Subtext Subtleties

A funny thing keeps happening to me. Whenever I am reading an email, a blog post, or conversing with someone online, I can evoke within me a fair idea of what general emotions they are experiencing.

I seem to become a mimic, sharing their highs and sharing their lows. I can switch it on and off, not even aware in the slightest that someone has turned from a friend to an enemy in the blink of a neuron.

I was more surprised that many of my peers, my parents, and various other adults in my life could not do this than anything else as a teenager. I don't think I'm, as you say, talented and I most certainly don't talk to the dead.

People often boggle at how well I handle my interoffice email politicing. Personally, I'm neither affluent or prone to take the lead. Time after time, however, my manager has remarked on how well I handle the angry, the upset, the zealous and the happy communications that float past my inbox.

Again, it was a case of can't everyone do this?

The answer, it appears, is a resounding no. Or at least, not very well and not that often. Most people have heard the word that is used to describe this, but wouldn't know what it is. It's subtext. It's the deft touch in every word, chosen for it's emotional weighting and saying what does not need to be said.

This is a key element of fictional writing that any author must embrace. Actors, even artists, strive to include subtext within their works - evoking some kind of blunt emotional response that is hard to articulate in the common man. It's what the tired violin track in every movie is meant to do when someone dies, it's the applause sign for tears. Subtext can be used and abused, a canned laughter of emotional response.

What happened today, to inspire this piece of writing, was exactly that: Subtext Abuse. Much to my dismay, I'm a subtext abuser. This happens when I'm emotional - I can write the most impersonally worded email in the world; yet it still slices like broken glass.
I'm not a bitch, as it is more commonly known. These people are Subtext Abusers by implication and daring. They flaunt their ability to imply meaning that was never said by attacking people in such a resounding way that everyone can see it.

I'm a different case. I'm a subtle subtext abuser. Some kind of literary cat burgular, deft, swift and hard to tell exactly what has happened.

Why do I harp on at such length about my own virtues (if this is even what they are)? It's because of work. Something had not been going right, and I had made assumptions about how-things-should-work. Since they were not working (which was a puzzle), and I suspected the party involved had something to gain from annoying us, this had me peeved.
When they finally wanted me to fax something - on a dead tree, I mean really - I sent them an email requesting they transfer some domain names for me.
Days went by, and nothing happened.
Finally I caved, and picked up the telephone. The first words out of the person in charge's mouth were I feel very insulted by the tone of your fax.
Score one, Daniel.
I looked back, at the record of the fax. I'd thrown in the boilerplate behind covering, and I identified the one line that cut so deep. This has inconvienced us to a fair degree.

Implication: This isn't my fault, it's yours, you've failed to live up to expectations. Perhaps you weren't hugged enough as a child. Perhaps you were an orphan.

I managed to think quick and cover it with an explanation - not an apology, so the barb is still there.

Now that I've taken a moment to reflect on it, I've realised why it cut so deep. The other party, who is in IT, therefore a smart individual, is highly affected by the slightest of insults. He's another version of me, but with enough balls to come outright and confront it.

All in all, this little incident has knocked me for a loop: you are not alone in the world. He's no author, artist, or anyone who should need subtext comprehension to survive, but he's got it - because, like me, he spends all day reading, thinking, inferring.

But mostly, I've found my niche. Subtext is my weapon of choice. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword, and right now (if you couldn't already guess) I'm feeling a whole lot of something.

Smug.

Hamish Gains Form

A post by Alan, via his proxy-publishing-editor-monkey, Dan.

You may have met a man - quite young -
A brisk eyed youth, and highly strung;
One who's desires
And inner fires
Moved him like wires
- Thomas Hardy

When Hamish Mercer stepped through the door he was struck by the heat in the room. He was accustomed to the towering piles of papers as he had not yet been into a room in this building which had not been crowded, even with only one person in it. This was solely due to the amount of paper which each contained. The people making room amongst the columns of forms on metal folding chairs seemed unaware of the heat. Hamish sat down on the last chair between a filing cabinet and a youth focused intently on the writing on the page in front of him.

