Updated: Jan 24
Dear readers, I have begun to draw.
I draw as often as I can and with any materials I may have at hand. Often it is done in secret because the world has conspired to hinder my talents unless they involve cleaning, cooking and reproduction.
I drew a cat once at my prep school. It was copied from a book of course because there was no cat in my life that would stay still for the length of time required. Keeping things still is the greatest curse to a copy artist. I had placed the finished drawing on the inside of my desk. I am not for bragging and showing publicly, although secretly I wanted the entire world to see the glory of my cat. But every time I opened my desk the cat would be on show for whoever could see.
A boy saw it and was vexed.
‘Where did you get that?’ he had asked.
‘I drew it.” I answered.
‘Liar!’ he had shouted, then louder still,
‘Fanny Blomme is a liar! Liar, liar, pants on fire,’ he had sung at the top of his voice. And all the class had looked at the cat and although most had congratulated me on my copy skills, this boy remained most vexed.
And then at boarding school last term we were to make pencil cases in woodwork class. I do not pretend to enjoy wood specifically. I find it drying and dusty for my fingers and face and the material is slow to change. But school is trying to be progressive and modern and it encourages us to try many new skills.
The drawing of the pencil case was indeed my first pleasure and it was mapped and measured and I was pleased with my draftsmanship. I enjoyed too the lathe and the drills. They were powerful and strategic and offered me great control over productive and decisive actions. Fairly, I could have used the electrical equipment over and over again.
At the end of term the pencil cases were marked for quality and compared in a contest of skills. I was most surprised that mine had won.
But a boy whose title I had ‘stolen’ (he came in second) was most ungracious and has vowed never to speak to me again. We had been good friends prior to the contest and, if truth be told, I was not even intent on winning and had not really made any effort at the thing. I had lost a friend and ally (much needed in the opposite sex) for no real gain. I am now guarded at winning things because these delicate boys become disgruntled and saddened and I feel terrible guilt at the theft of their praise and glory
I am a girl child and have no value. If only I was the Queen of England, because she has money and golden crowns, and all people fall at her feet in adulation. And the Queen would be able to make a beautiful wooden pencil case and would be given much emotional award for it and no man would care that she had taken from them because they would give of it most humbly. It transpires that money is everything here on earth, all and more, the solution and the problem. It feeds rampant human needs and teases the people like sugary promises that will satisfy momentarily and then destroy their teeth. I see broken teeth all around me. The people smile and the brown rot shows.
I am on holiday from school this week and am home with my parents and little brother. I miss cigarettes and whisky, both of which I have developed a taste for at school.
I find matches on the street and old discarded papers which are good for drawing materials. I am keen to create the portraits of the humans for my tin of keepsakes. I must keep them in secret because Father does not wish to see me excel in the arts. He says that the arts are useless for a girl and only men, such as himself, are privy to such talents because men are wise and strong. Only men are written in history of their fine endeavours. Women do not feature because women are without talent.
We have blobby psychedelic paintings on the walls of the drawing-room which Father produced during his ‘painting phase’ and we are to be minded of them often. Father demands the recognition and congratulations as if he were Picasso or Rembrant, also men. I am not to take the family painting crown for it is not mine to wear.
Am I worthless here on earth for being a girl?
Can this be true? Is this my raison d’être? Am I sent here to prove them wrong?
I wonder each day what the lesson is. The Preceptor has not come for so long and I am without instruction. How can I learn anything when I do not know what the question is?
Today I learned that I am to be removed from my boarding school and sent to an all-girls' school.
I am being readied for marriage to the finest officers in the British Royal Navy. On the one hand I feel that escaping boys will be of some benefit allowing me to perform without gender contest. But on the other, I fear for my parent's plans.
There is only deadness in my cuntzone when I think of officers in the Royal Navy for they will be like Father. I fear the carnal advances of such men that I did not choose who find value in their uniforms and pompous delusions of status. They will touch my nethers and I will flinch, spew even. I am doomed to a life of faking my own pleasures at their clumsy hands and stinky dicks.
The future does not bold well. I am still hungry because Father is mean with the housekeeping and I have begun to wonder about killing him. Perhaps that is why I have been sent here.
Watch the Fanny Blomme films here