vehemently incensed and condemnatory; "they trembled before the wrathful queen"; "but wroth as he was, a short struggle ended in reconciliation"
He was neither wrathful, cruel, nor tyrannical, but just and gentle as a king could be.
Fables by Aesop View in context
There it stands, on its two hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful and loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh.
White Fang by London, Jack View in context
With a wrathful snort the woman confronted the door, but it was slammed hastily in her face and the key was turned.
Maggie: A Girl of the Streets by Crane, Stephen
sul·len·er, sul·len·est
1. Showing a brooding ill humor or silent resentment; morose or sulky.
2. Gloomy or somber in tone, color, or portent: sullen, gray skies.
3. Sluggish; slow: the sullen current of a canal.
[Middle English solein, from Anglo-Norman solein, alone, from sol, single, from Latin slus, by oneself alone; see s(w)e- in Indo-European roots.]
sullen - showing a brooding ill humor; "a dark scowl"; "the proverbially dour New England Puritan"; "a glum, hopeless shrug"; "he sat in moody silence"; "a morose and unsociable manner"; "a saturnine, almost misanthropic young genius"- Bruce Bliven; "a sour temper"; "a sullen crowd"
glowering, moody, morose, saturnine, glum, dour, dark, sour
Mournfully and low the man of God began his eulogy of the dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing which it was its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose and fell, seemed to come and go, like the sound of a sullen sea.
Can Such Things Be? by Bierce, Ambrose
Wednesday 8 December 2010
Chapter Four: THE HOARDERS AND SPENDTHRIFTS
CIRCLE 4 - Misers and Spendthrifts
The room is dark and reeks of stale urine. The music throbs unpleasantly, like a persistent reminder of death, or the will to die. Shadows appear and disappear, fleeting faces, twitching in an occasional, unbearable light, appear to seek out a friendly gesture.
I stand motionless for awhile, a drink in my hand. When the throbbing desists for awhile you can hear scurrying as if these rat-like humans, standing on their hind legs, are gathering goods for the winter months.
The build piles of possessions. They pull them in loaded shopping carts with squeaking, malfunctioning wheels that stick in place. They yank the carts at times when the wheels refuse to cooperate, shouting angerly as though the shopping cart were plotting against them.
When I begin walking again it is because I realise that all around me these people are carrying piles of junk or garbage or stale food containers, a trail of rodents following them gleefully as they appear then disappear into corners of the cavernous bar.
It is dance music. This finally dawns on me. And the dance floor is a swarm of passing people who carry these things, this collection of meaningless possessions, bumping into each other, cursing, bumping into shopping carts and becoming enraged. They all shout at each other yet each of their voices, each slogan of ranting that they emit are drowned in the music, the persistent, throbbing bass, the waning will to live.
Fortunatel all of them manage to avoid me. When I stand still, I can feel their oily skin brushing against me, I can smell their stench as they move past me. When they are not shouting at their carts or others who bump into them, they are mumbling to themselves. They are mumbling persistently and infatiguably. I cannot trace even the language they are speaking. It is as though they are grunting more than they are speaking.
Finally I spot Kinderton seated at a table in one of the shadows. He is drinking a tropical sort of concoction with fruit poking out of the top of a tall glass with a straw. He has paid a woman to perform felltion underneath the table while he sits there, sipping his drink and watching the dance floor with suspicion.
"I see you finally found your way in." Kinderton moans momentarily, closing his eyes. I can see nothing in the shadows but the bobbing head of hair just beneath the table.
"Is that a girl underneath there?"
"What do you think, a troll? She is trading services. When she is finished, I will tell her where to find the nearest viable exit. I am her guide but she is so fucking lost, so fucking gone, that she can't even hear.me. In fact, I never proposed this exchange. She just knelt down wordlessly and started in on me...." He winces as he grabs the edges of the table. His eyes are shut tight, his chest heaves momentarily. His eyes open again. He takes a sip of his drink.
The girl disappears back into the crowd.
The music changes. The DJ has evil intentions. The change in music causes a minor uproad. For a moment, every one stops pushing and pulling and carrying and stand instead, straight up, shouting and protesting, waving fists. I see the DJ in a far corner laughing and waving his fist as well. People attempt to climb to his booth and when they start to get close, he takes a hammer he has on one of the turntables and bashes them in the head with it. They fall immediately back to the floor and disappear beneath trampling feet.
"What happens to all of these people at the end of the night?" I ask, seating myself across from him.
"End of the night? What do you mean? There is no end of the night. These people will stay here forever. Someone from the outside will push more garbage down the chute and it will be as though these peoples' cages have been filled at feeding time. There is a perpetual supply from street level. Garbage, food, spare tires, carcasses, dirty clothes, disposable diapers, you name it. The DJ hasn't slept in three weeks. He's experimenting with some new drug causing sleeplessness. He knows the minute he falls asleep or tries to leave the safety of the sound booth, he will be torn to shreds. He doesn't take requests. He plays the same music over and over again. He keeps all the good music on his own headphones and listens to them during the long repetitive songs he plays for every one else in the club."
"Is he just an asshole?"
Kinderton shrugs and sips his drink. "Well, a real assholle would probably just play the same song over and over again, louder and louder each time until each of these people trying to kill him would probably just lose their minds entirely, frothing at the mouth before falling into some benign catatonic stare...shall we get up and get another drink?" He hold up his empty glass after slupring loudly. I didn't hear the slurping of course. I merely saw the intake of his cheeks, his lips wrapped around the plastic straw and the subsequently look of satisfaction that caresses his face.
It is then I notice that a trio of bankers are being crucified in the space just to my left. I see their hands and feet being hammered into boards. I know they are bankers because when the nails are hammered into their palms, for example, instead of blood shooting out there are cartoonish balloons filled with money floating out of them. Whilst one group hammers in the nails there are others who jump and grab at the balloons. And when one of the ballons is captured, it is popped open and an immediate struggle ensues between everyone to grab at the money while the banker moans and begs them to stop.
*****
a disembodied series of paintings
smells in your hair
that belong to other
women
The room is dark and reeks of stale urine. The music throbs unpleasantly, like a persistent reminder of death, or the will to die. Shadows appear and disappear, fleeting faces, twitching in an occasional, unbearable light, appear to seek out a friendly gesture.
I stand motionless for awhile, a drink in my hand. When the throbbing desists for awhile you can hear scurrying as if these rat-like humans, standing on their hind legs, are gathering goods for the winter months.
The build piles of possessions. They pull them in loaded shopping carts with squeaking, malfunctioning wheels that stick in place. They yank the carts at times when the wheels refuse to cooperate, shouting angerly as though the shopping cart were plotting against them.
When I begin walking again it is because I realise that all around me these people are carrying piles of junk or garbage or stale food containers, a trail of rodents following them gleefully as they appear then disappear into corners of the cavernous bar.
It is dance music. This finally dawns on me. And the dance floor is a swarm of passing people who carry these things, this collection of meaningless possessions, bumping into each other, cursing, bumping into shopping carts and becoming enraged. They all shout at each other yet each of their voices, each slogan of ranting that they emit are drowned in the music, the persistent, throbbing bass, the waning will to live.
Fortunatel all of them manage to avoid me. When I stand still, I can feel their oily skin brushing against me, I can smell their stench as they move past me. When they are not shouting at their carts or others who bump into them, they are mumbling to themselves. They are mumbling persistently and infatiguably. I cannot trace even the language they are speaking. It is as though they are grunting more than they are speaking.
Finally I spot Kinderton seated at a table in one of the shadows. He is drinking a tropical sort of concoction with fruit poking out of the top of a tall glass with a straw. He has paid a woman to perform felltion underneath the table while he sits there, sipping his drink and watching the dance floor with suspicion.
"I see you finally found your way in." Kinderton moans momentarily, closing his eyes. I can see nothing in the shadows but the bobbing head of hair just beneath the table.
"Is that a girl underneath there?"
"What do you think, a troll? She is trading services. When she is finished, I will tell her where to find the nearest viable exit. I am her guide but she is so fucking lost, so fucking gone, that she can't even hear.me. In fact, I never proposed this exchange. She just knelt down wordlessly and started in on me...." He winces as he grabs the edges of the table. His eyes are shut tight, his chest heaves momentarily. His eyes open again. He takes a sip of his drink.
The girl disappears back into the crowd.
The music changes. The DJ has evil intentions. The change in music causes a minor uproad. For a moment, every one stops pushing and pulling and carrying and stand instead, straight up, shouting and protesting, waving fists. I see the DJ in a far corner laughing and waving his fist as well. People attempt to climb to his booth and when they start to get close, he takes a hammer he has on one of the turntables and bashes them in the head with it. They fall immediately back to the floor and disappear beneath trampling feet.
"What happens to all of these people at the end of the night?" I ask, seating myself across from him.
"End of the night? What do you mean? There is no end of the night. These people will stay here forever. Someone from the outside will push more garbage down the chute and it will be as though these peoples' cages have been filled at feeding time. There is a perpetual supply from street level. Garbage, food, spare tires, carcasses, dirty clothes, disposable diapers, you name it. The DJ hasn't slept in three weeks. He's experimenting with some new drug causing sleeplessness. He knows the minute he falls asleep or tries to leave the safety of the sound booth, he will be torn to shreds. He doesn't take requests. He plays the same music over and over again. He keeps all the good music on his own headphones and listens to them during the long repetitive songs he plays for every one else in the club."
"Is he just an asshole?"
Kinderton shrugs and sips his drink. "Well, a real assholle would probably just play the same song over and over again, louder and louder each time until each of these people trying to kill him would probably just lose their minds entirely, frothing at the mouth before falling into some benign catatonic stare...shall we get up and get another drink?" He hold up his empty glass after slupring loudly. I didn't hear the slurping of course. I merely saw the intake of his cheeks, his lips wrapped around the plastic straw and the subsequently look of satisfaction that caresses his face.
It is then I notice that a trio of bankers are being crucified in the space just to my left. I see their hands and feet being hammered into boards. I know they are bankers because when the nails are hammered into their palms, for example, instead of blood shooting out there are cartoonish balloons filled with money floating out of them. Whilst one group hammers in the nails there are others who jump and grab at the balloons. And when one of the ballons is captured, it is popped open and an immediate struggle ensues between everyone to grab at the money while the banker moans and begs them to stop.
*****
a disembodied series of paintings
smells in your hair
that belong to other
women
Circle Three: GLUTONS
CIRCLE THREE GLUTTONS
Cerebus - Look up (is he the bartender, bouncer, proprietor?)
three hungry heads that are appeased with clumps - his three heads represent the past, the present and future of the narrator. Cerebus was Hades' loyal
watch dog. Guarded the gates that granted access and exit to the underworld.
"Where do you think you're going, bub?" A large hand pressed against my chest with authority, stopping me in my tracks. Whereas once again I'd imagined that
I had been leaving, in fact I'd been entering.
The bar is filled with bankers, financial parasites, drinking blood.
******
an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.
*******
"How much alcohol does one require? There are levels of need. On the one hand, there are those who could go throughout their entire existence without ever
once sampling alcohol." This man, a seemingly homeless collection of skin and rags and filth, smelling powerfully of human excrement, stops in mid query and
picks up the shot glass without reflection, draining it in one motion. Without pausing to even allow the effect of that shot to enter him, he signals
immediately for another. "On the other hand, for some, the alcohol is the blood stream. You see, generally speaking the liver can usually metabolize one of
these drinks; a glass of beer or wine within 60 minutes. So perhaps you can measure the need for alcoholic consumption in hour increments. If you drink
more than this or faster than this, the alcohol cannot be processed by the liver quickly enough. And this is when the blood becomes saturated and the
alcohol finds new venues, like the blood stream, to wait for the liver to process."
He takes the next shot glass and again, empties it in one quick motion.
"How long can you go on like this for?" I wonder absently. "If what you say is true, your blood stream should be inundated in no time at this rate and lead
to alcohol poisening."
"Alcohol dilutes itself in the water volume of the body as it travels through. Muscle tissue contains more water than fat tissue. More muscle tissue is
more water and more water dilutes the immediate effect to some degree. So when I am not drinking, I am exercising. This allows me to drink more."
*****
Around us, the Binge Drinkers. Their leader is a bare-chested man wearing a kilt with an inflamed pancreas which juts out of the side of his torso, thinly
veiled by a yellowish skin, reddened. He occasionally lifts the kilt to emit a bulky, whitish, sticky, greasy, floating, foul smelling stool. All around
him is a small puddle of these stools, a miniscule lake of diarrhea. The new members of the Binge Drinkers club are forced to walk through this bare foot.
It is part of the ritual of indoctrination. I nearly gag watching this.
They imagine themselves enjoying themselves. They are mirrored reflections of a dream that has disintigrated into an incessant nightmare. But
occasionally, they are having fun. They are laughing and never at themselves but perhaps at each other or those around them. They sing songs like "I am
having so much fun!" and "Man, I want to get wasted." The group consists of those who have just commenced their binge drinking and those who stayed on.
Those who have stayed on slur, spit, vomit, pass out. They are continuously replaced. There is a massive queue of people waiting to join in the fun. It is
a queue consisting of men and women. They feel addicted to this illusion of fun. It has become home. The only thing they find discomforting is the nausea
and vomitting that inevitably follow.
"I was part of the Binge Drinkers Club once," he continued allowing another shot of liquid to pass through him although this time savouring it slowly as if
it were his last.
"Why only once? Why did you stop?"
"I detested the social element of it. The people were idiots. They had no thoughts. Look at them, bringing themselves to a lowest common denominator. It
is a nihilism devoid of the acknowledgement of nihilism. A pointless exercise, a superficial convenience that sickened me more than the alcohol." As he
speaks he moves slowly away from the bar and I find myelf following him. His words trail behind him like a series of dead leaves blown along an empty street
on a bleak October afternoon.
We make our way into a corner where he pulls back a curtain and a room of immense light is revealed. In that room there is what appears to be a buffet
table. It is difficult to discern an exact size and dimension as only pieces of it are visible threw a swarm of naked people who are climbing all over it,
swatting each other back, biting each other, making horrible noises of incredibly audible chewing.
When a waiter appears carrying another tray of meat, he is immediately attacked. These are human beings, or have the physical attributes of human beings but
they lack completely any semblance of trained civility.
In attacking the waiter however, they are unaware that they are cutting off their own supply. The trays of steamed venison and stewed pork clatter loudly to
the floor and are swooped down upon by these naked savages. They fight each other off, grabbing at what they can and pushing it greedily into their mouths.
I cannot tell if they are even bothering to masticate what they are pushing greedily into their mouths or if they are simply swallowing chunks of meat whole.
I look back over to the buffet table again and see people climbing over the top of each other, yanking others back by the shoulder to squeeze into a position
closer to the source of the food. They are not saying words but they are grunting and belching and shouting with great abandone.
In sum, they appear to be one living organism of consumption spread out over the entirety of the buffet table. But I can make out the inviduals, or the
backs of individuals. Faces are not visible. The faces are striving as far as physically possible toward the table, the source of the food. Some grab and
yank food right out of the hands of others. This prompts others who are closer to the table to forget their hands entirely and merely shove their faces
directly into the food, gnawing, chewing, grunting.
We watch this spectacle for perhaps 10 or 15 minutes. With the attack of the waiters the source of replenishing the buffet is cut off and eventually of
course, particularly at such a rate of consumption, the supply of food runs out. Some are still chewing and grunting even though there is nothing to chew.
Gradually the notion that the feeding frenzy has ended sinks into them, one by one and one by one, they begin to pull away, sated but disappointed at the
same time, saying nothing to one another, merely slinking off into the background.
"If we wait long enough," Hierbringen tells me with the authority of experience, "eventually the waiters will emerge again carrying trays of food to
replenish the buffet with. And eventually another horde of people will discover this and you will see the entire scene played out all over again. The funny
thing I've noticed though is that it never seems to dawn on any of them that the buffet will be replenished. To them, the supply is finite and once the
supply has been consumed the best they can hope for is to move on to another room in search of another buffet. But this is the only room with a buffet and
although they don't realise it, they continue to return to the same room and the same buffet...." His shot glass has been replaced with a large snifter
which he sips from liberally.
******
"So, how would you like a little liquid Lysergic Acid Diathylamide to ease the dull aching brought on by all this drinking?" Hierbringen has grown impatient.
We are back at the bar and he is tapping his index and middle right fingers incessantly against the counter. He has two drinks beside him already, the
large snifter and another shot glass. "I'm bored..." he explains apologetically.
He's noticed of course that my own pace of drinking has slackened. He has taken note and is now proposing a deeper phase, concerned that I too have grown
bored with both the drinking and the sights around me.
I say nothing but follow him. He has already decided on his own that this is the next step to take and so he turns from the bar, grabbing a bottle off the
rack to take with him.
"I cannot remember my troubles," he hums to himself. "I am no longer chased by a horrible thing..."
We walk through a series of hallways, each emitting a strange series of lights of varying colours, pulsating to a beat that does not exist. There is no
silence but there is no music. Everywhere around me I hear shouting both in anger and in happiness yet I see no one. It as though the empty hallways we are
passing through are haunted with the ghosts of dead revelers. Perhaps it is only their echoes.
Finally we exit one hallway and enter a cavernous bar area, another extension. This one has large picnic tables which are filled with alcohol and food and
people consuming both simultaneously. It is a joyless consumption. No one is speaking. There is music filling the room, a dull, hypnotic music.
Hierbringen stops me with a hand to my chest. "Some of these chaps are rough," he explains. "They don't know you and might take offence at you or worse,
might believe you have come to take some of their supplies. The addition of another person signifies to them a decrease in supplies. Allow me to do the
talking. Just wait here."
He disappears into the throng. No one notices me standing there alone, sipping my beer as inobtrusively as possible, pretending I don't exist so that no one
would notice me. I could hide my face behind my hands and feel invisible.
After a few moments, Hierbringen returns. "It's all arranged. But the dealer insists on meeting you first before he will give me anything. He doesn't want
any of his supply falling into the wrong hands."
"The wrong hands?"
"There are spies here, don't kid yourself. Spies are here among all of us and they are checking in to make certain that everyone is consuming their maximum
intake. Believe it or not there are times when even these people need a nap. And when they do, the spies appear, materialise seemingly from nowhere but in
fact they are all around us. If someone passes out or naps, they are immediately awoken, brutally at times, to make sure they do not stop consuming."
He leads me to one of the tables and there is a parting of people to allow us the space to enter their circle around the table. At the forefront is a Jabba,
his clothing covered in food stains, his shirt unbuttoned to the belly which is like a huge medicine ball. His face is pockmarked by blisters and angry red
blotches. His hair is greasy and so full of dandruff that the dandruff accumulates in small piles on the table in front of him.
"A visitor but not a spy, so Hierbringen tells me," he mutters, nodding over at me and shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth, taking a sip of white wine.
"What is your name, visitor?"
"He doesn't know." Hierbringen intervenes quickly, nervously as though I have been lying the entire time and once I open my mouth, my lie will be mercilessly
exposed and crucified. "He simply woke outside without knowing..."
