, though he seems in constant search of my silent permission to cheat.
Today, the raw gallery space that hosted the party is blinding white—smelling of fresh bills and fresh paint. Next week, it will host Witch’s debut as a gallerist and Monster’s as an artist. I’ll keep you posted.
I know, I know—I’m rambling. I should really start collecting material for HAPPY DREAM. And even before that, prepare the monologue I’m supposed to perform at this year’s party. Octobert 31st. It’s hard for Witch to live up to the expectations set by last year’s event. Harder still for me to know what to say—since I haven’t even picked my character yet. Right now, the only thing I feel capable of giving is the kind of dynamic dialogue BTL talks about—not some pseudo-clever speech with a moral. The question is: can I ever go back, now that all I want is to tell stories?
Until next week, HAPPIDREAMERS.
—BBH