Hamish noticed that he could be no more than twenty and was mouthing the words to himself as he read them from the page. As he read the paper, he fidgeted with the corner, turning it up and down with a small flit flit noise. "Gregor," rumbled a voice from behind a desk on the other side of the room. "Gregor," the voice called again, this time louder. The young man next to Hamish looked up with his concentration shattered. He turned to the old man sitting across from them and tapped him with his foot. The old man awoke with a start, glanced around and reached down without knowing it to check that a yellow manila folder which was propped up against a chair was still there. He looked in a puzzled fashion at Hamish for a second as if enquiring why had he been disturbed? The voice insistently called out for a third time, not in the slightest concealing annoyance. At this the old man got up and hurriedly walked towards the end of the room, clutching his folder as though it contained some hidden treasure. He dissappeared amidst the filling cabinets and piles of paper.

The youth turned his back to his form but he soon looked up again, apparently unable to focus his concentration. He turned to Hamish and nodded a solemn: "This is it." Hamish was unable to grasp exactly what he meant, but nodded in return. "Yes, with this application, I've got it. Finally," he paused, taking Hamish into his confidence with a lowering of his tone. "That old fellow there... he has no chance! While he was sleeping I looked in his folder and he has the form 2-80-1F.'
Hamish was surprised that he had been distracted from his reading long enough to look in another person's manila folder. The young man must have taken Hamish's apparent surprise for a look more befitting shock and disapproval. He launched into a hurried defence over his actions.
"I only wanted to look! It was so, if he woke, I could help him."
"That's all very well," Hamish replied, for an unpleasant thought had come to him. "But what, exactly, is wrong with form 2-80-1F?"
"That form is not meant for this office!" replied the young man, with a gleam in his eye that was, to say the least, unsettling.

Hamish stated at the young man's face as he waxed eloquent but heard nothing. 2-80-1F is the form which Hamish now clasped in his hand. He could not understand how he had come to be in the wrong building with the wrong form. He had worked so hard. 20-80-1F had taken so long to acquire, and he had followed the directions from the office with the flower and bees motif explicitly. He had been assured, in the utmost, that when he arrived he would have to do nothing but wait until his name was called out. Hamish could not help recalling that he was so close to receiving the form 1-6-30L, but now he was more distant than ever.

"... 2-80-1F, of course, was accepted here yesterday. Today however you need an 11-2-70-1V if you want what 2-80-1F would have got you yesterday."
"What am I going to do?" asked Hamish, more to himself than the young man, the spirit sapped from his body. "I have 2-80-1F." Hamish held the form aloft to demonstrate the fact of his dismay.
The young man's eyes sparkled, unhealthily it seemed, and he turned his head so that his eyes rested on the papers clutched in his grasp. Hamish followed his gaze. "Form 10-15-4L! Do not bother with any lesser application, it shall be all you require!" At this, the young man stood with a jerk, keeping a fixed hold upon his copy of 10-15-4L.
"Where do I find it?" Hamish asked, despite his former misgivings about the youth for having looked through another's folder. Hamish found himself leaning forward intently, hanging from every word.
"You can find it anywhere, with all of these forms!" the youth cried, gesturing as some conquering king only would. "But - not all of it. Only pieces..."
After the feeling of loss which he had experienced on hearing about form 2-80-1F, Hamish was intent upon the young man.
"If you should want the complete form, you must go to see a friend of mine. You'll know him when you see him, all you must do is tell him Pierre sent you."
"Thank you," croaked Hamish, joy choking his words. He let 2-80-1F slide to the floor. The young man smiled and nodded, before turning back to the process of marvelling 10-15-4L.

Hamish had not noticed until now but there was a faint sheen of sweat upon his forehead. As he left for the door he looked over his shoulder, to see if he could spot the old man amongst the piles of forms. All he saw were the endless stacks upon stacks of paper.