"What?" he spits food out in various directions, muttering again something unintellible but to himself. "Let the visitor speak for himself Hierbringen, I
don't trust you..."
"it's true," I begin. "I don't remember my name."
"And so how did you get in here?"
"I was delivered here...by Kinderton..."
"Kinderton?!" he bellowed, more food falling from the corners of his mouth. "Kinderton has been dead for years! What kind of lies are you telling me?!" He
demands now, no longer a simple line of enquiry. Those sat around us have stopped eating and drinking momentarily and as they do, the spies appear like
ghosts to poke them with sharp sticks and motion for them to continue.
"I only tell you what I know. I woke with no concept of who I was or how I got there and the next thing I knew, Kinderton was bringing me here..."
The Jabba chewed thoughtfully for a moment and swallowed another half glass of wine. Slowly he reached a conclusion and picking at his teeth, he nodded for
me to sit down beside him. "Let's have a closer look at you then..."
After I'd sat down beside him he poked at me, suprisingly gently given his girth and demeanor. "You seem to be made of flesh and bones yet the tale you tell
me implies you are dead, that you are a ghost guided by that Ghost of Ghosts, Kinderton, so I am rather puzzled. Just what is it you are doing here?" I nod
over at Hierbringen. "I was told we were going to be able to obtain liquid LSD from you."
"And if I were to give you a quantity of liquid LSD, what would you do with it?"
"I would take it of course."
"All of it, no matter the quantity?"
I said nothing for a moment, looking uncomfortably at Hierbringen whose own eyes were furtive and nervous. "I would take what you give me," I said finally
after that pause. The Jabba guffawed and slapped his fat paw on the table sending glasses of wine flying in all directions. "You are either very stupid or
very trusting but in any event, I will give you what you like on the condition that you leave from here immediately afterwards. I don't know who you are and
you are making me uncomfortable. Do you understand that? You are making me feel uncomfortable and I don't like that feeling at all visitor. I'd just as
soon eat you as look at you but I am afraid about the indigestion you might cause me. So take this. You and Hierbringen take this and fuck right off out of
here and I don't want to see either of you again, ever. Is that clear?"
"Clear."
The Jabba motioned to one of his subordinates who pulled a vile out of his pocket and handed it over to Hierbringen. We left immediately as the group around
the table returned to their food and wine.
*******
******
Cerebus - Look up (is he the bartender, bouncer, proprietor?)
three hungry heads that are appeased with clumps - his three heads represent the past, the present and future of the narrator. Cerebus was Hades' loyal
watch dog. Guarded the gates that granted access and exit to the underworld.
"Where do you think you're going, bub?" A large hand pressed against my chest with authority, stopping me in my tracks. Whereas once again I'd imagined that
I had been leaving, in fact I'd been entering.
The bar is filled with bankers, financial parasites, drinking blood.
******
an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.
*******
"How much alcohol does one require? There are levels of need. On the one hand, there are those who could go throughout their entire existence without ever
once sampling alcohol." This man, a seemingly homeless collection of skin and rags and filth, smelling powerfully of human excrement, stops in mid query and
picks up the shot glass without reflection, draining it in one motion. Without pausing to even allow the effect of that shot to enter him, he signals
immediately for another. "On the other hand, for some, the alcohol is the blood stream. You see, generally speaking the liver can usually metabolize one of
these drinks; a glass of beer or wine within 60 minutes. So perhaps you can measure the need for alcoholic consumption in hour increments. If you drink
more than this or faster than this, the alcohol cannot be processed by the liver quickly enough. And this is when the blood becomes saturated and the
alcohol finds new venues, like the blood stream, to wait for the liver to process."
He takes the next shot glass and again, empties it in one quick motion.
"How long can you go on like this for?" I wonder absently. "If what you say is true, your blood stream should be inundated in no time at this rate and lead
to alcohol poisening."
"Alcohol dilutes itself in the water volume of the body as it travels through. Muscle tissue contains more water than fat tissue. More muscle tissue is
more water and more water dilutes the immediate effect to some degree. So when I am not drinking, I am exercising. This allows me to drink more."
*****
Around us, the Binge Drinkers. Their leader is a bare-chested man wearing a kilt with an inflamed pancreas which juts out of the side of his torso, thinly
veiled by a yellowish skin, reddened. He occasionally lifts the kilt to emit a bulky, whitish, sticky, greasy, floating, foul smelling stool. All around
him is a small puddle of these stools, a miniscule lake of diarrhea. The new members of the Binge Drinkers club are forced to walk through this bare foot.
It is part of the ritual of indoctrination. I nearly gag watching this.
They imagine themselves enjoying themselves. They are mirrored reflections of a dream that has disintigrated into an incessant nightmare. But
occasionally, they are having fun. They are laughing and never at themselves but perhaps at each other or those around them. They sing songs like "I am
having so much fun!" and "Man, I want to get wasted." The group consists of those who have just commenced their binge drinking and those who stayed on.
Those who have stayed on slur, spit, vomit, pass out. They are continuously replaced. There is a massive queue of people waiting to join in the fun. It is
a queue consisting of men and women. They feel addicted to this illusion of fun. It has become home. The only thing they find discomforting is the nausea
and vomitting that inevitably follow.
"I was part of the Binge Drinkers Club once," he continued allowing another shot of liquid to pass through him although this time savouring it slowly as if
it were his last.
"Why only once? Why did you stop?"
"I detested the social element of it. The people were idiots. They had no thoughts. Look at them, bringing themselves to a lowest common denominator. It
is a nihilism devoid of the acknowledgement of nihilism. A pointless exercise, a superficial convenience that sickened me more than the alcohol." As he
speaks he moves slowly away from the bar and I find myelf following him. His words trail behind him like a series of dead leaves blown along an empty street
on a bleak October afternoon.
We make our way into a corner where he pulls back a curtain and a room of immense light is revealed. In that room there is what appears to be a buffet
table. It is difficult to discern an exact size and dimension as only pieces of it are visible threw a swarm of naked people who are climbing all over it,
swatting each other back, biting each other, making horrible noises of incredibly audible chewing.
When a waiter appears carrying another tray of meat, he is immediately attacked. These are human beings, or have the physical attributes of human beings but
they lack completely any semblance of trained civility.
In attacking the waiter however, they are unaware that they are cutting off their own supply. The trays of steamed venison and stewed pork clatter loudly to
the floor and are swooped down upon by these naked savages. They fight each other off, grabbing at what they can and pushing it greedily into their mouths.
I cannot tell if they are even bothering to masticate what they are pushing greedily into their mouths or if they are simply swallowing chunks of meat whole.
I look back over to the buffet table again and see people climbing over the top of each other, yanking others back by the shoulder to squeeze into a position
closer to the source of the food. They are not saying words but they are grunting and belching and shouting with great abandone.
In sum, they appear to be one living organism of consumption spread out over the entirety of the buffet table. But I can make out the inviduals, or the
backs of individuals. Faces are not visible. The faces are striving as far as physically possible toward the table, the source of the food. Some grab and
yank food right out of the hands of others. This prompts others who are closer to the table to forget their hands entirely and merely shove their faces
directly into the food, gnawing, chewing, grunting.
We watch this spectacle for perhaps 10 or 15 minutes. With the attack of the waiters the source of replenishing the buffet is cut off and eventually of
course, particularly at such a rate of consumption, the supply of food runs out. Some are still chewing and grunting even though there is nothing to chew.
Gradually the notion that the feeding frenzy has ended sinks into them, one by one and one by one, they begin to pull away, sated but disappointed at the
same time, saying nothing to one another, merely slinking off into the background.
"If we wait long enough," Hierbringen tells me with the authority of experience, "eventually the waiters will emerge again carrying trays of food to
replenish the buffet with. And eventually another horde of people will discover this and you will see the entire scene played out all over again. The funny
thing I've noticed though is that it never seems to dawn on any of them that the buffet will be replenished. To them, the supply is finite and once the
supply has been consumed the best they can hope for is to move on to another room in search of another buffet. But this is the only room with a buffet and
although they don't realise it, they continue to return to the same room and the same buffet...." His shot glass has been replaced with a large snifter
which he sips from liberally.
******
"So, how would you like a little liquid Lysergic Acid Diathylamide to ease the dull aching brought on by all this drinking?" Hierbringen has grown impatient.
We are back at the bar and he is tapping his index and middle right fingers incessantly against the counter. He has two drinks beside him already, the
large snifter and another shot glass. "I'm bored..." he explains apologetically.
He's noticed of course that my own pace of drinking has slackened. He has taken note and is now proposing a deeper phase, concerned that I too have grown
bored with both the drinking and the sights around me.
I say nothing but follow him. He has already decided on his own that this is the next step to take and so he turns from the bar, grabbing a bottle off the
rack to take with him.
"I cannot remember my troubles," he hums to himself. "I am no longer chased by a horrible thing..."
We walk through a series of hallways, each emitting a strange series of lights of varying colours, pulsating to a beat that does not exist. There is no
silence but there is no music. Everywhere around me I hear shouting both in anger and in happiness yet I see no one. It as though the empty hallways we are
passing through are haunted with the ghosts of dead revelers. Perhaps it is only their echoes.
Finally we exit one hallway and enter a cavernous bar area, another extension. This one has large picnic tables which are filled with alcohol and food and
people consuming both simultaneously. It is a joyless consumption. No one is speaking. There is music filling the room, a dull, hypnotic music.
Hierbringen stops me with a hand to my chest. "Some of these chaps are rough," he explains. "They don't know you and might take offence at you or worse,
might believe you have come to take some of their supplies. The addition of another person signifies to them a decrease in supplies. Allow me to do the
talking. Just wait here."
He disappears into the throng. No one notices me standing there alone, sipping my beer as inobtrusively as possible, pretending I don't exist so that no one
would notice me. I could hide my face behind my hands and feel invisible.
After a few moments, Hierbringen returns. "It's all arranged. But the dealer insists on meeting you first before he will give me anything. He doesn't want
any of his supply falling into the wrong hands."
"The wrong hands?"
"There are spies here, don't kid yourself. Spies are here among all of us and they are checking in to make certain that everyone is consuming their maximum
intake. Believe it or not there are times when even these people need a nap. And when they do, the spies appear, materialise seemingly from nowhere but in
fact they are all around us. If someone passes out or naps, they are immediately awoken, brutally at times, to make sure they do not stop consuming."
He leads me to one of the tables and there is a parting of people to allow us the space to enter their circle around the table. At the forefront is a Jabba,
his clothing covered in food stains, his shirt unbuttoned to the belly which is like a huge medicine ball. His face is pockmarked by blisters and angry red
blotches. His hair is greasy and so full of dandruff that the dandruff accumulates in small piles on the table in front of him.
"A visitor but not a spy, so Hierbringen tells me," he mutters, nodding over at me and shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth, taking a sip of white wine.
"What is your name, visitor?"
"He doesn't know." Hierbringen intervenes quickly, nervously as though I have been lying the entire time and once I open my mouth, my lie will be mercilessly
exposed and crucified. "He simply woke outside without knowing..."
"What?" he spits food out in various directions, muttering again something unintellible but to himself. "Let the visitor speak for himself Hierbringen, I
don't trust you..."
"it's true," I begin. "I don't remember my name."
"And so how did you get in here?"
"I was delivered here...by Kinderton..."
"Kinderton?!" he bellowed, more food falling from the corners of his mouth. "Kinderton has been dead for years! What kind of lies are you telling me?!" He
demands now, no longer a simple line of enquiry. Those sat around us have stopped eating and drinking momentarily and as they do, the spies appear like
ghosts to poke them with sharp sticks and motion for them to continue.
"I only tell you what I know. I woke with no concept of who I was or how I got there and the next thing I knew, Kinderton was bringing me here..."
The Jabba chewed thoughtfully for a moment and swallowed another half glass of wine. Slowly he reached a conclusion and picking at his teeth, he nodded for
me to sit down beside him. "Let's have a closer look at you then..."
After I'd sat down beside him he poked at me, suprisingly gently given his girth and demeanor. "You seem to be made of flesh and bones yet the tale you tell
me implies you are dead, that you are a ghost guided by that Ghost of Ghosts, Kinderton, so I am rather puzzled. Just what is it you are doing here?" I nod
over at Hierbringen. "I was told we were going to be able to obtain liquid LSD from you."
"And if I were to give you a quantity of liquid LSD, what would you do with it?"
"I would take it of course."
"All of it, no matter the quantity?"
I said nothing for a moment, looking uncomfortably at Hierbringen whose own eyes were furtive and nervous. "I would take what you give me," I said finally
after that pause. The Jabba guffawed and slapped his fat paw on the table sending glasses of wine flying in all directions. "You are either very stupid or
very trusting but in any event, I will give you what you like on the condition that you leave from here immediately afterwards. I don't know who you are and
you are making me uncomfortable. Do you understand that? You are making me feel uncomfortable and I don't like that feeling at all visitor. I'd just as
soon eat you as look at you but I am afraid about the indigestion you might cause me. So take this. You and Hierbringen take this and fuck right off out of
here and I don't want to see either of you again, ever. Is that clear?"
"Clear."
The Jabba motioned to one of his subordinates who pulled a vile out of his pocket and handed it over to Hierbringen. We left immediately as the group around
the table returned to their food and wine.
*******
******
Circle Two: LUST
CIRCLE TWO LUST
the act of walking is so well practiced (overlearned) that you can do it without thinking. You program yourself to walk to another room, then your mind
wanders, and when you get there you no longer remember why you started the motor program.^^^^^^^^^^^^
As I opened the door, waving my final goodbyes for the evening, I was rather surprised not to be greeted by a gust of wind or the slap of a rain pellet
rather to find myself entering another room altogether. I stopped. I looked behind me. Had I, in a slightly enebriated state, exited out the wrong door
into another antechamber of the previous pub?
But the door had already closed behind me. Locked behind me. Odd, I thought. A hallucination? Yet I was indeed inside rather than outside. My eyes grew
accustomed slowly to the dimness of the tawdry red light of the interior, the red velvet covering on the sofas.
A pale blonde woman, a woman one might consider as having alibaster skin if one could have made out such distinctions in such light, touched my elbow gently.
"May I take your coat?" Her voice was a gelatinous ooze of sensuality. All in a simple query. I looked at her, dressed in sequins, or perhaps merely a
sequin robe made of nothing but sequins, her nudity clearly visible even in this light behind the thread-bare cover of a sequin outfit.
She was already in the act of helping me out of my coat before I could think long enough to reply. I slipped out of it readily once I became accostomed to
the idea of taking it off. She disappeared into the shadows. I became aware of a gentle, pulsating bass eminating from a distant corner. A thin girl
dressed in a black satin negligee appeared.
"May I offer you a drink? A glass of champagne, perhaps?" she suggested without preamble. It's normal that a server would not introduce themselves before
taking your order but there was something distinguishable in her manner that led me to the misperception that if we didn't know each other already surely we
should and thus I was surprised by my own disappointment that she hadn't introduced herself. The question, on the surface innocent and normal, seemed
inexplicably weighted by an odd intimacy.
"Champagne?" I managed to stammer, indecisive.
"By the glass, we have Bollinger, Delamotte and Gosset. If you would like a full bottle however, the possibilities are unlimited..." She smiled like what I
could imagine to be an Eden snake, or THE Eden snake, her tongue lingering on the very edge of her lower lip, capped by her upper lip. Both were lightly
painted in a plum hue. How could I make such distinctions in the lighting? Well of course, because of the occasional flickers of bright light that now
emitted from what I could see was a stage in front of me. A stage decorated by a single pole.
"Just a glass of beer for the moment..." I finally replied. "Until I become better oriented."
Her expression did not change.
"As you wish," she replied perhaps robotically. "Please take a seat and I will retrieve the drink for you."
Jean François de Troy's 1735 painting Le Déjeuner d'Huîtres (The Oyster Luncheon) is the first known depiction of Champagne in painting
After primary fermentation and bottling, a second alcoholic fermentation occurs in the bottle. This second fermentation is induced by adding several grams of
yeast (usually Saccharomyces cerevisiae, although each brand has its own secret recipe) and several grams of rock sugar.[14] According to the Appellation
d'Origine Contrôlée a minimum of 1.5 years is required to completely develop all the flavour. For years where the harvest is exceptional, a millesimé is
declared and some Champagne will be made from and labeled as the products of a single vintage rather than a blend of multiple years' harvests. This means
that the Champagne will be very good and has to mature for at least 3 years. During this time the Champagne bottle is sealed with a crown cap similar to that
used on beer bottles.[1]
I sat down at the nearest table. The room was scattered with single men at tables surrounding the stage. How do I know they are single? I do not. One
imagines in such a situation that only a single man would frequent such a place yet the reality might well be the opposite. A wife loses her shape in these
parts rather quickly. Desire dissipates into a kind of malevolent paste of apathy. These men may merely be searching for a jump start to their own limping
libidos.
A thick woman in tightly wrapped clothing revealing far too much of her fatty countours, leaving one to imagine every starch-laden meal she'd consumed in a
lifetime, from childhood to the present, approached with a friendly smile. "Drink?" she asks me amiably. "Yes, beer." I recite, wondering if these drinks
would be part of the price of the show, if in fact there was a price at all. And in turn she goes to each man, takes each order.
The room is small considering the pole and the possibilities it suggests. I stare into space undistracted by what soon becomes a series of women in various
states of dress each approaching asking if I would like a drink and to each I reply yes, a glass of beer. No beer arrives. Not one of them. I grow
thirsty. I am disappointed bordering on angry. This would be the sign of poor management, this pointless repetition. Or perhaps layers of bureaucracy,
like filling in the same form in triplicate. I calm myself by taking a deep, slow breath. Eventually one of these beers will arrive.
In the meantime, the dim lights dim further still.
A small spotlight focuses on the pole. Yes, we get it, I want to say, impatient still for my beer.
A very tall woman appears. Her orange ponytail is the first thing I notice because it is long, down to the hem of her red leather miniskirt which admittedly
is rather high on her body to begin with. But perhaps this is because her legs are so long. Longer than her pony tail. There are two long, long legs, a
short torso, artificially enhanced breasts which are housed in a white cloth halter top. Her face, predictably, hidden by shadows although it is thus
impossible to tell if the shadowing is a clever stage trick to mask an inevitable horror or merely the anticipation of a beauty to be unleashed.
"The perfect face," the man beside me whispers suddenly, "has been pscychologically identified by the perimeter to area ratio, cheek to jaw ratio, the
preception of weight in the face..." he falls silent again. I remain silent wondering if there will be more.
There isn't because by then, the woman had turned her back to us, standing in front of the pole, her hands grasping it tightly. She nods forward and a song
is cued.
We are immediately transfixed. She seemed to perform a mixture of gymnastics and ballet. She mounted the pole, pulled herself up and spun. And when she
spun in our direction we collectively flinched. Some covered their faces because those long legs were swinging in a wide arc closer and closer to our faces
peering out near the edge of the stage. Soon she was upside down at the top of the pole doing splits and holding on with one hand.
