And Lady Macbeth, she scrubbed until she bled

I am cer­tain that there are pur­ists amongst our num­ber who will tell me, author­it­at­ively and with an envi­able cer­tainty in their unwaver­ing voice, that white is not a col­our. As such, not a colour.

Whatever it may be then, the per­fec­tion of it irks me, annoys me, makes me shift uncom­fort­ably in my blotchy, pasty, pink European skin. Which only the out­dated curi­os­it­ies of this lan­guage call white, too.

It’s that alleged pur­ity. Stripped white bod­ies, stripped white bones, stripped white walls, even stripped white saints, reclothed in bril­liant white robes and lying pros­trate on crisp white sheets await­ing eternal sal­va­tion. The white light is the closest they get. It’s not quite heaven, but they let their spirit ooze with droplets of white as they edge ever closer to ecstasy, via tem­por­ary damnation.

Iron­ic­ally, I don’t like the pur­ity. I don’t fol­low the pur­ists. I rarely wear white unless I am sure that I have scrubbed myself as reli­giously clean as an agnostic can ever be. For me, a white sky begs to be daubed with smashed clouds and vapour trails, splattered with storm fronts and tumul­tu­ous greys. Whites of eyes make me nervous, and the white of spittle foam­ing at the mouth makes me retch. Even off-white — the off-white of those cur­tains flut­ter­ing in the longed-for breeze, the off-white walls that tell of hur­ried dec­or­a­tion by get-rich-quick land­lords — just makes me wish it could finally achieve the unsul­lied vir­gin state it so desires, so nearly reaches.

Even this white page is sul­lied. I have been attack­ing it with every sub­stance, every cleanser, every deter­gent, every act­ive agent within reach, and yet it’s still blackened with specks of filth, grime and deprav­ity untold.

We are all off-white here. We can’t go back to the white shell, the white of the egg, the white stains on the bed­clothes. We might want to return to the once upon a time, to where we began, to whatever we were before the dirty real­ity of dis­col­our­a­tion and over­use set in, but noth­ing washes whiter than white except in advertisements.

Comments: 8

    “We might want to return to the once upon a time, to where we began, to whatever we were before the dirty real­ity of dis­col­our­a­tion and over­use set in…” — yes. Brilliant.

    Also can’t res­ist for­mu­lat­ing com­ments about “…the white stains on the bed­clothes”, but i shall bite my tongue. Couple that, how­ever with “deprav­ity untold” and oh my!

    K | 07.28.08, 21:32

    I don’t know, I quite like the soft white of a wens­ley­dale, or the pun­gent stark­ness of feta, the lus­cious off-white cream­i­ness of brie, in dir­ect con­trast to its bright white rind. Mmmm?

    Ani | 07.30.08, 20:21

    K — I shall not be com­ment­ing any fur­ther on white stains or deprav­ity. Read­ers of An Unre­li­able Wit­ness are, after all, noted for their inno­cent nature.

    Ani — Please stop com­ing round here spout­ing your cheese p*rn. Not only are the read­ers of An Unre­li­able Wit­ness noted for their inno­cent nature, but many of them have dairy allergies.

    An Unreliable Witness | 08.01.08, 12:28

    Oh, you men­tioned inno­cence twice. Such a snow-white pure (mis)concept(ion). I’m scared of white­ness any­way. And hav­ing a dairy allergy.

    Lore | 08.01.08, 17:49

    Oh! Ani! She has a point. I would add Buffala Moz­zarella look­ing like a still-crumpled baby in its milky water womb.

    And your post made me think back to my first bath­room in Lon­don. All white tile and long white bath and white white white that when I lay in the bath I felt trans­por­ted to a san­at­orium, which was oddly refreshing.

    clarissa | 08.02.08, 09:25

    I like white… not for the pur­ity and not for the clean­li­ness of it, but you cant really hide any­thing on white… stains, writ­ing.. it is all clear and vis­ible for the so called “naked” eye to see. No secrets no sur­prises no dis­ap­point­ment.
    I love your word­i­ness though Mr Unre­li­able, I have been here many times quietly in the corner behind the cur­tain and you have never failed to make me smile or cry depend­ing on the post. I thought it was time for me to you know come out from behind the cur­tain and say hello… so “hello!” *waves*

    p.s Ani’s cheese p*rn? THAT I would be very inter­ested in reading

    lex | 08.04.08, 13:47

    Mr Unre­li­able you never fail to sur­prise me, cheese p*rn??? *smiles*
    I agree with lex… there are no sur­prises with white. It is bland and open and unshock­ing. What more could you ask for Mr Unre­li­able?
    Though I do think it a very self-righteous col­our… col­our? hue? whatever it is. It thinks very highly of itself.
    I know I haven’t left a com­ment in a very long little while, but here I am again! and off I go. Toodlepip

    Rachel | 08.04.08, 18:46

    Ahem. Have you gone on hol­i­day with every­one else?

    Ani | 08.07.08, 19:30

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