And you may have met one stiff and old,
If not in the years; of manner cold;
Who seemed as stone,
And never had known
Of mirth and moan
- Thomas Hardy

Hamish walked down hallways bathed in the harsh glow of electric light, candle lit passages and corridors appeared to have no lights at all but which still resided in the wan glow of light. As he walked he noticed that the building was comprised of many different materials. In some places the walls were of stone and in others a dark burnished wood but by far the most common, Hamish saw, was a plaster painted over in various colours. As he searched for the one who would give him form 10-15-4L he passed numerous people, most with forms in their hands and all keeping to themselves. Men adorned with brightly coloured feathers and bones would pass women dressed in drab olives, among countless others of fantastic description and dress. The people occasionally turned into one of the many doors that seemed positioned at random throughout the building. Some of the doors were open and Hamish could see in. They were as varied as the people but they were all piled high with stacks of paper and folders.

Hamish realised he was now alone - he had walked down empty corridors before, but he realised that many closed doors had slid by without catching sight of anyone. His head brushed the ceiling above him, even though he was of average height, and made him uncomfortable. As he proceeded down the corridor, he noticed that the ceiling seemed to be getting lower. The doors along the walls were getting smaller and smaller too.

Turning the corner, almost bent double, he found himself in a hallway. It was empty but for a single painting hanging on the left hand wall which caught his attention. Hamish hurried up to it, thankful that although his speed was hampered by the height of the ceiling, it appeared that its descent had ceased. The portrait of man, for Hamish now realised that it was a portrait, stood in stark contrast with the blood red of the wall on which it hung. The painting was done in a naturalistic style, furnishing the smallest detail but it used strange washed out greys and flesh tones. The clothes of the man were cut in the style of Victorian England and he sported mutton chop sideburns of the same flame red as his hair. His chalk white skin gave the impression of cool unmoving marble. Hamish was glad of the company, as he had been walking down cramped corridors all daubed in the dark red. It had felt as though he was moving through the arteries of some giant creature. The face of the man was impassive as it was calm, his untroubled grey eyes were settling. Enraptured in the paintings' unmoving, unperturbed gaze, Hamish soon fell to thinking. He began wondering where the form for this painting had come from, and how much of form 10-15-4L it contained. Hamish began to feel uncomfortable under the stare of the figure. Without knowing the reason he opened his mouth to explain why he was standing there.

The only sound that Hamish emitted was a surprised exhalation as he fell sideways in a shower of paper. Sitting up and checking himself for damage, it occurred to Hamish to wonder where the large pile of paper lying next to him had emerged from. Much to his surprise, the paper pile moved. It produced a leg, then a sigh. A little while later a head cleared the paper and let out a further sigh. There was no mistaking it - this was the man from the painting.

Hamish could not have misplaced that penetrating gaze. The grey eyes held him transfixed as they had even from the painting. Again Hamish felt the compulsion to explain, or rather confess to his presence in this building.
"I was looking for form 10-15-" Hamish began, but was cut of with a movement of the man's hand.
"Do not bother apologising, young man," he spoke, utterly unconcerned with whatever Hamish had to say for himself. "Please do help me collect these papers, I am early for a very unimportant meeting."
Hamish blinked, and set about picking up the scattered sheets, shaking off the man's glamour which had hitherto seized him. As they gathered the papers up, Hamish noticed that the man had no trouble extending to his full height in the cramped corridor's confines. The portrait which he had presumed was of a smaller scale than it's subject was in fact life size.

Once all the papers had been stacked neatly, the man introduced himself to Hamish. "Publius Maro," he said, with only the slightest inclination of his head. After Hamish had exchanged his name, Publius handed him half of the papers and took the other half for himself. "Do carry these for me, please." It would be hard for anyone to manage alone, Hamish thought, as the weight pulled his arms down. He was about to offer assent but he realised Publius had not waited for it. In fact, he was already striding down the hallway in short, finished steps. Hamish stooped and hurried to catch up.