"It's true," I muttered to the man beside me when her legs were in a backward arc and further from our faces. "The symetrics of her face are too beautiful
to be seen."
Eventually she dismounts and strides purposefully away from the stage. A man stands and follows her. He will negotiate a price.
The buzz in the room is nearly audible and to take matters to further levels of excitement, a swarm of women in varying states of dress and undress,
beautiful and hideous, fat and skinny, appear in the room serving drinks everywhere. I receive three glasses of beer.
How do I even know I want beer?
The lights brighten significantly, nearly to the point of being able to make out the faces of each man in the murk.
"What are we doing here?" I ask the man beside me. I turn to face him only to see that he has disappeared. The curtain behind the stage is still rippling.
I feel lost again, panicked. I drink the beers, all three of them in rapid succession, barely tasting them.
I stand up. What is behind the curtains?
A woman appears before me, blocking the path. "How about another beer, mister? Or perhaps a bottle of champagne?" I look her over. She is young. She has
thin, stringy blonde hair. Her face is thickly layered in mascara to mask the youth but the youth is evident in that it is too youthful. How do I know what
is too youthful? She does not bear the hallmarks of innocence. Her eyes, even through the mascara, are cynical, tired. I have seen my own face which is
just as cynical and tired without the mascara. I wonder what horrors she has experienced. Does she remember them?
"Can we talk if I buy a bottle of champagne?" She smiles, confident again. There had been a brief period of uncertainty of course. She feels this in every
encounter. She is being weighed, assessed, judged on the only thing she has in her own eyes of merit, her sex.
"We can do whatever you like if you buy a bottle of champagne, mister. Follow me."
I hesitate. Kinderton gave me money. He is always appearing to dump cash in my hands. But I'm not sure how much I have, how much it is worth. I don't
know this or any currency. I check my pockets.
I pull out what he gave me, a thick wad of multi-coloured notes with numbers on them. And faces. Faces of dead people. You cannot have your face on
currency unless you are dead. How do I know they are dead? Because they do not look like anyone around me. They are clearly from another age.
She removes it all from my hand, smiling all the time, even beginning to hum to herself.
She signals to someone I cannot see and then takes my hand. "Come with me." she whispers.
******
We enter another room, this one with a door. She uses a pass key to open it, there is a little click and we enter. She turns flicks a switch and the room,
dominated by a large bed, is illuminated by vague red light.
I sit at the desk immediately. I want to create some space between me and her and the bed. My intentions are still innocent. I want to know primarily if
she remembers the horrors.
"What horrors?" she asks, wrinkling her nose in befuddlement. Her nose is tiny. Is it proportionate to the rest of her face? I wonder if the ratio between
her cheek to jaw is correct. I realise I don't know what the correct ratio. Do I find her face beautiful, she asks.
"Whatever horrors brought you here." I explain slowly, unaccustomed to having to explain what is evident. She wrinkles her nose again. This is not normal,
I can tell. I'm supposed to grab her and let my lust run free. There is a knock on the door.
"Champagne!" the male voice announces. The door opens and a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne nestled inside of it is placed just inside before the
door is shut again as quickly as it was opened.
She clearly wishes to ignore my line of questioning. She marches to the bucket, picks it up and brings it to the desk where I am sitting.
"Please. Open and pour. Please."
*****
We each have a glass of champagne. It registers in the back of my mind that despite the consumption of alcohol I feel relatively nothing with respect to
effect. It is as though I have been on a steady diet of juice rather than beer.
"So," I begin again after a mouthful and a swallow. "What horrors brought you here, to this place at this hour?"
"Would you like to touch me?" She moves to start unbuttoning her blouse but I hold her hands gently to stop her. I see that there are tears forming in her
eyes. "Don't you like me?" she asks, innocent for the first time, the professionalism of her ego exposing her. "Are you some sort of freak?"
Her words hit me then, like a fist in my stomach. Or perhaps she had in fact hit me in the stomach. I double over and retch on the purple shag carpeting.
"This is not appropriate!" she shouts angerly at my display and lack of proper conduct. I was supposed to undress her, paw at her, beg to get my money's
worth.
There is another knock at the door.
"Is everything alright in there?" a deep male voice queries.
"Yes" we both say simultaneously.
We laugh at this for some reason because it seems for a second even more absurd than being in this room with her. A private joke shared between us suddenly
bonds us.
"I'm sorry I punched you in the stomach." she says.
"Perhaps I deserved it."
"No, you are probably a nice man. But you ask too many questions. Why don't you want to fuck me?"
I say nothing and take another swallow of champagne to clear the taste of bile in my mouth. The pathetic accumulation of vomit is still steaming on the
floor between where I am sitting and where she is standing. The difference between room temperature and body temperature. I am wondering what the correct
answer is. Why don't I want to fuck her? Why am I supposed to want to fuck her?
"Are you nervous? Is that it? Wait. I will turn off the lights. We can sit here in the dark, or better still, we can move to the edge of the bed and sit
for a moment in the dark. Perhaps then you will feel normal." She moves quickly, almost as quickly as when she'd seized the bucket of champagne from beside
the door, and snaps the lights off. We are completely in the dark. She takes my hand and guides me wordless to the edge of the bed. We sit.
"You are a lovely man," she begins, reaching out to caress my face. "You do not have to be nervous. I am gentle."
"I'm not nervous." I explain, taking her hand from my face and placing it to where I think her lap is. "I do not know who I am or where I am. I am lost. I
am looking for answers. I am hoping that if I ask you some questions, something will provoke a memory."
She says nothing for a moment.
"You do not find me beautiful?"
"I cannot judge beauty. Beauty requires perception, a memory. I have neither. I am looking for answers. I am trying to find out who I am."
"I don't understand you." she moves slightly away from me and I can sense her hurt in the darkness. For a moment, I consider touching her if only to pacify
her, put her mind at ease.
"From bitter searching of the heart we rise to play a greater part." I say suddenly, surprised that a phrase from somewhere enters from my memory. "Leonard
Cohen." I explain. I am encouraged because this is one of the first inklings of a past that has embraced me. Why do I know it? What does it mean?
"You are hurting me with words." she sniffles.
"Do you remember how you got here?"
"Yes, by taxi, as always."
"No, I mean how you came to be in this position. Not here in this room but this establishment, this, let's say predicament."
She is silent but I cannot tell if she is merely waiting me out or if she is pondering my words, weighing whether or not to answer them.
"Listen mister, I don't know what is the matter with you. You pay money, you buy champagne, we come to this room and we are supposed to fuck. Everyone is
happy. You are fucking with me and I don't like it. You are making me feel bad. Why don't you touch me? I can give you wonderful pleasure." She tries to
touch me again and again, I remove her hand.
She curses in a language I don't understand and I feel her get up from the edge of the bed.
"Get out!" she shouts. "Get out!" she shouts again.
The deep male voice is at the door again.
"Is everything alright in there?"
This time we do not share a private joke and laugh.
"Get out now or I will tell them to come in and remove you." Her voice betrays no innocence. It is so cold that it is apparent we are strangers and have
always been strangers and will always be strangers and that this professional interlude was just that.
I stand up and leave.
*******
Kinderton is chuckling to himself, drinking a bottle of champagne, dangling it by the neck and taking liberal swigs.
"All that money for nothing." He shakes his head. "Good thing there is plenty more."
"I don't understand what happened." I begin to explain.
"Of course you don't, Marsaw. Follow me."
******
We enter a larger room which is entered into from a hallway leading away from the previous room but it appears we are still in the same building.
THIS WILL LEAD TO THE SCENE EXPLAINING THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE IMAGES OF THE NUDITY OF FORMER LOVERS WITH THE NUDITY OF PORNOGRAPHY, THE OBLITERATION OF THE BEAUTY OF THE SOUL.
the act of walking is so well practiced (overlearned) that you can do it without thinking. You program yourself to walk to another room, then your mind
wanders, and when you get there you no longer remember why you started the motor program.^^^^^^^^^^^^
As I opened the door, waving my final goodbyes for the evening, I was rather surprised not to be greeted by a gust of wind or the slap of a rain pellet
rather to find myself entering another room altogether. I stopped. I looked behind me. Had I, in a slightly enebriated state, exited out the wrong door
into another antechamber of the previous pub?
But the door had already closed behind me. Locked behind me. Odd, I thought. A hallucination? Yet I was indeed inside rather than outside. My eyes grew
accustomed slowly to the dimness of the tawdry red light of the interior, the red velvet covering on the sofas.
A pale blonde woman, a woman one might consider as having alibaster skin if one could have made out such distinctions in such light, touched my elbow gently.
"May I take your coat?" Her voice was a gelatinous ooze of sensuality. All in a simple query. I looked at her, dressed in sequins, or perhaps merely a
sequin robe made of nothing but sequins, her nudity clearly visible even in this light behind the thread-bare cover of a sequin outfit.
She was already in the act of helping me out of my coat before I could think long enough to reply. I slipped out of it readily once I became accostomed to
the idea of taking it off. She disappeared into the shadows. I became aware of a gentle, pulsating bass eminating from a distant corner. A thin girl
dressed in a black satin negligee appeared.
"May I offer you a drink? A glass of champagne, perhaps?" she suggested without preamble. It's normal that a server would not introduce themselves before
taking your order but there was something distinguishable in her manner that led me to the misperception that if we didn't know each other already surely we
should and thus I was surprised by my own disappointment that she hadn't introduced herself. The question, on the surface innocent and normal, seemed
inexplicably weighted by an odd intimacy.
"Champagne?" I managed to stammer, indecisive.
"By the glass, we have Bollinger, Delamotte and Gosset. If you would like a full bottle however, the possibilities are unlimited..." She smiled like what I
could imagine to be an Eden snake, or THE Eden snake, her tongue lingering on the very edge of her lower lip, capped by her upper lip. Both were lightly
painted in a plum hue. How could I make such distinctions in the lighting? Well of course, because of the occasional flickers of bright light that now
emitted from what I could see was a stage in front of me. A stage decorated by a single pole.
"Just a glass of beer for the moment..." I finally replied. "Until I become better oriented."
Her expression did not change.
"As you wish," she replied perhaps robotically. "Please take a seat and I will retrieve the drink for you."
Jean François de Troy's 1735 painting Le Déjeuner d'Huîtres (The Oyster Luncheon) is the first known depiction of Champagne in painting
After primary fermentation and bottling, a second alcoholic fermentation occurs in the bottle. This second fermentation is induced by adding several grams of
yeast (usually Saccharomyces cerevisiae, although each brand has its own secret recipe) and several grams of rock sugar.[14] According to the Appellation
d'Origine Contrôlée a minimum of 1.5 years is required to completely develop all the flavour. For years where the harvest is exceptional, a millesimé is
declared and some Champagne will be made from and labeled as the products of a single vintage rather than a blend of multiple years' harvests. This means
that the Champagne will be very good and has to mature for at least 3 years. During this time the Champagne bottle is sealed with a crown cap similar to that
used on beer bottles.[1]
I sat down at the nearest table. The room was scattered with single men at tables surrounding the stage. How do I know they are single? I do not. One
imagines in such a situation that only a single man would frequent such a place yet the reality might well be the opposite. A wife loses her shape in these
parts rather quickly. Desire dissipates into a kind of malevolent paste of apathy. These men may merely be searching for a jump start to their own limping
libidos.
A thick woman in tightly wrapped clothing revealing far too much of her fatty countours, leaving one to imagine every starch-laden meal she'd consumed in a
lifetime, from childhood to the present, approached with a friendly smile. "Drink?" she asks me amiably. "Yes, beer." I recite, wondering if these drinks
would be part of the price of the show, if in fact there was a price at all. And in turn she goes to each man, takes each order.
The room is small considering the pole and the possibilities it suggests. I stare into space undistracted by what soon becomes a series of women in various
states of dress each approaching asking if I would like a drink and to each I reply yes, a glass of beer. No beer arrives. Not one of them. I grow
thirsty. I am disappointed bordering on angry. This would be the sign of poor management, this pointless repetition. Or perhaps layers of bureaucracy,
like filling in the same form in triplicate. I calm myself by taking a deep, slow breath. Eventually one of these beers will arrive.
In the meantime, the dim lights dim further still.
A small spotlight focuses on the pole. Yes, we get it, I want to say, impatient still for my beer.
A very tall woman appears. Her orange ponytail is the first thing I notice because it is long, down to the hem of her red leather miniskirt which admittedly
is rather high on her body to begin with. But perhaps this is because her legs are so long. Longer than her pony tail. There are two long, long legs, a
short torso, artificially enhanced breasts which are housed in a white cloth halter top. Her face, predictably, hidden by shadows although it is thus
impossible to tell if the shadowing is a clever stage trick to mask an inevitable horror or merely the anticipation of a beauty to be unleashed.
"The perfect face," the man beside me whispers suddenly, "has been pscychologically identified by the perimeter to area ratio, cheek to jaw ratio, the
preception of weight in the face..." he falls silent again. I remain silent wondering if there will be more.
There isn't because by then, the woman had turned her back to us, standing in front of the pole, her hands grasping it tightly. She nods forward and a song
is cued.
We are immediately transfixed. She seemed to perform a mixture of gymnastics and ballet. She mounted the pole, pulled herself up and spun. And when she
spun in our direction we collectively flinched. Some covered their faces because those long legs were swinging in a wide arc closer and closer to our faces
peering out near the edge of the stage. Soon she was upside down at the top of the pole doing splits and holding on with one hand.
"It's true," I muttered to the man beside me when her legs were in a backward arc and further from our faces. "The symetrics of her face are too beautiful
to be seen."
Eventually she dismounts and strides purposefully away from the stage. A man stands and follows her. He will negotiate a price.
The buzz in the room is nearly audible and to take matters to further levels of excitement, a swarm of women in varying states of dress and undress,
beautiful and hideous, fat and skinny, appear in the room serving drinks everywhere. I receive three glasses of beer.
How do I even know I want beer?
The lights brighten significantly, nearly to the point of being able to make out the faces of each man in the murk.
"What are we doing here?" I ask the man beside me. I turn to face him only to see that he has disappeared. The curtain behind the stage is still rippling.
I feel lost again, panicked. I drink the beers, all three of them in rapid succession, barely tasting them.
I stand up. What is behind the curtains?
A woman appears before me, blocking the path. "How about another beer, mister? Or perhaps a bottle of champagne?" I look her over. She is young. She has
thin, stringy blonde hair. Her face is thickly layered in mascara to mask the youth but the youth is evident in that it is too youthful. How do I know what
is too youthful? She does not bear the hallmarks of innocence. Her eyes, even through the mascara, are cynical, tired. I have seen my own face which is
just as cynical and tired without the mascara. I wonder what horrors she has experienced. Does she remember them?
"Can we talk if I buy a bottle of champagne?" She smiles, confident again. There had been a brief period of uncertainty of course. She feels this in every
encounter. She is being weighed, assessed, judged on the only thing she has in her own eyes of merit, her sex.
"We can do whatever you like if you buy a bottle of champagne, mister. Follow me."
I hesitate. Kinderton gave me money. He is always appearing to dump cash in my hands. But I'm not sure how much I have, how much it is worth. I don't
know this or any currency. I check my pockets.
I pull out what he gave me, a thick wad of multi-coloured notes with numbers on them. And faces. Faces of dead people. You cannot have your face on
currency unless you are dead. How do I know they are dead? Because they do not look like anyone around me. They are clearly from another age.
She removes it all from my hand, smiling all the time, even beginning to hum to herself.
She signals to someone I cannot see and then takes my hand. "Come with me." she whispers.
******
We enter another room, this one with a door. She uses a pass key to open it, there is a little click and we enter. She turns flicks a switch and the room,
dominated by a large bed, is illuminated by vague red light.
I sit at the desk immediately. I want to create some space between me and her and the bed. My intentions are still innocent. I want to know primarily if
she remembers the horrors.
"What horrors?" she asks, wrinkling her nose in befuddlement. Her nose is tiny. Is it proportionate to the rest of her face? I wonder if the ratio between
her cheek to jaw is correct. I realise I don't know what the correct ratio. Do I find her face beautiful, she asks.
"Whatever horrors brought you here." I explain slowly, unaccustomed to having to explain what is evident. She wrinkles her nose again. This is not normal,
I can tell. I'm supposed to grab her and let my lust run free. There is a knock on the door.
"Champagne!" the male voice announces. The door opens and a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne nestled inside of it is placed just inside before the
door is shut again as quickly as it was opened.
She clearly wishes to ignore my line of questioning. She marches to the bucket, picks it up and brings it to the desk where I am sitting.
"Please. Open and pour. Please."
*****
We each have a glass of champagne. It registers in the back of my mind that despite the consumption of alcohol I feel relatively nothing with respect to
effect. It is as though I have been on a steady diet of juice rather than beer.
"So," I begin again after a mouthful and a swallow. "What horrors brought you here, to this place at this hour?"
"Would you like to touch me?" She moves to start unbuttoning her blouse but I hold her hands gently to stop her. I see that there are tears forming in her
eyes. "Don't you like me?" she asks, innocent for the first time, the professionalism of her ego exposing her. "Are you some sort of freak?"
Her words hit me then, like a fist in my stomach. Or perhaps she had in fact hit me in the stomach. I double over and retch on the purple shag carpeting.
"This is not appropriate!" she shouts angerly at my display and lack of proper conduct. I was supposed to undress her, paw at her, beg to get my money's
worth.
There is another knock at the door.
"Is everything alright in there?" a deep male voice queries.
"Yes" we both say simultaneously.
We laugh at this for some reason because it seems for a second even more absurd than being in this room with her. A private joke shared between us suddenly
bonds us.
"I'm sorry I punched you in the stomach." she says.
"Perhaps I deserved it."
"No, you are probably a nice man. But you ask too many questions. Why don't you want to fuck me?"
I say nothing and take another swallow of champagne to clear the taste of bile in my mouth. The pathetic accumulation of vomit is still steaming on the
floor between where I am sitting and where she is standing. The difference between room temperature and body temperature. I am wondering what the correct
answer is. Why don't I want to fuck her? Why am I supposed to want to fuck her?
"Are you nervous? Is that it? Wait. I will turn off the lights. We can sit here in the dark, or better still, we can move to the edge of the bed and sit
for a moment in the dark. Perhaps then you will feel normal." She moves quickly, almost as quickly as when she'd seized the bucket of champagne from beside
the door, and snaps the lights off. We are completely in the dark. She takes my hand and guides me wordless to the edge of the bed. We sit.
"You are a lovely man," she begins, reaching out to caress my face. "You do not have to be nervous. I am gentle."
"I'm not nervous." I explain, taking her hand from my face and placing it to where I think her lap is. "I do not know who I am or where I am. I am lost. I
am looking for answers. I am hoping that if I ask you some questions, something will provoke a memory."
She says nothing for a moment.
"You do not find me beautiful?"
"I cannot judge beauty. Beauty requires perception, a memory. I have neither. I am looking for answers. I am trying to find out who I am."
"I don't understand you." she moves slightly away from me and I can sense her hurt in the darkness. For a moment, I consider touching her if only to pacify
her, put her mind at ease.
"From bitter searching of the heart we rise to play a greater part." I say suddenly, surprised that a phrase from somewhere enters from my memory. "Leonard
Cohen." I explain. I am encouraged because this is one of the first inklings of a past that has embraced me. Why do I know it? What does it mean?
"You are hurting me with words." she sniffles.
"Do you remember how you got here?"
"Yes, by taxi, as always."
"No, I mean how you came to be in this position. Not here in this room but this establishment, this, let's say predicament."
She is silent but I cannot tell if she is merely waiting me out or if she is pondering my words, weighing whether or not to answer them.
"Listen mister, I don't know what is the matter with you. You pay money, you buy champagne, we come to this room and we are supposed to fuck. Everyone is
happy. You are fucking with me and I don't like it. You are making me feel bad. Why don't you touch me? I can give you wonderful pleasure." She tries to
touch me again and again, I remove her hand.
She curses in a language I don't understand and I feel her get up from the edge of the bed.
"Get out!" she shouts. "Get out!" she shouts again.
The deep male voice is at the door again.
"Is everything alright in there?"
This time we do not share a private joke and laugh.
"Get out now or I will tell them to come in and remove you." Her voice betrays no innocence. It is so cold that it is apparent we are strangers and have
always been strangers and will always be strangers and that this professional interlude was just that.
I stand up and leave.
*******
Kinderton is chuckling to himself, drinking a bottle of champagne, dangling it by the neck and taking liberal swigs.
"All that money for nothing." He shakes his head. "Good thing there is plenty more."
"I don't understand what happened." I begin to explain.
"Of course you don't, Marsaw. Follow me."
******
We enter a larger room which is entered into from a hallway leading away from the previous room but it appears we are still in the same building.
THIS WILL LEAD TO THE SCENE EXPLAINING THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE IMAGES OF THE NUDITY OF FORMER LOVERS WITH THE NUDITY OF PORNOGRAPHY, THE OBLITERATION OF THE BEAUTY OF THE SOUL.
Circle One: LIMBO - INNOCENT SOULS
CIRCLE ONE - LIMBO - INNOCENT SOULS
What I need to establish firstly - how does this happen? We might consider the opening trauma linked to repressed memory?
SO at first we've got the trauma, then we've got Marsaw with his repressed memory then we've got Kinderton for:
Recovered memory therapy (RMT) is a term coined by affiliates of the False Memory Syndrome Foundation[26][27] referring to what they described as a range of psychotherapy methods based on recalling memories of abuse that had previously been forgotten by the patient.[28] The term is not listed in DSM-IV or used by mainstream formal psychotherapy modality.[26] Opponents of the therapy advance the hypothesis that therapy can create false memories through suggestion techniques; this hypothesis is controversial and has been neither proven nor disproven. Some research has shown evidence supporting the hypothesis,[29][30] and this evidence is questioned by some researchers.[26][31][32] Even when patients who decide their recovered memories are false retract their claims, they can suffer post-traumatic stress disorder due to the trauma of illusory memories.[33]
Ok, Marsaw has traumatic memory loss.
Often, the fugue state remains undiagnosed until the individual has emerged from it and can recall their real identity. Upon emerging from the fugue state, the individual is usually surprised to find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings.
In one form of psychogenic amnesia, called fugue state, individuals may forget not only their pasts but their very identities. Despite the many Hollywood movies depicting this phenomenon, fugue state is extremely rare in real life. Fugue state normally resolves with time, particularly with the help of therapy.
here is a good, basic link for this...
Unlike most forms of amnesia, which are associated with damage to specific parts of the brain (such as the hippocampus), dissociative fugue has no known physical cause. Typically, the memory loss is triggered by a traumatic life event; subsequently, the individual enters the fugue state, during which the retrieval of memories associated with the event is somehow prevented. Thus, the fugue state is psychogenic: psychological factors impinge upon the neurobiological bases of memory retrieval. The memory loss is, however, reversible; once the individual emerges from the fugue state, he or she is once again capable of retrieving the “lost” memories.
Another good link: NYT article here on dissociative fugue
try to search extraordinary people david fitzpatrick as well.
*****
SO, whilst it is good and well to have Marsaw and his forgotten past, where does he at first find himself?
he first thing about his life that Jeff Ingram remembers is “picking myself up off the ground” in Denver, although he didn’t know where he was at the time. He had no identification but was wearing a ring and a watch, had eight dollar bills in his pocket (he’d left with $700 in cash) and seemed unhurt—suggesting he had not been the victim of a crime. (His car has not been found.) He hadn’t lost his functional memory—retaining the ability to speak, for example. But at some point, he gave up asking for help and walked for six to eight hours until he found Denver Health Medical Center.
“I don’t know who I am,” he told the desk attendant.
“What do you mean?” she asked, handing him an admittance form—an absurdity for someone with no name. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Disbelieving hospital staffers fired questions at him: “Who are you?” “Where are you from?”
*****
SO, Marsaw finds himself in a strange city combination of LA and Paris. In an alley?
I thought I'd been dreaming.
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night or just prior to dawn, with a start? An audible, soul-shivering start as though you'd woken just in time to elude the grasp of death? A start that is in fact the start of the search to determine where you are, to recall who you are, how many fingers on your hand, who is sleeping beside you?
Sleeping is a death and waking is the escape. I recalled only that I was in the habit of staying awake as long and as often as possible. I recalled in this slow-to-rise stalgmite of recollection that to manage this I drank and by drinking I mean a slow, incessant habit growing into the crescendo of an all-night bender there is no escaping from.
Or at least so I once thought.
Switching to W G Sebald's The Rings of Saturn to find this nugget:
"...and yet, says Browne, all knowledge is enveloped in darkness. What we perceive are no more than the isolated lights in the abyss of ignorance, in the shadow-filled edifice of the world...
I have just opened my eyes to find myself prone in an alleyway between two dumpsters. It is night. It is cold. As my eyes adjust I see people walking past the alley, a few scattered, boisterous people. The kind who frequent the late nights in urban areas. The only kind.
I stood up slowly. Slow motion is the preferred method of movement I said aloud, hearing my voice raspy, cigarette scarred. Upon standing I immediately fell into a coughing spasm that doubled me over and continued until I'd hacked out a wadge of phlegm and was able to stand straight again.
Once that minor trauma had been overcome I was left to wonder what I was doing there in the alley to begin with.
Or, as I shortly discovered in a disjointed yet unpanicked way, who I was.
I shot her.
I can admit that now.
I pleaded guilty at the trial of course, there was no alternative given the evidence. The truth is, until now, until this very moment, I've never admitted it to myself.
The truth is I only shot her because she was going to shoot me first. Or so I thought.
I couldn't explain why there was no weapon found on her. They said she was defenseless, that I shot her in cold blood.
I knew that she was going to shoot me if I didn't shoot her first.
Maybe not at that moment, maybe not even that evening but I knew deep down inside that one day she would shoot me, the second I let down my defences and relaxed she would have shot me.
How do I know that?
I just know. Something this monumental, to have the constant threat of this hanging over your head day in and day out makes you realise that it is inevitable. It WAS inevitable. Until I shot her first.
I checked my pockets for clues. There was no wallet, no money. There were no keys to anything. There was nothing to identify myself with.
I walked slowly out of the alleyway into the street which was eerily empty of people. The revellers that had squawked past so noisily had disappeared. The street was strewn with litter, lamp-lit, many of its buildings boarded up.
I could sense panic rising in me like a bile.
I had no idea where I was.
******
When I woke again it was light.
I was on the ground, underneath a thick pile of newspapers in a cluster of trees in a park. I stood as calmly as I could, brushing the newspapers and nettles from me and peered through the foliage. A few people passed by on a distant foot path, nannies with strollers, joggers. I emerged cautiously, worried that it was obvious I had no idea who I was or where I was.
What am I to do without money?
I decided to try and figure out where I was deducing despite my state that this was currently the easier of the two options. It was obviously a city, somewhere. Away from the park I could hear the sounds of a city, car horns, the hum of traffic. Was it my city?
It was then I heard a rustling in the dead, autumnal leaves. Despite my own uncertainty my curiosity was piqued. I took a step nearer. I followed signs for the city centre and found myself upon a walk of about 30 minutes, a slow walk because I was entirely uncertain of myself and why I was here and was afraid someone might guess this, that perhaps there was some reason for my current state. Surely there was a reason but if it were criminal I didn't want to alert the authorities before I'd had the chance to discover anything further for myself.
THREE ANIMALS OR WHATEVER THESE THREE SYMBOLS. TO BE FOLLOWED BY KIMBERLAND, THE GUIDE
I hadn't been walking very long when
Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.Psychoanalyst Carl Jung emphasizes the collective unconscious as being inhabited with archetypes that are derived from primal animal behaviors that all humankind possesses. (Huffman 494) Researcher William McDougal proposes in his "Instinct" theory of motivation, that humans are compelled by behaviors that are unlearned, uniform in expression and universal to the species. (Huffman 440) It is these carnal compellations that Christianity attempts to inhibit that are chronicled throughout Christian verse. Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.
In Inferno, Dante first encounters the leopard which blocks his path to righteousness. He writes, "Beyond the point the slope begins to rise / sprang up a leopard, trim and very swift! It was covered by a pelt of many spots. / And everywhere I looked, the beast was there" (Inferno I 32-35). Here, Dante is drawing on the sinister conception of the leopard that lays in wait of its prey. This leopard camouflages himself much as the fraudulent may mask their sinister intentions.
In contrast, this sinister characterization is avoided in Nigerian philosophy, Benin, which embraces animals as symbolism of deities. In Benin, the Oba or king is all powerful and is the owner of the land and its people. (Eboreime) The Oba and royal power, represented by images of the leopard, focuses on more positive traits such as speed, agility, cunning, and prowess. (Peck, Coote) For example, Dante regards the preying leopard as a demonic physical threat, whereas Nigerian philosophy would view this same leopard as a patient and skilled hunter. Another African myth comes from the pygmies of Zaire. Tore, the wood god, is represented by the leopard. He is said to be the 'lord of the animal' and patron of the hunt. (Lindemans) This conception also focuses on the leopard as a graceful hunter. The African people glorify the leopard for the same characteristics that are frowned upon in Christian literature.
Following the leopard, Dante encounters the lion, which he uses to symbolize sins of violence and ambition. A group of lions is called a pride, which is also a sin of ambition, punishable in Dante's Hell. A lion is the ruler of the land and asserts himself as such. Dante writes of the lion, "…he was coming straight toward me, it seemed, / with head raised high, and furious with hunger" (Inferno I 46-47). The reader draws the violent, destructive nature from the lion symbol which is also displayed in Christian literature. Perhaps I Peter 5:8 displays this paradigm best as it reads, "Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." Dante invokes the reader's conception of the lion as he uses him to represent sins that involve violence against others. This symbolism births feelings of fear and recognition of the danger of the lion as one to fear, which spawns a literary barrier to serve as a deterrent from sin.
The lion is also symbolic in Egyptian Mythology. The goddess of war and vengeance, Sekhmet or "Powerful One", contrasts this negative perspective of animal symbolism that Dante portrays. She is pictured with the head of a lioness and symbolizes divine retribution. The Egyptian Sun God, Ra, calls upon his daughter, Sekhmet, to slaughter humans that had concocted a plan to rebel against him, in his aging and vulnerable state. Ra punishes humanity be sending his vengeful daughter. She single handedly defends her father, the almighty Ra by ravaging through the rebellious village, devouring those who plotted against him. Sekhmet, in all her glory, wades through the blood of the punished, claiming her father's exaltation. (Willis 41) Beginning around 1000 B.C.E., Sekhmet began to be portrayed with an alter persona, Bastet. With the changing persona, her appearance changed as well. She began to be depicted as a domesticated cat. Her new duty is to be an "avenger," and slay enemies of Egypt and enemies of the gods. (Cass)
While Egyptian myth conjures the vicious and vengeful spirit of the lion, they do so respectfully and recognize the strength and brutality in a grandiose manner. The story of Sekhmet's wrath recognizes that she attacked only to protect her father. Sekhmet's power was dually respected and feared. Messengers of Sekhmet were thought to be infectious disease. Following this notion, her priests also served as doctors. (Willis 50) While the Egyptians shared many of the same characterizations of the lion as Christians, they applied them differently. Egyptian conception focuses on the strength and power of the lion and makes its mission divine retribution, as opposed to the brutality and violent nature that is the focus of Dante's symbolic representation.
Following the lion on the path is the she-wolf. Dante, using the she-wolf to represent the sins of incontinence writes of the she-wolf, "And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness / (how many people she has brought to grief!)" (Inferno I 49-51). He draws from the reader's negative perception of the wolf, which attributes the wolf as of a predatory nature. The she-wolf is portrayed as a callous hunter who does not differentiate her victims, nor is she merciful. This view is also displayed in Christian literature, especially in the Bible. Genesis 49:27 reads, "Benjamin is a ravenous wolf; in the morning he devours the prey, in the evening he devours the plunder." The author focuses on the negative characteristics of the wolf as a violent and agitated hunter whereas other culture and mythology revere the wolf for its majestic power. Dante opposes this positive vision with his symbolism, as he uses the wolf to represent the sins that humans find irresistible. He uses the mystery and power of the wolf to emphasize the enticing and alluring manner of these particular sins.
Contrastingly, Native American kinship with the wolf is prevalent as they view the wolf as the brother of man. (Maxwell 348) The Chipewyans honor the wolf as their creator. Their creation myth attributes the body of a wolf to have become the world. The land is made of his flesh, fish are made from his internal organs, and birds were created from his skin. (Maxwell 330) Sub arctic tribes, such as the Ingalik and Koyukon of Alaska, hold the wolf in the highest regard. Members of the tribe are forbidden to kill wolves, as they are considered as brothers to the tribesmen. (Maxwell 348) Native American antiquity accounts for humanity having spawned from animals and does not differentiate the two. They believe their ancestors began life as animals and then transformed themselves into human beings. (Willis 31) The First Nations view wolves as teachers or pathfinders. A wolf is seen as fiercely loyal to their mates and therefore dedicated to their families. (Beaupre)
Roman Mythology offers another positive conception of the wolf, with the ancient story of Romulus. Along with his infant twin Remus, he was abandoned beside a river. They were rescued by a she-wolf and reared alongside her cubs for a few years. (Lindemans) This mythological she-wolf is given a nurturing and affectionate persona that may stem from the animal's loyalty to the pack. While focusing on the characteristics more becoming to the wolf, the Romans have allowed a positive conception into human psyche that differs drastically from the sinister huntress we encounter in Dante's Inferno.
While many pre-Christian and non-Christian faiths may use animals symbolically, they tend to focus on less sinister traits or emphasize these animalistic traits in a positive light. Christianity has long sought to exterminate the primal instinct of humanity. Thus, their use of animals in a symbolic manner tends to focus on the negativity of animal behavior. Animals will submit to their carnal desires instinctively, as will humans, which is an underlying problem in the Christian plight to purify humanity and deter them from sin.
By experiencing Dante's animal symbolism in the Inferno, the reader is connected to his negative view of animal behavior which is the exact form of carnal human nature the Church sought to eradicate from humanity, so as to lessen chance of sin. Human beings are prone to their impulses. Mankind bears an interpersonal conflict between his urges and his will. These "animalistic" urges force one of Christian faith to feel guilt for having submitted to them. Some may say that it is will and faith in God that separates us from the animal kingdom. This is the reasoning behind Dante's choice of individual animals as representative of the three dimensions of sins depicted in Inferno. One can clearly see the type of negative animal symbolism that pervades both the Old and New Testaments, in Dante's Inferno.the leopard, the lion and the wolf. They symbolize the major categories of sin: incontinence, violence and fraud. Or as they are more commonly called – lust, pride and avarice. In her commentary, Dorothy L. Sayers explains that these categories of sin were associated with the three stages of life – lust with youth, pride (self-conceit) with the middle years and avarice with old age. Of course, they can attack a person at any time of his life.
Whatever his conception, Dante likely drew inspiration for the beasts from this biblical passage prophesying the destruction of those who refuse to repent for their iniquities: "Wherefore a lion out of the wood hath slain them, a wolf in the evening hath spoiled them, a leopard watcheth for their cities: every one that shall go out thence shall be taken, because their transgressions are multiplied, their rebellions strengthened" (Jeremiah 5:6).
It is perhaps best, at this early stage, to take note of the salient characteristics of the animals--the leopard's spotted hide, the lion's intimidating presence, the she-wolf's insatiable hunger--and see how they relate to subsequent events in Dante's journey through hell.
I’m thinking about all this in dire detail as I’m walking the streets going somewhere aimlessly. I pick a street and start walking down it and then when the mood strikes me, I take a different street and all the while with no accurate measure of where I am or where I’m going, just random turns. I need something to visualise it. A familiar mark, a subway station. But I’ve got nothing because I don’t even know where I’m going.
Oh wait, yes I do, I just remembered, I’m going to meet with Kimberland, a salesman of some kind. I don’t know what, does it really matter? Do you ever WANT someone to sell you something? This whole moaning culture is a giant vat of selling, shovels full of bullshit they take in their hands and lovingly shove between your lips into your mouth. You can spit it out over and over again but that bullshit taste is still there, long after they leave. It’s their calling card, these punks, these gigantic destroyers of the human soul and champion bullshit feeders.
I met Kimberland on a street corner somewhere. Lost, chum, he asks me as I stand there trying to decide which corner to turn. Fuck off, I said because I don’t like strangers coming up to me unsolicited and talking to me. Not unless they’re fit birds scoffing a light or copping a feel. There now, are you offended? You see, your glass ceiling is fucking low, kid. You’ve gotta raise that glass ceiling really fucking high if you are going to get through all this shit without it getting caked on to you.
Kimberland was used to this kind of street abuse apparently because he was utterly unflustered.
Wanna buy something, he asks.
Like what?
I dunno, what do you want to buy?
I would like to buy a gun and then shoot you with it.
You’d have to buy the bullets too. And probably a hunting license. In fact, if you bought a gun from me and bullets as well and just shot me right here…were you thinking of shooting to kill me or only wound me?….
I haven’t decided yet.
Well, in either scenario, you’d have to buy a lot of influence with the local authorities to get off whatever myriad of charges you’d be facing for shooting someone in broad daylight on a main street corner.
What if I simply said I was religiously intolerant?
Well, firstly, I’m not religious so I’m not sure that’s possible if that’s you’re excuse for shooting me. And secondly, even if shooting in the name of religious intolerance, you won’t be exempted from contempt or conviction. But we’re getting off track. How much money do you have to spend?
None. I don’t use money these days. I used plastic. The plastic symbolises the substance of my need for consumption. How about a goat?
Do you have a goat?
No. But maybe you’ve got one for sale?
******
I meet Kimberlain on another street corner, weeks and weeks later. It’s raining now. I haven’t worn anything in anticipation of getting wet, or prevention of getting wet. So I am soaking when I reach him at the predetermined corner. He’s never tried to sell me anything again since that first meeting, I made him promise. If we were going to hang out again some time.