"So what form is it that you would be carrying, young fellow?" asked Publius as they moved along a cerulean blue carpet which gave a watery cast to the white plaster walls.
"I don't have a form, but I'm looking for form 10-15-..."
"You don't have a form?" A slight raise of his eyebrow accompanied the man's words. He cut Hamish off again. "Do tell me how that came to pass."
Hamish hesitated, the feeling of unease which he had after gazing at the painting returning. He was not sure that he wanted to confess his meeting with Pierre to this strange man, but he certainly did not want to miss a chance to speak to someone who might know where he could find form 10-15-4L. "I had a form 2-80-3F, but I met a man named Pierre."
At this, the man's eyebrows lifted in earnest, although for once he did not interrupt.
"You see, he convinced me that I needed a 10-15-4L. So I left 2-80-3F and began to search."
"I see. I should have known, a friend of Pierre's. I may be able to help you, though there are some consequences of which you should be aware." Publius stopped in front of an oaken door which had the words raro placabillitas carved upon it. "But after the meeting, do please come in. I shall be done shortly." With this, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was large, and tiers of benches stretched back to the left and to the right. Although the room was large, the tiers continued right up into the uppermost corners of it. People occupying the top rows had to hunch to avoid the ceiling. In front of every row of benches was a small wooden wall, approximately waist height. Along that sat computer screens, an inch thick a piece. The rows were tenanted by numerous people, in all kinds of dress and all murmuring. The room had a low hum about it.

Publius took the papers from Hamish and motioned him to sit on a chair next to the wall at the other end of the room. As Publius sat down on a bench right at the front Hamish noticed the atmosphere had changed to include a low rumble of excitement from the massed people. The people of the right hand side, on which Publius sat, seemed happy with his choice of sides. They smiled and some reached to pat Publius upon his shoulders. Hamish took his place along the wall with what he presumed to be the servants. He assumed so because of the apparently bored expression written all over their collective faces.

The murmuring continued on for quite some time, as various other people came in and sat mostly in the front row. They were all greeted in the same fashion as Publius, smiles and some back patting from the side they chose. Disappointment always issued from the side they had ignored. Throughout this, Hamish watched Publius. He sat calm, unmoving, leafing through the forms that he had stacked next to him on the bench. Finally a woman with close cropped hair and dark clothes came in and sat. There were the usual utterances, but then silence stole across the room.

A tall, warmly dressed blonde man, nearest the door of those on the same row as Publius, stood. When he spoke his deep voice had an unusual lilt.
"Just as an architect who puts up a large building first surveys and tests the ground to see if it can bear weight..." All the people stood at this, even those in the uppermost tiers, bending double to avoid the ceiling. "... so the wise lawgiver begins not by laying down laws good in themselves, but by finding wether the people for whom the laws are intended are able to support them." A rustling sound accompanied the reseating of the assembly.

Hamish watched a bald man wearing brown robes stand, cinching the white rope belted around his middle. "The relatedness arising from the reciprocal bearing of one form on another is first of all reflected in to itself as infinite personality, as abstract right." His words caused a hiss from the opposite side of the room, but he ignored it and continued. "In contract, the principle of rightness is present as something posited, while it's inner universally is there as something common in the arbitrariness and particular will of the forms." Hamish did not understand what was being said. As the bald man continued, Hamish noticed that he would type a number of words into a keyboard not readily visible. The screen filled as he continued. Hamish let himself relax, and ponder where he would find his 10-15-4L from. His eyes grew heavy, and presently he dozed.

I Blog, Therefore I Am

I have a friend, Alan. He might be half crazy, I'm not entirely sure. He consumes a fair amount of illicit substances, yet still manages some of the most lucid thinking you'll come across.
Contained within these digital pages are his stories, from real to fictional - sometimes that line itself will blur. There's philosophy, art, life, and maybe even the odd bit of humor from myself.

Alan is currently working on his first book, with which he plans to look down upon all mainstream authors with.
Like his writing? Let us know!