Kimberlain has a big fucking umbrella with him. A fuck you sort of umbrella that, if you were walking down a street carrying it you’d be poking every fucker you passed in the eye or the mouth or the ear. But because he’s stationary, people just walk around him, muttering or turning back after a few steps to hurl a hideous look of disgust at him. Little daggers of bad karma.
It’s like a fucking tent, I said, as I approach him.
There’s only room for one under here, he warns.
Then we’d better find shelter.
******
It used to be easy to find shelter. Just go into a fucking bar. Nice and warm. Drinks to get you fucked up and forgetting everything that makes you sick to your stomach. Drinks and more drinks. But not any more. I take pills that make me vomit if I drink alcohol. I gits them for free. From Big Bossman Government, all-caring,, yummy mummy father superior big business government who want me off the liquor at all times because otherwise I become a deficit to society rather than a show flower of happiness. On these pills, I drink only when I want to vomit which admittedly, doesn’t happen very often.
We could stand under the bus stop shelter, Kimberlain points out with the sharp tip of his umbrella nearly poking out my eye. Or you could, you miserable git. Look at you, soaking. What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why don’t you buy an umbrella.
What, from you?
No, not from me. But there’s other people around who are selling umbrellas. Especially when it’s raining. Rain is an umbrella salesman’s nirvana. You could have gone to one of them. You could be nearly dry instead of soaking and looking for a fucking bus stop to hide under in this downpour.
I like the rain. It makes me feel human. Why would I want an umbrella getting in the way?
Listen, I’m not standing under the fucking bus stop. If you like the rain so much stand in it out here like a man whilst we have our conversation.
Dark wood - symbolises lost in alcoholism. Speaker must find his way out of alcoholism. A bitterness that has cut him off from the rest of the world. (in the instant case, this will be the murder of his spouse)
I cannot explain how I got here. I don't remember the steps taken. I don't remember the thought process. I don't remember the motivations of the decisions taken. Suffice that I am here.
It is Happy Hour in The Fox and Hound. The Fox and Hound is a bar in the city. It is called Happy Hour because the drinks are sold at a reduced price and the patrons consume more cheaply. It is happy for the patrons because they both save money and drink at the same time, giving the illusion of getting something for nothing whilst simultaneously intoxicating the brain to the point of happiness. So goes the theory anyway.
It is happy for the landlord because the cheaper prices draw in bigger crowds and even at discounted prices, bigger crowds mean bigger profits. It is, I believe, what they would call a win-win situation.
Of course there are those for whom the mere or slight intoxication of the brain is insufficient. Everyone is different, has different needs, different motivations for drinking and thus drinks in a different way. For some, the intoxication is an exploration in moderation for others, like myself, it is merely the first stage of a temporary illusion of happiness.
So as I sit alone at the corner of a horse-shoe shaped bar I debate this issue within myself; the temporary illusion of happiness. The artificial induction of the temporary illusion of happiness. I attempt these little exercises of thought to try and induce moderation. The idea is that if I can convince myself that the reality of moderation is not allowing oneself to go beyond that certain point where intoxication becomes inebriation, where happiness prevails over misery, I will have achieved a small victory of sorts. Nightly I bring this challenge to myself and nightly, I fail, despite all thoughts of discouragement.
Gradually I will realise I am diseased. Alcoholism is a disease. The disease of wanting more when more is unnecessary. The disease of greed, the illusion of happiness. I am not unlike a capitalist in that way. A capitalist also has a disease of greed although one might argue that such a disease is at the very least, useful to capitalism itself, necessary. Alcoholism is the inverse; dysfunctional and counter-productive. But for those firsst few drinks anyway, when the temporary illusion of happiness is achieved and instead of stopping at that border to observe and behold and revel, the boundry is destroyed. Yes, destroyed. The nihilistic greed towards self-destruction must also play a role. Without it, moderation is possible. For people like me it is the goal. To reach the point of inebriation that life returns to the very stage of absurdity it exudes when sober.
The drink is the promise provided to the disinherited.
(STAGES OF DRINKING ON THE BRAIN)
Kinderton, Winston and Delia. Kinderton is my psychologist.
if you do not work you become old in a short period of time.
The story of the girl in Budapest who rings a chat show on the radio dealing with love lost, psychologic problems, etc., the usual universal whining, and spills her guts, really lets out her true feelings about her boyfriend, what a sexual animal he is, how he is always screwing around on her and asking how she can find the strength to break it off with him. He happens to be working the night shift in some factory, listening to that same station and he asks himself, broken hearted at first before overcome with rage, is that MY beloved Berluska who is spilling her guts on radio all my friends will hear and humiliating me?
What I need to establish firstly - how does this happen? We might consider the opening trauma linked to repressed memory?
SO at first we've got the trauma, then we've got Marsaw with his repressed memory then we've got Kinderton for:
Recovered memory therapy (RMT) is a term coined by affiliates of the False Memory Syndrome Foundation[26][27] referring to what they described as a range of psychotherapy methods based on recalling memories of abuse that had previously been forgotten by the patient.[28] The term is not listed in DSM-IV or used by mainstream formal psychotherapy modality.[26] Opponents of the therapy advance the hypothesis that therapy can create false memories through suggestion techniques; this hypothesis is controversial and has been neither proven nor disproven. Some research has shown evidence supporting the hypothesis,[29][30] and this evidence is questioned by some researchers.[26][31][32] Even when patients who decide their recovered memories are false retract their claims, they can suffer post-traumatic stress disorder due to the trauma of illusory memories.[33]
Ok, Marsaw has traumatic memory loss.
Often, the fugue state remains undiagnosed until the individual has emerged from it and can recall their real identity. Upon emerging from the fugue state, the individual is usually surprised to find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings.
In one form of psychogenic amnesia, called fugue state, individuals may forget not only their pasts but their very identities. Despite the many Hollywood movies depicting this phenomenon, fugue state is extremely rare in real life. Fugue state normally resolves with time, particularly with the help of therapy.
here is a good, basic link for this...
Unlike most forms of amnesia, which are associated with damage to specific parts of the brain (such as the hippocampus), dissociative fugue has no known physical cause. Typically, the memory loss is triggered by a traumatic life event; subsequently, the individual enters the fugue state, during which the retrieval of memories associated with the event is somehow prevented. Thus, the fugue state is psychogenic: psychological factors impinge upon the neurobiological bases of memory retrieval. The memory loss is, however, reversible; once the individual emerges from the fugue state, he or she is once again capable of retrieving the “lost” memories.
Another good link: NYT article here on dissociative fugue
try to search extraordinary people david fitzpatrick as well.
*****
SO, whilst it is good and well to have Marsaw and his forgotten past, where does he at first find himself?
he first thing about his life that Jeff Ingram remembers is “picking myself up off the ground” in Denver, although he didn’t know where he was at the time. He had no identification but was wearing a ring and a watch, had eight dollar bills in his pocket (he’d left with $700 in cash) and seemed unhurt—suggesting he had not been the victim of a crime. (His car has not been found.) He hadn’t lost his functional memory—retaining the ability to speak, for example. But at some point, he gave up asking for help and walked for six to eight hours until he found Denver Health Medical Center.
“I don’t know who I am,” he told the desk attendant.
“What do you mean?” she asked, handing him an admittance form—an absurdity for someone with no name. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Disbelieving hospital staffers fired questions at him: “Who are you?” “Where are you from?”
*****
SO, Marsaw finds himself in a strange city combination of LA and Paris. In an alley?
I thought I'd been dreaming.
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night or just prior to dawn, with a start? An audible, soul-shivering start as though you'd woken just in time to elude the grasp of death? A start that is in fact the start of the search to determine where you are, to recall who you are, how many fingers on your hand, who is sleeping beside you?
Sleeping is a death and waking is the escape. I recalled only that I was in the habit of staying awake as long and as often as possible. I recalled in this slow-to-rise stalgmite of recollection that to manage this I drank and by drinking I mean a slow, incessant habit growing into the crescendo of an all-night bender there is no escaping from.
Or at least so I once thought.
Switching to W G Sebald's The Rings of Saturn to find this nugget:
"...and yet, says Browne, all knowledge is enveloped in darkness. What we perceive are no more than the isolated lights in the abyss of ignorance, in the shadow-filled edifice of the world...
I have just opened my eyes to find myself prone in an alleyway between two dumpsters. It is night. It is cold. As my eyes adjust I see people walking past the alley, a few scattered, boisterous people. The kind who frequent the late nights in urban areas. The only kind.
I stood up slowly. Slow motion is the preferred method of movement I said aloud, hearing my voice raspy, cigarette scarred. Upon standing I immediately fell into a coughing spasm that doubled me over and continued until I'd hacked out a wadge of phlegm and was able to stand straight again.
Once that minor trauma had been overcome I was left to wonder what I was doing there in the alley to begin with.
Or, as I shortly discovered in a disjointed yet unpanicked way, who I was.
I shot her.
I can admit that now.
I pleaded guilty at the trial of course, there was no alternative given the evidence. The truth is, until now, until this very moment, I've never admitted it to myself.
The truth is I only shot her because she was going to shoot me first. Or so I thought.
I couldn't explain why there was no weapon found on her. They said she was defenseless, that I shot her in cold blood.
I knew that she was going to shoot me if I didn't shoot her first.
Maybe not at that moment, maybe not even that evening but I knew deep down inside that one day she would shoot me, the second I let down my defences and relaxed she would have shot me.
How do I know that?
I just know. Something this monumental, to have the constant threat of this hanging over your head day in and day out makes you realise that it is inevitable. It WAS inevitable. Until I shot her first.
I checked my pockets for clues. There was no wallet, no money. There were no keys to anything. There was nothing to identify myself with.
I walked slowly out of the alleyway into the street which was eerily empty of people. The revellers that had squawked past so noisily had disappeared. The street was strewn with litter, lamp-lit, many of its buildings boarded up.
I could sense panic rising in me like a bile.
I had no idea where I was.
******
When I woke again it was light.
I was on the ground, underneath a thick pile of newspapers in a cluster of trees in a park. I stood as calmly as I could, brushing the newspapers and nettles from me and peered through the foliage. A few people passed by on a distant foot path, nannies with strollers, joggers. I emerged cautiously, worried that it was obvious I had no idea who I was or where I was.
What am I to do without money?
I decided to try and figure out where I was deducing despite my state that this was currently the easier of the two options. It was obviously a city, somewhere. Away from the park I could hear the sounds of a city, car horns, the hum of traffic. Was it my city?
It was then I heard a rustling in the dead, autumnal leaves. Despite my own uncertainty my curiosity was piqued. I took a step nearer. I followed signs for the city centre and found myself upon a walk of about 30 minutes, a slow walk because I was entirely uncertain of myself and why I was here and was afraid someone might guess this, that perhaps there was some reason for my current state. Surely there was a reason but if it were criminal I didn't want to alert the authorities before I'd had the chance to discover anything further for myself.
THREE ANIMALS OR WHATEVER THESE THREE SYMBOLS. TO BE FOLLOWED BY KIMBERLAND, THE GUIDE
I hadn't been walking very long when
Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.Psychoanalyst Carl Jung emphasizes the collective unconscious as being inhabited with archetypes that are derived from primal animal behaviors that all humankind possesses. (Huffman 494) Researcher William McDougal proposes in his "Instinct" theory of motivation, that humans are compelled by behaviors that are unlearned, uniform in expression and universal to the species. (Huffman 440) It is these carnal compellations that Christianity attempts to inhibit that are chronicled throughout Christian verse. Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.
In Inferno, Dante first encounters the leopard which blocks his path to righteousness. He writes, "Beyond the point the slope begins to rise / sprang up a leopard, trim and very swift! It was covered by a pelt of many spots. / And everywhere I looked, the beast was there" (Inferno I 32-35). Here, Dante is drawing on the sinister conception of the leopard that lays in wait of its prey. This leopard camouflages himself much as the fraudulent may mask their sinister intentions.
In contrast, this sinister characterization is avoided in Nigerian philosophy, Benin, which embraces animals as symbolism of deities. In Benin, the Oba or king is all powerful and is the owner of the land and its people. (Eboreime) The Oba and royal power, represented by images of the leopard, focuses on more positive traits such as speed, agility, cunning, and prowess. (Peck, Coote) For example, Dante regards the preying leopard as a demonic physical threat, whereas Nigerian philosophy would view this same leopard as a patient and skilled hunter. Another African myth comes from the pygmies of Zaire. Tore, the wood god, is represented by the leopard. He is said to be the 'lord of the animal' and patron of the hunt. (Lindemans) This conception also focuses on the leopard as a graceful hunter. The African people glorify the leopard for the same characteristics that are frowned upon in Christian literature.
Following the leopard, Dante encounters the lion, which he uses to symbolize sins of violence and ambition. A group of lions is called a pride, which is also a sin of ambition, punishable in Dante's Hell. A lion is the ruler of the land and asserts himself as such. Dante writes of the lion, "…he was coming straight toward me, it seemed, / with head raised high, and furious with hunger" (Inferno I 46-47). The reader draws the violent, destructive nature from the lion symbol which is also displayed in Christian literature. Perhaps I Peter 5:8 displays this paradigm best as it reads, "Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." Dante invokes the reader's conception of the lion as he uses him to represent sins that involve violence against others. This symbolism births feelings of fear and recognition of the danger of the lion as one to fear, which spawns a literary barrier to serve as a deterrent from sin.
The lion is also symbolic in Egyptian Mythology. The goddess of war and vengeance, Sekhmet or "Powerful One", contrasts this negative perspective of animal symbolism that Dante portrays. She is pictured with the head of a lioness and symbolizes divine retribution. The Egyptian Sun God, Ra, calls upon his daughter, Sekhmet, to slaughter humans that had concocted a plan to rebel against him, in his aging and vulnerable state. Ra punishes humanity be sending his vengeful daughter. She single handedly defends her father, the almighty Ra by ravaging through the rebellious village, devouring those who plotted against him. Sekhmet, in all her glory, wades through the blood of the punished, claiming her father's exaltation. (Willis 41) Beginning around 1000 B.C.E., Sekhmet began to be portrayed with an alter persona, Bastet. With the changing persona, her appearance changed as well. She began to be depicted as a domesticated cat. Her new duty is to be an "avenger," and slay enemies of Egypt and enemies of the gods. (Cass)
While Egyptian myth conjures the vicious and vengeful spirit of the lion, they do so respectfully and recognize the strength and brutality in a grandiose manner. The story of Sekhmet's wrath recognizes that she attacked only to protect her father. Sekhmet's power was dually respected and feared. Messengers of Sekhmet were thought to be infectious disease. Following this notion, her priests also served as doctors. (Willis 50) While the Egyptians shared many of the same characterizations of the lion as Christians, they applied them differently. Egyptian conception focuses on the strength and power of the lion and makes its mission divine retribution, as opposed to the brutality and violent nature that is the focus of Dante's symbolic representation.
Following the lion on the path is the she-wolf. Dante, using the she-wolf to represent the sins of incontinence writes of the she-wolf, "And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness / (how many people she has brought to grief!)" (Inferno I 49-51). He draws from the reader's negative perception of the wolf, which attributes the wolf as of a predatory nature. The she-wolf is portrayed as a callous hunter who does not differentiate her victims, nor is she merciful. This view is also displayed in Christian literature, especially in the Bible. Genesis 49:27 reads, "Benjamin is a ravenous wolf; in the morning he devours the prey, in the evening he devours the plunder." The author focuses on the negative characteristics of the wolf as a violent and agitated hunter whereas other culture and mythology revere the wolf for its majestic power. Dante opposes this positive vision with his symbolism, as he uses the wolf to represent the sins that humans find irresistible. He uses the mystery and power of the wolf to emphasize the enticing and alluring manner of these particular sins.
Contrastingly, Native American kinship with the wolf is prevalent as they view the wolf as the brother of man. (Maxwell 348) The Chipewyans honor the wolf as their creator. Their creation myth attributes the body of a wolf to have become the world. The land is made of his flesh, fish are made from his internal organs, and birds were created from his skin. (Maxwell 330) Sub arctic tribes, such as the Ingalik and Koyukon of Alaska, hold the wolf in the highest regard. Members of the tribe are forbidden to kill wolves, as they are considered as brothers to the tribesmen. (Maxwell 348) Native American antiquity accounts for humanity having spawned from animals and does not differentiate the two. They believe their ancestors began life as animals and then transformed themselves into human beings. (Willis 31) The First Nations view wolves as teachers or pathfinders. A wolf is seen as fiercely loyal to their mates and therefore dedicated to their families. (Beaupre)
Roman Mythology offers another positive conception of the wolf, with the ancient story of Romulus. Along with his infant twin Remus, he was abandoned beside a river. They were rescued by a she-wolf and reared alongside her cubs for a few years. (Lindemans) This mythological she-wolf is given a nurturing and affectionate persona that may stem from the animal's loyalty to the pack. While focusing on the characteristics more becoming to the wolf, the Romans have allowed a positive conception into human psyche that differs drastically from the sinister huntress we encounter in Dante's Inferno.
While many pre-Christian and non-Christian faiths may use animals symbolically, they tend to focus on less sinister traits or emphasize these animalistic traits in a positive light. Christianity has long sought to exterminate the primal instinct of humanity. Thus, their use of animals in a symbolic manner tends to focus on the negativity of animal behavior. Animals will submit to their carnal desires instinctively, as will humans, which is an underlying problem in the Christian plight to purify humanity and deter them from sin.
By experiencing Dante's animal symbolism in the Inferno, the reader is connected to his negative view of animal behavior which is the exact form of carnal human nature the Church sought to eradicate from humanity, so as to lessen chance of sin. Human beings are prone to their impulses. Mankind bears an interpersonal conflict between his urges and his will. These "animalistic" urges force one of Christian faith to feel guilt for having submitted to them. Some may say that it is will and faith in God that separates us from the animal kingdom. This is the reasoning behind Dante's choice of individual animals as representative of the three dimensions of sins depicted in Inferno. One can clearly see the type of negative animal symbolism that pervades both the Old and New Testaments, in Dante's Inferno.the leopard, the lion and the wolf. They symbolize the major categories of sin: incontinence, violence and fraud. Or as they are more commonly called – lust, pride and avarice. In her commentary, Dorothy L. Sayers explains that these categories of sin were associated with the three stages of life – lust with youth, pride (self-conceit) with the middle years and avarice with old age. Of course, they can attack a person at any time of his life.
Whatever his conception, Dante likely drew inspiration for the beasts from this biblical passage prophesying the destruction of those who refuse to repent for their iniquities: "Wherefore a lion out of the wood hath slain them, a wolf in the evening hath spoiled them, a leopard watcheth for their cities: every one that shall go out thence shall be taken, because their transgressions are multiplied, their rebellions strengthened" (Jeremiah 5:6).
It is perhaps best, at this early stage, to take note of the salient characteristics of the animals--the leopard's spotted hide, the lion's intimidating presence, the she-wolf's insatiable hunger--and see how they relate to subsequent events in Dante's journey through hell.
I’m thinking about all this in dire detail as I’m walking the streets going somewhere aimlessly. I pick a street and start walking down it and then when the mood strikes me, I take a different street and all the while with no accurate measure of where I am or where I’m going, just random turns. I need something to visualise it. A familiar mark, a subway station. But I’ve got nothing because I don’t even know where I’m going.
Oh wait, yes I do, I just remembered, I’m going to meet with Kimberland, a salesman of some kind. I don’t know what, does it really matter? Do you ever WANT someone to sell you something? This whole moaning culture is a giant vat of selling, shovels full of bullshit they take in their hands and lovingly shove between your lips into your mouth. You can spit it out over and over again but that bullshit taste is still there, long after they leave. It’s their calling card, these punks, these gigantic destroyers of the human soul and champion bullshit feeders.
I met Kimberland on a street corner somewhere. Lost, chum, he asks me as I stand there trying to decide which corner to turn. Fuck off, I said because I don’t like strangers coming up to me unsolicited and talking to me. Not unless they’re fit birds scoffing a light or copping a feel. There now, are you offended? You see, your glass ceiling is fucking low, kid. You’ve gotta raise that glass ceiling really fucking high if you are going to get through all this shit without it getting caked on to you.
Kimberland was used to this kind of street abuse apparently because he was utterly unflustered.
Wanna buy something, he asks.
Like what?
I dunno, what do you want to buy?
I would like to buy a gun and then shoot you with it.
You’d have to buy the bullets too. And probably a hunting license. In fact, if you bought a gun from me and bullets as well and just shot me right here…were you thinking of shooting to kill me or only wound me?….
I haven’t decided yet.
Well, in either scenario, you’d have to buy a lot of influence with the local authorities to get off whatever myriad of charges you’d be facing for shooting someone in broad daylight on a main street corner.
What if I simply said I was religiously intolerant?
Well, firstly, I’m not religious so I’m not sure that’s possible if that’s you’re excuse for shooting me. And secondly, even if shooting in the name of religious intolerance, you won’t be exempted from contempt or conviction. But we’re getting off track. How much money do you have to spend?
None. I don’t use money these days. I used plastic. The plastic symbolises the substance of my need for consumption. How about a goat?
Do you have a goat?
No. But maybe you’ve got one for sale?
******
I meet Kimberlain on another street corner, weeks and weeks later. It’s raining now. I haven’t worn anything in anticipation of getting wet, or prevention of getting wet. So I am soaking when I reach him at the predetermined corner. He’s never tried to sell me anything again since that first meeting, I made him promise. If we were going to hang out again some time.
Kimberlain has a big fucking umbrella with him. A fuck you sort of umbrella that, if you were walking down a street carrying it you’d be poking every fucker you passed in the eye or the mouth or the ear. But because he’s stationary, people just walk around him, muttering or turning back after a few steps to hurl a hideous look of disgust at him. Little daggers of bad karma.
It’s like a fucking tent, I said, as I approach him.
There’s only room for one under here, he warns.
Then we’d better find shelter.
******
It used to be easy to find shelter. Just go into a fucking bar. Nice and warm. Drinks to get you fucked up and forgetting everything that makes you sick to your stomach. Drinks and more drinks. But not any more. I take pills that make me vomit if I drink alcohol. I gits them for free. From Big Bossman Government, all-caring,, yummy mummy father superior big business government who want me off the liquor at all times because otherwise I become a deficit to society rather than a show flower of happiness. On these pills, I drink only when I want to vomit which admittedly, doesn’t happen very often.
We could stand under the bus stop shelter, Kimberlain points out with the sharp tip of his umbrella nearly poking out my eye. Or you could, you miserable git. Look at you, soaking. What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why don’t you buy an umbrella.
What, from you?
No, not from me. But there’s other people around who are selling umbrellas. Especially when it’s raining. Rain is an umbrella salesman’s nirvana. You could have gone to one of them. You could be nearly dry instead of soaking and looking for a fucking bus stop to hide under in this downpour.
I like the rain. It makes me feel human. Why would I want an umbrella getting in the way?
Listen, I’m not standing under the fucking bus stop. If you like the rain so much stand in it out here like a man whilst we have our conversation.
Dark wood - symbolises lost in alcoholism. Speaker must find his way out of alcoholism. A bitterness that has cut him off from the rest of the world. (in the instant case, this will be the murder of his spouse)
I cannot explain how I got here. I don't remember the steps taken. I don't remember the thought process. I don't remember the motivations of the decisions taken. Suffice that I am here.
It is Happy Hour in The Fox and Hound. The Fox and Hound is a bar in the city. It is called Happy Hour because the drinks are sold at a reduced price and the patrons consume more cheaply. It is happy for the patrons because they both save money and drink at the same time, giving the illusion of getting something for nothing whilst simultaneously intoxicating the brain to the point of happiness. So goes the theory anyway.
It is happy for the landlord because the cheaper prices draw in bigger crowds and even at discounted prices, bigger crowds mean bigger profits. It is, I believe, what they would call a win-win situation.
Of course there are those for whom the mere or slight intoxication of the brain is insufficient. Everyone is different, has different needs, different motivations for drinking and thus drinks in a different way. For some, the intoxication is an exploration in moderation for others, like myself, it is merely the first stage of a temporary illusion of happiness.
So as I sit alone at the corner of a horse-shoe shaped bar I debate this issue within myself; the temporary illusion of happiness. The artificial induction of the temporary illusion of happiness. I attempt these little exercises of thought to try and induce moderation. The idea is that if I can convince myself that the reality of moderation is not allowing oneself to go beyond that certain point where intoxication becomes inebriation, where happiness prevails over misery, I will have achieved a small victory of sorts. Nightly I bring this challenge to myself and nightly, I fail, despite all thoughts of discouragement.
Gradually I will realise I am diseased. Alcoholism is a disease. The disease of wanting more when more is unnecessary. The disease of greed, the illusion of happiness. I am not unlike a capitalist in that way. A capitalist also has a disease of greed although one might argue that such a disease is at the very least, useful to capitalism itself, necessary. Alcoholism is the inverse; dysfunctional and counter-productive. But for those firsst few drinks anyway, when the temporary illusion of happiness is achieved and instead of stopping at that border to observe and behold and revel, the boundry is destroyed. Yes, destroyed. The nihilistic greed towards self-destruction must also play a role. Without it, moderation is possible. For people like me it is the goal. To reach the point of inebriation that life returns to the very stage of absurdity it exudes when sober.
The drink is the promise provided to the disinherited.
(STAGES OF DRINKING ON THE BRAIN)
Kinderton, Winston and Delia. Kinderton is my psychologist.
if you do not work you become old in a short period of time.
The story of the girl in Budapest who rings a chat show on the radio dealing with love lost, psychologic problems, etc., the usual universal whining, and spills her guts, really lets out her true feelings about her boyfriend, what a sexual animal he is, how he is always screwing around on her and asking how she can find the strength to break it off with him. He happens to be working the night shift in some factory, listening to that same station and he asks himself, broken hearted at first before overcome with rage, is that MY beloved Berluska who is spilling her guts on radio all my friends will hear and humiliating me?
The Woods Outside Hell
They call it a dissociative fugue state. I didn't know it at the time of course. I only knew that I woke with a start, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me and I had no idea where I was.
It was dark and I was outside, laying on concrete between what I determined were two dumpsters. Light from the street at the end of the alley filled in some of the shadows. I stood up slowly checking instinctively to determine where, if anywhere, my body ached as though finding a wound or bruising of some kind might help me understand. But there was nothing.
Not even a wallet. Panic struck me for a moment. No wallet, no identification, no money. I searched all my pockets frantically. Not even a scrap of paper.
I wrestled between the fear of having no money and the slow recognition that the more aware I became of myself in this darkened alleyway between two dumpsters, the more I realised I was aware of myself the way someone is aware of the presence of another person in the room without knowing who they were. I did not know who I was.
This was no metaphorical puzzle. I did not know who I was. I knew that I was, that I existed, here, in this alleyway, at night, poorly lit in an undetermined urban area whose sounds were growing with my awareness of them like stuccato bursts of machine gun fire in the distance.
But that was all I knew.
I didn't know how I'd gotten here or worse still, who I was to have gotten here. The world was not entirely unfamiliar but nor was it recognised. I might have thought I was somewhere I had once visited as a tourist or somewhere I had passed through once, ethereally. But I didn't know who that I was. I only knew fragments and those fragments consisted only of that which was around me at that very moment. The past was a void.
Having completed the tour of my body finding no wounds, holes or other troubling physical debilities which might have complicated my immediate existence I stared down the alleyway trying to measure in some way the chances of escaping without being sighted.
But why escape when I still hadn't figured out the basics of my existence like name, purpose and account balances? For example, I knew a wallet might well house the answers to all of these questions but I did not know how I knew a wallet would. I just did. And I had none. I knew to check my back pocket, the pocket inside the wool-blend herringbone coat I wore over me.
Escape because in truth, the air was chilly and whilst I was not wet as one would be having had a bucket of ice water thrown upon them, I was growing gradually more aware of the chill and perhaps the idea that shelter or some kind would be preferable. I looked up at the sky for clues but could find none between the darkness of the hour and the clouds which obscured the luminscence of the moon.
Semantic knowledge is preserved.
It was dark and I was outside, laying on concrete between what I determined were two dumpsters. Light from the street at the end of the alley filled in some of the shadows. I stood up slowly checking instinctively to determine where, if anywhere, my body ached as though finding a wound or bruising of some kind might help me understand. But there was nothing.
Not even a wallet. Panic struck me for a moment. No wallet, no identification, no money. I searched all my pockets frantically. Not even a scrap of paper.
I wrestled between the fear of having no money and the slow recognition that the more aware I became of myself in this darkened alleyway between two dumpsters, the more I realised I was aware of myself the way someone is aware of the presence of another person in the room without knowing who they were. I did not know who I was.
This was no metaphorical puzzle. I did not know who I was. I knew that I was, that I existed, here, in this alleyway, at night, poorly lit in an undetermined urban area whose sounds were growing with my awareness of them like stuccato bursts of machine gun fire in the distance.
But that was all I knew.
I didn't know how I'd gotten here or worse still, who I was to have gotten here. The world was not entirely unfamiliar but nor was it recognised. I might have thought I was somewhere I had once visited as a tourist or somewhere I had passed through once, ethereally. But I didn't know who that I was. I only knew fragments and those fragments consisted only of that which was around me at that very moment. The past was a void.
Having completed the tour of my body finding no wounds, holes or other troubling physical debilities which might have complicated my immediate existence I stared down the alleyway trying to measure in some way the chances of escaping without being sighted.
But why escape when I still hadn't figured out the basics of my existence like name, purpose and account balances? For example, I knew a wallet might well house the answers to all of these questions but I did not know how I knew a wallet would. I just did. And I had none. I knew to check my back pocket, the pocket inside the wool-blend herringbone coat I wore over me.
Escape because in truth, the air was chilly and whilst I was not wet as one would be having had a bucket of ice water thrown upon them, I was growing gradually more aware of the chill and perhaps the idea that shelter or some kind would be preferable. I looked up at the sky for clues but could find none between the darkness of the hour and the clouds which obscured the luminscence of the moon.
Semantic knowledge is preserved.
Tuesday 7 December 2010
CIRCLE 4 - Misers and Spendthrifts
The room is dark and reeks of stale urine. The music throbs unpleasantly, like a persistent reminder of death, or the will to die. Shadows appear and disappear, fleeting faces, twitching in an occasional, unbearable light, appear to seek out a friendly gesture.
I stand motionless for awhile, a drink in my hand. When the throbbing desists for awhile you can hear scurrying as if these rat-like humans, standing on their hind legs, are gathering goods for the winter months.
The build piles of possessions. They pull them in loaded shopping carts with squeaking, malfunctioning wheels that stick in place. They yank the carts at times when the wheels refuse to cooperate, shouting angerly as though the shopping cart were plotting against them.
When I begin walking again it is because I realise that all around me these people are carrying piles of junk or garbage or stale food containers, a trail of rodents following them gleefully as they appear then disappear into corners of the cavernous bar.
It is dance music. This finally dawns on me. And the dance floor is a swarm of passing people who carry these things, this collection of meaningless possessions, bumping into each other, cursing, bumping into shopping carts and becoming enraged. They all shout at each other yet each of their voices, each slogan of ranting that they emit are drowned in the music, the persistent, throbbing bass, the waning will to live.
Fortunatel all of them manage to avoid me. When I stand still, I can feel their oily skin brushing against me, I can smell their stench as they move past me. When they are not shouting at their carts or others who bump into them, they are mumbling to themselves. They are mumbling persistently and infatiguably. I cannot trace even the language they are speaking. It is as though they are grunting more than they are speaking.
Finally I spot Kinderton seated at a table in one of the shadows. He is drinking a tropical sort of concoction with fruit poking out of the top of a tall glass with a straw. He has paid a woman to perform felltion underneath the table while he sits there, sipping his drink and watching the dance floor with suspicion.
"I see you finally found your way in." Kinderton moans momentarily, closing his eyes. I can see nothing in the shadows but the bobbing head of hair just beneath the table.
"Is that a girl underneath there?"
"What do you think, a troll? She is trading services. When she is finished, I will tell her where to find the nearest viable exit. I am her guide but she is so fucking lost, so fucking gone, that she can't even hear.me. In fact, I never proposed this exchange. She just knelt down wordlessly and started in on me...." He winces as he grabs the edges of the table. His eyes are shut tight, his chest heaves momentarily. His eyes open again. He takes a sip of his drink.
The girl disappears back into the crowd.
The music changes. The DJ has evil intentions. The change in music causes a minor uproad. For a moment, every one stops pushing and pulling and carrying and stand instead, straight up, shouting and protesting, waving fists. I see the DJ in a far corner laughing and waving his fist as well. People attempt to climb to his booth and when they start to get close, he takes a hammer he has on one of the turntables and bashes them in the head with it. They fall immediately back to the floor and disappear beneath trampling feet.
"What happens to all of these people at the end of the night?" I ask, seating myself across from him.
"End of the night? What do you mean? There is no end of the night. These people will stay here forever. Someone from the outside will push more garbage down the chute and it will be as though these peoples' cages have been filled at feeding time. There is a perpetual supply from street level. Garbage, food, spare tires, carcasses, dirty clothes, disposable diapers, you name it. The DJ hasn't slept in three weeks. He's experimenting with some new drug causing sleeplessness. He knows the minute he falls asleep or tries to leave the safety of the sound booth, he will be torn to shreds. He doesn't take requests. He plays the same music over and over again. He keeps all the good music on his own headphones and listens to them during the long repetitive songs he plays for every one else in the club."
"Is he just an asshole?"
Kinderton shrugs and sips his drink. "Well, a real assholle would probably just play the same song over and over again, louder and louder each time until each of these people trying to kill him would probably just lose their minds entirely, frothing at the mouth before falling into some benign catatonic stare...shall we get up and get another drink?" He hold up his empty glass after slupring loudly. I didn't hear the slurping of course. I merely saw the intake of his cheeks, his lips wrapped around the plastic straw and the subsequently look of satisfaction that caresses his face.
It is then I notice that a trio of bankers are being crucified in the space just to my left. I see their hands and feet being hammered into boards. I know they are bankers because when the nails are hammered into their palms, for example, instead of blood shooting out there are cartoonish balloons filled with money floating out of them. Whilst one group hammers in the nails there are others who jump and grab at the balloons. And when one of the ballons is captured, it is popped open and an immediate struggle ensues between everyone to grab at the money while the banker moans and begs them to stop.
The room is dark and reeks of stale urine. The music throbs unpleasantly, like a persistent reminder of death, or the will to die. Shadows appear and disappear, fleeting faces, twitching in an occasional, unbearable light, appear to seek out a friendly gesture.
I stand motionless for awhile, a drink in my hand. When the throbbing desists for awhile you can hear scurrying as if these rat-like humans, standing on their hind legs, are gathering goods for the winter months.
The build piles of possessions. They pull them in loaded shopping carts with squeaking, malfunctioning wheels that stick in place. They yank the carts at times when the wheels refuse to cooperate, shouting angerly as though the shopping cart were plotting against them.
When I begin walking again it is because I realise that all around me these people are carrying piles of junk or garbage or stale food containers, a trail of rodents following them gleefully as they appear then disappear into corners of the cavernous bar.
It is dance music. This finally dawns on me. And the dance floor is a swarm of passing people who carry these things, this collection of meaningless possessions, bumping into each other, cursing, bumping into shopping carts and becoming enraged. They all shout at each other yet each of their voices, each slogan of ranting that they emit are drowned in the music, the persistent, throbbing bass, the waning will to live.
Fortunatel all of them manage to avoid me. When I stand still, I can feel their oily skin brushing against me, I can smell their stench as they move past me. When they are not shouting at their carts or others who bump into them, they are mumbling to themselves. They are mumbling persistently and infatiguably. I cannot trace even the language they are speaking. It is as though they are grunting more than they are speaking.
Finally I spot Kinderton seated at a table in one of the shadows. He is drinking a tropical sort of concoction with fruit poking out of the top of a tall glass with a straw. He has paid a woman to perform felltion underneath the table while he sits there, sipping his drink and watching the dance floor with suspicion.
"I see you finally found your way in." Kinderton moans momentarily, closing his eyes. I can see nothing in the shadows but the bobbing head of hair just beneath the table.
"Is that a girl underneath there?"
"What do you think, a troll? She is trading services. When she is finished, I will tell her where to find the nearest viable exit. I am her guide but she is so fucking lost, so fucking gone, that she can't even hear.me. In fact, I never proposed this exchange. She just knelt down wordlessly and started in on me...." He winces as he grabs the edges of the table. His eyes are shut tight, his chest heaves momentarily. His eyes open again. He takes a sip of his drink.
The girl disappears back into the crowd.
The music changes. The DJ has evil intentions. The change in music causes a minor uproad. For a moment, every one stops pushing and pulling and carrying and stand instead, straight up, shouting and protesting, waving fists. I see the DJ in a far corner laughing and waving his fist as well. People attempt to climb to his booth and when they start to get close, he takes a hammer he has on one of the turntables and bashes them in the head with it. They fall immediately back to the floor and disappear beneath trampling feet.
"What happens to all of these people at the end of the night?" I ask, seating myself across from him.
"End of the night? What do you mean? There is no end of the night. These people will stay here forever. Someone from the outside will push more garbage down the chute and it will be as though these peoples' cages have been filled at feeding time. There is a perpetual supply from street level. Garbage, food, spare tires, carcasses, dirty clothes, disposable diapers, you name it. The DJ hasn't slept in three weeks. He's experimenting with some new drug causing sleeplessness. He knows the minute he falls asleep or tries to leave the safety of the sound booth, he will be torn to shreds. He doesn't take requests. He plays the same music over and over again. He keeps all the good music on his own headphones and listens to them during the long repetitive songs he plays for every one else in the club."
"Is he just an asshole?"
Kinderton shrugs and sips his drink. "Well, a real assholle would probably just play the same song over and over again, louder and louder each time until each of these people trying to kill him would probably just lose their minds entirely, frothing at the mouth before falling into some benign catatonic stare...shall we get up and get another drink?" He hold up his empty glass after slupring loudly. I didn't hear the slurping of course. I merely saw the intake of his cheeks, his lips wrapped around the plastic straw and the subsequently look of satisfaction that caresses his face.
It is then I notice that a trio of bankers are being crucified in the space just to my left. I see their hands and feet being hammered into boards. I know they are bankers because when the nails are hammered into their palms, for example, instead of blood shooting out there are cartoonish balloons filled with money floating out of them. Whilst one group hammers in the nails there are others who jump and grab at the balloons. And when one of the ballons is captured, it is popped open and an immediate struggle ensues between everyone to grab at the money while the banker moans and begs them to stop.
Sunday 28 November 2010
They call it a dissociative fugue state. I didn't know it at the time of course. I only knew that I woke with a start, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me and I had no idea where I was.
It was dark and I was outside, laying on concrete between what I determined were two dumpsters. Light from the street at the end of the alley filled in some of the shadows. I stood up slowly checking instinctively to determine where, if anywhere, my body ached as though finding a wound or bruising of some kind might help me understand. But there was nothing.
Not even a wallet. Panic struck me for a moment. No wallet, no identification, no money. I searched all my pockets frantically. Not even a scrap of paper.
I wrestled between the fear of having no money and the slow recognition that the more aware I became of myself in this darkened alleyway between two dumpsters, the more I realised I was aware of myself the way someone is aware of the presence of another person in the room without knowing who they were. I did not know who I was.
This was no metaphorical puzzle. I did not know who I was. I knew that I was, that I existed, here, in this alleyway, at night, poorly lit in an undetermined urban area whose sounds were growing with my awareness of them like stuccato bursts of machine gun fire in the distance.
But that was all I knew.
I didn't know how I'd gotten here or worse still, who I was to have gotten here. The world was not entirely unfamiliar but nor was it recognised. I might have thought I was somewhere I had once visited as a tourist or somewhere I had passed through once, ethereally. But I didn't know who that I was. I only knew fragments and those fragments consisted only of that which was around me at that very moment. The past was a void.
Having completed the tour of my body finding no wounds, holes or other troubling physical debilities which might have complicated my immediate existence I stared down the alleyway trying to measure in some way the chances of escaping without being sighted.
But why escape when I still hadn't figured out the basics of my existence like name, purpose and account balances? For example, I knew a wallet might well house the answers to all of these questions but I did not know how I knew a wallet would. I just did. And I had none. I knew to check my back pocket, the pocket inside the wool-blend herringbone coat I wore over me.
Escape because in truth, the air was chilly and whilst I was not wet as one would be having had a bucket of ice water thrown upon them, I was growing gradually more aware of the chill and perhaps the idea that shelter or some kind would be preferable. I looked up at the sky for clues but could find none between the darkness of the hour and the clouds which obscured the luminscence of the moon.
Semantic knowledge is preserved.
******
CANTO UNO
CIRCLE ONE - LIMBO - INNOCENT SOULS
What I need to establish firstly - how does this happen? We might consider the opening trauma linked to repressed memory?
SO at first we've got the trauma, then we've got Marsaw with his repressed memory then we've got Kinderton for:
Recovered memory therapy (RMT) is a term coined by affiliates of the False Memory Syndrome Foundation[26][27] referring to what they described as a range of psychotherapy methods based on recalling memories of abuse that had previously been forgotten by the patient.[28] The term is not listed in DSM-IV or used by mainstream formal psychotherapy modality.[26] Opponents of the therapy advance the hypothesis that therapy can create false memories through suggestion techniques; this hypothesis is controversial and has been neither proven nor disproven. Some research has shown evidence supporting the hypothesis,[29][30] and this evidence is questioned by some researchers.[26][31][32] Even when patients who decide their recovered memories are false retract their claims, they can suffer post-traumatic stress disorder due to the trauma of illusory memories.[33]
Ok, Marsaw has traumatic memory loss.
Often, the fugue state remains undiagnosed until the individual has emerged from it and can recall their real identity. Upon emerging from the fugue state, the individual is usually surprised to find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings.
In one form of psychogenic amnesia, called fugue state, individuals may forget not only their pasts but their very identities. Despite the many Hollywood movies depicting this phenomenon, fugue state is extremely rare in real life. Fugue state normally resolves with time, particularly with the help of therapy.
here is a good, basic link for this...
Unlike most forms of amnesia, which are associated with damage to specific parts of the brain (such as the hippocampus), dissociative fugue has no known physical cause. Typically, the memory loss is triggered by a traumatic life event; subsequently, the individual enters the fugue state, during which the retrieval of memories associated with the event is somehow prevented. Thus, the fugue state is psychogenic: psychological factors impinge upon the neurobiological bases of memory retrieval. The memory loss is, however, reversible; once the individual emerges from the fugue state, he or she is once again capable of retrieving the “lost” memories.
Another good link: NYT article here on dissociative fugue
try to search extraordinary people david fitzpatrick as well.
*****
SO, whilst it is good and well to have Marsaw and his forgotten past, where does he at first find himself?
he first thing about his life that Jeff Ingram remembers is “picking myself up off the ground” in Denver, although he didn’t know where he was at the time. He had no identification but was wearing a ring and a watch, had eight dollar bills in his pocket (he’d left with $700 in cash) and seemed unhurt—suggesting he had not been the victim of a crime. (His car has not been found.) He hadn’t lost his functional memory—retaining the ability to speak, for example. But at some point, he gave up asking for help and walked for six to eight hours until he found Denver Health Medical Center.
“I don’t know who I am,” he told the desk attendant.
“What do you mean?” she asked, handing him an admittance form—an absurdity for someone with no name. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Disbelieving hospital staffers fired questions at him: “Who are you?” “Where are you from?”
*****
SO, Marsaw finds himself in a strange city combination of LA and Paris. In an alley?
I thought I'd been dreaming.
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night or just prior to dawn, with a start? An audible, soul-shivering start as though you'd woken just in time to elude the grasp of death? A start that is in fact the start of the search to determine where you are, to recall who you are, how many fingers on your hand, who is sleeping beside you?
Sleeping is a death and waking is the escape. I recalled only that I was in the habit of staying awake as long and as often as possible. I recalled in this slow-to-rise stalgmite of recollection that to manage this I drank and by drinking I mean a slow, incessant habit growing into the crescendo of an all-night bender there is no escaping from.
Or at least so I once thought.
Switching to W G Sebald's The Rings of Saturn to find this nugget:
"...and yet, says Browne, all knowledge is enveloped in darkness. What we perceive are no more than the isolated lights in the abyss of ignorance, in the shadow-filled edifice of the world...
I have just opened my eyes to find myself prone in an alleyway between two dumpsters. It is night. It is cold. As my eyes adjust I see people walking past the alley, a few scattered, boisterous people. The kind who frequent the late nights in urban areas. The only kind.
I stood up slowly. Slow motion is the preferred method of movement I said aloud, hearing my voice raspy, cigarette scarred. Upon standing I immediately fell into a coughing spasm that doubled me over and continued until I'd hacked out a wadge of phlegm and was able to stand straight again.
Once that minor trauma had been overcome I was left to wonder what I was doing there in the alley to begin with.
Or, as I shortly discovered in a disjointed yet unpanicked way, who I was.
I shot her.
I can admit that now.
I pleaded guilty at the trial of course, there was no alternative given the evidence. The truth is, until now, until this very moment, I've never admitted it to myself.
The truth is I only shot her because she was going to shoot me first. Or so I thought.
I couldn't explain why there was no weapon found on her. They said she was defenseless, that I shot her in cold blood.
I knew that she was going to shoot me if I didn't shoot her first.
Maybe not at that moment, maybe not even that evening but I knew deep down inside that one day she would shoot me, the second I let down my defences and relaxed she would have shot me.
How do I know that?
I just know. Something this monumental, to have the constant threat of this hanging over your head day in and day out makes you realise that it is inevitable. It WAS inevitable. Until I shot her first.
I checked my pockets for clues. There was no wallet, no money. There were no keys to anything. There was nothing to identify myself with.
I walked slowly out of the alleyway into the street which was eerily empty of people. The revellers that had squawked past so noisily had disappeared. The street was strewn with litter, lamp-lit, many of its buildings boarded up.
I could sense panic rising in me like a bile.
I had no idea where I was.
******
When I woke again it was light.
I was on the ground, underneath a thick pile of newspapers in a cluster of trees in a park. I stood as calmly as I could, brushing the newspapers and nettles from me and peered through the foliage. A few people passed by on a distant foot path, nannies with strollers, joggers. I emerged cautiously, worried that it was obvious I had no idea who I was or where I was.
What am I to do without money?
I decided to try and figure out where I was deducing despite my state that this was currently the easier of the two options. It was obviously a city, somewhere. Away from the park I could hear the sounds of a city, car horns, the hum of traffic. Was it my city?
It was then I heard a rustling in the dead, autumnal leaves. Despite my own uncertainty my curiosity was piqued. I took a step nearer. I followed signs for the city centre and found myself upon a walk of about 30 minutes, a slow walk because I was entirely uncertain of myself and why I was here and was afraid someone might guess this, that perhaps there was some reason for my current state. Surely there was a reason but if it were criminal I didn't want to alert the authorities before I'd had the chance to discover anything further for myself.
THREE ANIMALS OR WHATEVER THESE THREE SYMBOLS. TO BE FOLLOWED BY KIMBERLAND, THE GUIDE
I hadn't been walking very long when
Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.Psychoanalyst Carl Jung emphasizes the collective unconscious as being inhabited with archetypes that are derived from primal animal behaviors that all humankind possesses. (Huffman 494) Researcher William McDougal proposes in his "Instinct" theory of motivation, that humans are compelled by behaviors that are unlearned, uniform in expression and universal to the species. (Huffman 440) It is these carnal compellations that Christianity attempts to inhibit that are chronicled throughout Christian verse. Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.
In Inferno, Dante first encounters the leopard which blocks his path to righteousness. He writes, "Beyond the point the slope begins to rise / sprang up a leopard, trim and very swift! It was covered by a pelt of many spots. / And everywhere I looked, the beast was there" (Inferno I 32-35). Here, Dante is drawing on the sinister conception of the leopard that lays in wait of its prey. This leopard camouflages himself much as the fraudulent may mask their sinister intentions.
In contrast, this sinister characterization is avoided in Nigerian philosophy, Benin, which embraces animals as symbolism of deities. In Benin, the Oba or king is all powerful and is the owner of the land and its people. (Eboreime) The Oba and royal power, represented by images of the leopard, focuses on more positive traits such as speed, agility, cunning, and prowess. (Peck, Coote) For example, Dante regards the preying leopard as a demonic physical threat, whereas Nigerian philosophy would view this same leopard as a patient and skilled hunter. Another African myth comes from the pygmies of Zaire. Tore, the wood god, is represented by the leopard. He is said to be the 'lord of the animal' and patron of the hunt. (Lindemans) This conception also focuses on the leopard as a graceful hunter. The African people glorify the leopard for the same characteristics that are frowned upon in Christian literature.
Following the leopard, Dante encounters the lion, which he uses to symbolize sins of violence and ambition. A group of lions is called a pride, which is also a sin of ambition, punishable in Dante's Hell. A lion is the ruler of the land and asserts himself as such. Dante writes of the lion, "…he was coming straight toward me, it seemed, / with head raised high, and furious with hunger" (Inferno I 46-47). The reader draws the violent, destructive nature from the lion symbol which is also displayed in Christian literature. Perhaps I Peter 5:8 displays this paradigm best as it reads, "Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." Dante invokes the reader's conception of the lion as he uses him to represent sins that involve violence against others. This symbolism births feelings of fear and recognition of the danger of the lion as one to fear, which spawns a literary barrier to serve as a deterrent from sin.
The lion is also symbolic in Egyptian Mythology. The goddess of war and vengeance, Sekhmet or "Powerful One", contrasts this negative perspective of animal symbolism that Dante portrays. She is pictured with the head of a lioness and symbolizes divine retribution. The Egyptian Sun God, Ra, calls upon his daughter, Sekhmet, to slaughter humans that had concocted a plan to rebel against him, in his aging and vulnerable state. Ra punishes humanity be sending his vengeful daughter. She single handedly defends her father, the almighty Ra by ravaging through the rebellious village, devouring those who plotted against him. Sekhmet, in all her glory, wades through the blood of the punished, claiming her father's exaltation. (Willis 41) Beginning around 1000 B.C.E., Sekhmet began to be portrayed with an alter persona, Bastet. With the changing persona, her appearance changed as well. She began to be depicted as a domesticated cat. Her new duty is to be an "avenger," and slay enemies of Egypt and enemies of the gods. (Cass)
While Egyptian myth conjures the vicious and vengeful spirit of the lion, they do so respectfully and recognize the strength and brutality in a grandiose manner. The story of Sekhmet's wrath recognizes that she attacked only to protect her father. Sekhmet's power was dually respected and feared. Messengers of Sekhmet were thought to be infectious disease. Following this notion, her priests also served as doctors. (Willis 50) While the Egyptians shared many of the same characterizations of the lion as Christians, they applied them differently. Egyptian conception focuses on the strength and power of the lion and makes its mission divine retribution, as opposed to the brutality and violent nature that is the focus of Dante's symbolic representation.
Following the lion on the path is the she-wolf. Dante, using the she-wolf to represent the sins of incontinence writes of the she-wolf, "And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness / (how many people she has brought to grief!)" (Inferno I 49-51). He draws from the reader's negative perception of the wolf, which attributes the wolf as of a predatory nature. The she-wolf is portrayed as a callous hunter who does not differentiate her victims, nor is she merciful. This view is also displayed in Christian literature, especially in the Bible. Genesis 49:27 reads, "Benjamin is a ravenous wolf; in the morning he devours the prey, in the evening he devours the plunder." The author focuses on the negative characteristics of the wolf as a violent and agitated hunter whereas other culture and mythology revere the wolf for its majestic power. Dante opposes this positive vision with his symbolism, as he uses the wolf to represent the sins that humans find irresistible. He uses the mystery and power of the wolf to emphasize the enticing and alluring manner of these particular sins.
Contrastingly, Native American kinship with the wolf is prevalent as they view the wolf as the brother of man. (Maxwell 348) The Chipewyans honor the wolf as their creator. Their creation myth attributes the body of a wolf to have become the world. The land is made of his flesh, fish are made from his internal organs, and birds were created from his skin. (Maxwell 330) Sub arctic tribes, such as the Ingalik and Koyukon of Alaska, hold the wolf in the highest regard. Members of the tribe are forbidden to kill wolves, as they are considered as brothers to the tribesmen. (Maxwell 348) Native American antiquity accounts for humanity having spawned from animals and does not differentiate the two. They believe their ancestors began life as animals and then transformed themselves into human beings. (Willis 31) The First Nations view wolves as teachers or pathfinders. A wolf is seen as fiercely loyal to their mates and therefore dedicated to their families. (Beaupre)
Roman Mythology offers another positive conception of the wolf, with the ancient story of Romulus. Along with his infant twin Remus, he was abandoned beside a river. They were rescued by a she-wolf and reared alongside her cubs for a few years. (Lindemans) This mythological she-wolf is given a nurturing and affectionate persona that may stem from the animal's loyalty to the pack. While focusing on the characteristics more becoming to the wolf, the Romans have allowed a positive conception into human psyche that differs drastically from the sinister huntress we encounter in Dante's Inferno.
While many pre-Christian and non-Christian faiths may use animals symbolically, they tend to focus on less sinister traits or emphasize these animalistic traits in a positive light. Christianity has long sought to exterminate the primal instinct of humanity. Thus, their use of animals in a symbolic manner tends to focus on the negativity of animal behavior. Animals will submit to their carnal desires instinctively, as will humans, which is an underlying problem in the Christian plight to purify humanity and deter them from sin.
By experiencing Dante's animal symbolism in the Inferno, the reader is connected to his negative view of animal behavior which is the exact form of carnal human nature the Church sought to eradicate from humanity, so as to lessen chance of sin. Human beings are prone to their impulses. Mankind bears an interpersonal conflict between his urges and his will. These "animalistic" urges force one of Christian faith to feel guilt for having submitted to them. Some may say that it is will and faith in God that separates us from the animal kingdom. This is the reasoning behind Dante's choice of individual animals as representative of the three dimensions of sins depicted in Inferno. One can clearly see the type of negative animal symbolism that pervades both the Old and New Testaments, in Dante's Inferno.the leopard, the lion and the wolf. They symbolize the major categories of sin: incontinence, violence and fraud. Or as they are more commonly called – lust, pride and avarice. In her commentary, Dorothy L. Sayers explains that these categories of sin were associated with the three stages of life – lust with youth, pride (self-conceit) with the middle years and avarice with old age. Of course, they can attack a person at any time of his life.
Whatever his conception, Dante likely drew inspiration for the beasts from this biblical passage prophesying the destruction of those who refuse to repent for their iniquities: "Wherefore a lion out of the wood hath slain them, a wolf in the evening hath spoiled them, a leopard watcheth for their cities: every one that shall go out thence shall be taken, because their transgressions are multiplied, their rebellions strengthened" (Jeremiah 5:6).
It is perhaps best, at this early stage, to take note of the salient characteristics of the animals--the leopard's spotted hide, the lion's intimidating presence, the she-wolf's insatiable hunger--and see how they relate to subsequent events in Dante's journey through hell.
I’m thinking about all this in dire detail as I’m walking the streets going somewhere aimlessly. I pick a street and start walking down it and then when the mood strikes me, I take a different street and all the while with no accurate measure of where I am or where I’m going, just random turns. I need something to visualise it. A familiar mark, a subway station. But I’ve got nothing because I don’t even know where I’m going.
Oh wait, yes I do, I just remembered, I’m going to meet with Kimberland, a salesman of some kind. I don’t know what, does it really matter? Do you ever WANT someone to sell you something? This whole moaning culture is a giant vat of selling, shovels full of bullshit they take in their hands and lovingly shove between your lips into your mouth. You can spit it out over and over again but that bullshit taste is still there, long after they leave. It’s their calling card, these punks, these gigantic destroyers of the human soul and champion bullshit feeders.
I met Kimberland on a street corner somewhere. Lost, chum, he asks me as I stand there trying to decide which corner to turn. Fuck off, I said because I don’t like strangers coming up to me unsolicited and talking to me. Not unless they’re fit birds scoffing a light or copping a feel. There now, are you offended? You see, your glass ceiling is fucking low, kid. You’ve gotta raise that glass ceiling really fucking high if you are going to get through all this shit without it getting caked on to you.
Kimberland was used to this kind of street abuse apparently because he was utterly unflustered.
Wanna buy something, he asks.
Like what?
I dunno, what do you want to buy?
I would like to buy a gun and then shoot you with it.
You’d have to buy the bullets too. And probably a hunting license. In fact, if you bought a gun from me and bullets as well and just shot me right here…were you thinking of shooting to kill me or only wound me?….
I haven’t decided yet.
Well, in either scenario, you’d have to buy a lot of influence with the local authorities to get off whatever myriad of charges you’d be facing for shooting someone in broad daylight on a main street corner.
What if I simply said I was religiously intolerant?
Well, firstly, I’m not religious so I’m not sure that’s possible if that’s you’re excuse for shooting me. And secondly, even if shooting in the name of religious intolerance, you won’t be exempted from contempt or conviction. But we’re getting off track. How much money do you have to spend?
None. I don’t use money these days. I used plastic. The plastic symbolises the substance of my need for consumption. How about a goat?
Do you have a goat?
No. But maybe you’ve got one for sale?
******
I meet Kimberlain on another street corner, weeks and weeks later. It’s raining now. I haven’t worn anything in anticipation of getting wet, or prevention of getting wet. So I am soaking when I reach him at the predetermined corner. He’s never tried to sell me anything again since that first meeting, I made him promise. If we were going to hang out again some time.
Kimberlain has a big fucking umbrella with him. A fuck you sort of umbrella that, if you were walking down a street carrying it you’d be poking every fucker you passed in the eye or the mouth or the ear. But because he’s stationary, people just walk around him, muttering or turning back after a few steps to hurl a hideous look of disgust at him. Little daggers of bad karma.
It’s like a fucking tent, I said, as I approach him.
There’s only room for one under here, he warns.
Then we’d better find shelter.
******
It used to be easy to find shelter. Just go into a fucking bar. Nice and warm. Drinks to get you fucked up and forgetting everything that makes you sick to your stomach. Drinks and more drinks. But not any more. I take pills that make me vomit if I drink alcohol. I gits them for free. From Big Bossman Government, all-caring,, yummy mummy father superior big business government who want me off the liquor at all times because otherwise I become a deficit to society rather than a show flower of happiness. On these pills, I drink only when I want to vomit which admittedly, doesn’t happen very often.
We could stand under the bus stop shelter, Kimberlain points out with the sharp tip of his umbrella nearly poking out my eye. Or you could, you miserable git. Look at you, soaking. What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why don’t you buy an umbrella.
What, from you?
No, not from me. But there’s other people around who are selling umbrellas. Especially when it’s raining. Rain is an umbrella salesman’s nirvana. You could have gone to one of them. You could be nearly dry instead of soaking and looking for a fucking bus stop to hide under in this downpour.
I like the rain. It makes me feel human. Why would I want an umbrella getting in the way?
Listen, I’m not standing under the fucking bus stop. If you like the rain so much stand in it out here like a man whilst we have our conversation.
Dark wood - symbolises lost in alcoholism. Speaker must find his way out of alcoholism. A bitterness that has cut him off from the rest of the world. (in the instant case, this will be the murder of his spouse)
I cannot explain how I got here. I don't remember the steps taken. I don't remember the thought process. I don't remember the motivations of the decisions taken. Suffice that I am here.
It is Happy Hour in The Fox and Hound. The Fox and Hound is a bar in the city. It is called Happy Hour because the drinks are sold at a reduced price and the patrons consume more cheaply. It is happy for the patrons because they both save money and drink at the same time, giving the illusion of getting something for nothing whilst simultaneously intoxicating the brain to the point of happiness. So goes the theory anyway.
It is happy for the landlord because the cheaper prices draw in bigger crowds and even at discounted prices, bigger crowds mean bigger profits. It is, I believe, what they would call a win-win situation.
Of course there are those for whom the mere or slight intoxication of the brain is insufficient. Everyone is different, has different needs, different motivations for drinking and thus drinks in a different way. For some, the intoxication is an exploration in moderation for others, like myself, it is merely the first stage of a temporary illusion of happiness.
So as I sit alone at the corner of a horse-shoe shaped bar I debate this issue within myself; the temporary illusion of happiness. The artificial induction of the temporary illusion of happiness. I attempt these little exercises of thought to try and induce moderation. The idea is that if I can convince myself that the reality of moderation is not allowing oneself to go beyond that certain point where intoxication becomes inebriation, where happiness prevails over misery, I will have achieved a small victory of sorts. Nightly I bring this challenge to myself and nightly, I fail, despite all thoughts of discouragement.
Gradually I will realise I am diseased. Alcoholism is a disease. The disease of wanting more when more is unnecessary. The disease of greed, the illusion of happiness. I am not unlike a capitalist in that way. A capitalist also has a disease of greed although one might argue that such a disease is at the very least, useful to capitalism itself, necessary. Alcoholism is the inverse; dysfunctional and counter-productive. But for those firsst few drinks anyway, when the temporary illusion of happiness is achieved and instead of stopping at that border to observe and behold and revel, the boundry is destroyed. Yes, destroyed. The nihilistic greed towards self-destruction must also play a role. Without it, moderation is possible. For people like me it is the goal. To reach the point of inebriation that life returns to the very stage of absurdity it exudes when sober.
The drink is the promise provided to the disinherited.
(STAGES OF DRINKING ON THE BRAIN)
Kinderton, Winston and Delia. Kinderton is my psychologist.
if you do not work you become old in a short period of time.
The story of the girl in Budapest who rings a chat show on the radio dealing with love lost, psychologic problems, etc., the usual universal whining, and spills her guts, really lets out her true feelings about her boyfriend, what a sexual animal he is, how he is always screwing around on her and asking how she can find the strength to break it off with him. He happens to be working the night shift in some factory, listening to that same station and he asks himself, broken hearted at first before overcome with rage, is that MY beloved Berluska who is spilling her guts on radio all my friends will hear and humiliating me?
CIRCLE TWO LUST
the act of walking is so well practiced (overlearned) that you can do it without thinking. You program yourself to walk to another room, then your mind wanders, and when you get there you no longer remember why you started the motor program.^^^^^^^^^^^^
As I opened the door, waving my final goodbyes for the evening, I was rather surprised not to be greeted by a gust of wind or the slap of a rain pellet rather to find myself entering another room altogether. I stopped. I looked behind me. Had I, in a slightly enebriated state, exited out the wrong door into another antechamber of the previous pub?
But the door had already closed behind me. Locked behind me. Odd, I thought. A hallucination? Yet I was indeed inside rather than outside. My eyes grew accustomed slowly to the dimness of the tawdry red light of the interior, the red velvet covering on the sofas.
A pale blonde woman, a woman one might consider as having alibaster skin if one could have made out such distinctions in such light, touched my elbow gently.
"May I take your coat?" Her voice was a gelatinous ooze of sensuality. All in a simple query. I looked at her, dressed in sequins, or perhaps merely a sequin robe made of nothing but sequins, her nudity clearly visible even in this light behind the thread-bare cover of a sequin outfit.
She was already in the act of helping me out of my coat before I could think long enough to reply. I slipped out of it readily once I became accostomed to the idea of taking it off. She disappeared into the shadows. I became aware of a gentle, pulsating bass eminating from a distant corner. A thin girl dressed in a black satin negligee appeared.
"May I offer you a drink? A glass of champagne, perhaps?" she suggested without preamble. It's normal that a server would not introduce themselves before taking your order but there was something distinguishable in her manner that led me to the misperception that if we didn't know each other already surely we should and thus I was surprised by my own disappointment that she hadn't introduced herself. The question, on the surface innocent and normal, seemed inexplicably weighted by an odd intimacy.
"Champagne?" I managed to stammer, indecisive.
"By the glass, we have Bollinger, Delamotte and Gosset. If you would like a full bottle however, the possibilities are unlimited..." She smiled like what I could imagine to be an Eden snake, or THE Eden snake, her tongue lingering on the very edge of her lower lip, capped by her upper lip. Both were lightly painted in a plum hue. How could I make such distinctions in the lighting? Well of course, because of the occasional flickers of bright light that now emitted from what I could see was a stage in front of me. A stage decorated by a single pole.
"Just a glass of beer for the moment..." I finally replied. "Until I become better oriented."
Her expression did not change.
"As you wish," she replied perhaps robotically. "Please take a seat and I will retrieve the drink for you."
Jean François de Troy's 1735 painting Le Déjeuner d'Huîtres (The Oyster Luncheon) is the first known depiction of Champagne in painting
After primary fermentation and bottling, a second alcoholic fermentation occurs in the bottle. This second fermentation is induced by adding several grams of yeast (usually Saccharomyces cerevisiae, although each brand has its own secret recipe) and several grams of rock sugar.[14] According to the Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée a minimum of 1.5 years is required to completely develop all the flavour. For years where the harvest is exceptional, a millesimé is declared and some Champagne will be made from and labeled as the products of a single vintage rather than a blend of multiple years' harvests. This means that the Champagne will be very good and has to mature for at least 3 years. During this time the Champagne bottle is sealed with a crown cap similar to that used on beer bottles.[1]
I sat down at the nearest table. The room was scattered with single men at tables surrounding the stage. (BROTHEL IN Bratislava description...)
It was dark and I was outside, laying on concrete between what I determined were two dumpsters. Light from the street at the end of the alley filled in some of the shadows. I stood up slowly checking instinctively to determine where, if anywhere, my body ached as though finding a wound or bruising of some kind might help me understand. But there was nothing.
Not even a wallet. Panic struck me for a moment. No wallet, no identification, no money. I searched all my pockets frantically. Not even a scrap of paper.
I wrestled between the fear of having no money and the slow recognition that the more aware I became of myself in this darkened alleyway between two dumpsters, the more I realised I was aware of myself the way someone is aware of the presence of another person in the room without knowing who they were. I did not know who I was.
This was no metaphorical puzzle. I did not know who I was. I knew that I was, that I existed, here, in this alleyway, at night, poorly lit in an undetermined urban area whose sounds were growing with my awareness of them like stuccato bursts of machine gun fire in the distance.
But that was all I knew.
I didn't know how I'd gotten here or worse still, who I was to have gotten here. The world was not entirely unfamiliar but nor was it recognised. I might have thought I was somewhere I had once visited as a tourist or somewhere I had passed through once, ethereally. But I didn't know who that I was. I only knew fragments and those fragments consisted only of that which was around me at that very moment. The past was a void.
Having completed the tour of my body finding no wounds, holes or other troubling physical debilities which might have complicated my immediate existence I stared down the alleyway trying to measure in some way the chances of escaping without being sighted.
But why escape when I still hadn't figured out the basics of my existence like name, purpose and account balances? For example, I knew a wallet might well house the answers to all of these questions but I did not know how I knew a wallet would. I just did. And I had none. I knew to check my back pocket, the pocket inside the wool-blend herringbone coat I wore over me.
Escape because in truth, the air was chilly and whilst I was not wet as one would be having had a bucket of ice water thrown upon them, I was growing gradually more aware of the chill and perhaps the idea that shelter or some kind would be preferable. I looked up at the sky for clues but could find none between the darkness of the hour and the clouds which obscured the luminscence of the moon.
Semantic knowledge is preserved.
******
CANTO UNO
CIRCLE ONE - LIMBO - INNOCENT SOULS
What I need to establish firstly - how does this happen? We might consider the opening trauma linked to repressed memory?
SO at first we've got the trauma, then we've got Marsaw with his repressed memory then we've got Kinderton for:
Recovered memory therapy (RMT) is a term coined by affiliates of the False Memory Syndrome Foundation[26][27] referring to what they described as a range of psychotherapy methods based on recalling memories of abuse that had previously been forgotten by the patient.[28] The term is not listed in DSM-IV or used by mainstream formal psychotherapy modality.[26] Opponents of the therapy advance the hypothesis that therapy can create false memories through suggestion techniques; this hypothesis is controversial and has been neither proven nor disproven. Some research has shown evidence supporting the hypothesis,[29][30] and this evidence is questioned by some researchers.[26][31][32] Even when patients who decide their recovered memories are false retract their claims, they can suffer post-traumatic stress disorder due to the trauma of illusory memories.[33]
Ok, Marsaw has traumatic memory loss.
Often, the fugue state remains undiagnosed until the individual has emerged from it and can recall their real identity. Upon emerging from the fugue state, the individual is usually surprised to find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings.
In one form of psychogenic amnesia, called fugue state, individuals may forget not only their pasts but their very identities. Despite the many Hollywood movies depicting this phenomenon, fugue state is extremely rare in real life. Fugue state normally resolves with time, particularly with the help of therapy.
here is a good, basic link for this...
Unlike most forms of amnesia, which are associated with damage to specific parts of the brain (such as the hippocampus), dissociative fugue has no known physical cause. Typically, the memory loss is triggered by a traumatic life event; subsequently, the individual enters the fugue state, during which the retrieval of memories associated with the event is somehow prevented. Thus, the fugue state is psychogenic: psychological factors impinge upon the neurobiological bases of memory retrieval. The memory loss is, however, reversible; once the individual emerges from the fugue state, he or she is once again capable of retrieving the “lost” memories.
Another good link: NYT article here on dissociative fugue
try to search extraordinary people david fitzpatrick as well.
*****
SO, whilst it is good and well to have Marsaw and his forgotten past, where does he at first find himself?
he first thing about his life that Jeff Ingram remembers is “picking myself up off the ground” in Denver, although he didn’t know where he was at the time. He had no identification but was wearing a ring and a watch, had eight dollar bills in his pocket (he’d left with $700 in cash) and seemed unhurt—suggesting he had not been the victim of a crime. (His car has not been found.) He hadn’t lost his functional memory—retaining the ability to speak, for example. But at some point, he gave up asking for help and walked for six to eight hours until he found Denver Health Medical Center.
“I don’t know who I am,” he told the desk attendant.
“What do you mean?” she asked, handing him an admittance form—an absurdity for someone with no name. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Disbelieving hospital staffers fired questions at him: “Who are you?” “Where are you from?”
*****
SO, Marsaw finds himself in a strange city combination of LA and Paris. In an alley?
I thought I'd been dreaming.
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night or just prior to dawn, with a start? An audible, soul-shivering start as though you'd woken just in time to elude the grasp of death? A start that is in fact the start of the search to determine where you are, to recall who you are, how many fingers on your hand, who is sleeping beside you?
Sleeping is a death and waking is the escape. I recalled only that I was in the habit of staying awake as long and as often as possible. I recalled in this slow-to-rise stalgmite of recollection that to manage this I drank and by drinking I mean a slow, incessant habit growing into the crescendo of an all-night bender there is no escaping from.
Or at least so I once thought.
Switching to W G Sebald's The Rings of Saturn to find this nugget:
"...and yet, says Browne, all knowledge is enveloped in darkness. What we perceive are no more than the isolated lights in the abyss of ignorance, in the shadow-filled edifice of the world...
I have just opened my eyes to find myself prone in an alleyway between two dumpsters. It is night. It is cold. As my eyes adjust I see people walking past the alley, a few scattered, boisterous people. The kind who frequent the late nights in urban areas. The only kind.
I stood up slowly. Slow motion is the preferred method of movement I said aloud, hearing my voice raspy, cigarette scarred. Upon standing I immediately fell into a coughing spasm that doubled me over and continued until I'd hacked out a wadge of phlegm and was able to stand straight again.
Once that minor trauma had been overcome I was left to wonder what I was doing there in the alley to begin with.
Or, as I shortly discovered in a disjointed yet unpanicked way, who I was.
I shot her.
I can admit that now.
I pleaded guilty at the trial of course, there was no alternative given the evidence. The truth is, until now, until this very moment, I've never admitted it to myself.
The truth is I only shot her because she was going to shoot me first. Or so I thought.
I couldn't explain why there was no weapon found on her. They said she was defenseless, that I shot her in cold blood.
I knew that she was going to shoot me if I didn't shoot her first.
Maybe not at that moment, maybe not even that evening but I knew deep down inside that one day she would shoot me, the second I let down my defences and relaxed she would have shot me.
How do I know that?
I just know. Something this monumental, to have the constant threat of this hanging over your head day in and day out makes you realise that it is inevitable. It WAS inevitable. Until I shot her first.
I checked my pockets for clues. There was no wallet, no money. There were no keys to anything. There was nothing to identify myself with.
I walked slowly out of the alleyway into the street which was eerily empty of people. The revellers that had squawked past so noisily had disappeared. The street was strewn with litter, lamp-lit, many of its buildings boarded up.
I could sense panic rising in me like a bile.
I had no idea where I was.
******
When I woke again it was light.
I was on the ground, underneath a thick pile of newspapers in a cluster of trees in a park. I stood as calmly as I could, brushing the newspapers and nettles from me and peered through the foliage. A few people passed by on a distant foot path, nannies with strollers, joggers. I emerged cautiously, worried that it was obvious I had no idea who I was or where I was.
What am I to do without money?
I decided to try and figure out where I was deducing despite my state that this was currently the easier of the two options. It was obviously a city, somewhere. Away from the park I could hear the sounds of a city, car horns, the hum of traffic. Was it my city?
It was then I heard a rustling in the dead, autumnal leaves. Despite my own uncertainty my curiosity was piqued. I took a step nearer. I followed signs for the city centre and found myself upon a walk of about 30 minutes, a slow walk because I was entirely uncertain of myself and why I was here and was afraid someone might guess this, that perhaps there was some reason for my current state. Surely there was a reason but if it were criminal I didn't want to alert the authorities before I'd had the chance to discover anything further for myself.
THREE ANIMALS OR WHATEVER THESE THREE SYMBOLS. TO BE FOLLOWED BY KIMBERLAND, THE GUIDE
I hadn't been walking very long when
Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.Psychoanalyst Carl Jung emphasizes the collective unconscious as being inhabited with archetypes that are derived from primal animal behaviors that all humankind possesses. (Huffman 494) Researcher William McDougal proposes in his "Instinct" theory of motivation, that humans are compelled by behaviors that are unlearned, uniform in expression and universal to the species. (Huffman 440) It is these carnal compellations that Christianity attempts to inhibit that are chronicled throughout Christian verse. Dante's metaphoric trio is specifically mentioned in the Holy Bible as noted in the 8th edition of The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Jeremiah 5:6 reads, "Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch over their cities: everyone that goeth out thence shall be torn into pieces: because their transgressions are many and their backslidings are increased." By using these three particular animals in his symbolism, Dante is alluding to the negative conception the bible invokes in its symbolic representation of the animals.
In Inferno, Dante first encounters the leopard which blocks his path to righteousness. He writes, "Beyond the point the slope begins to rise / sprang up a leopard, trim and very swift! It was covered by a pelt of many spots. / And everywhere I looked, the beast was there" (Inferno I 32-35). Here, Dante is drawing on the sinister conception of the leopard that lays in wait of its prey. This leopard camouflages himself much as the fraudulent may mask their sinister intentions.
In contrast, this sinister characterization is avoided in Nigerian philosophy, Benin, which embraces animals as symbolism of deities. In Benin, the Oba or king is all powerful and is the owner of the land and its people. (Eboreime) The Oba and royal power, represented by images of the leopard, focuses on more positive traits such as speed, agility, cunning, and prowess. (Peck, Coote) For example, Dante regards the preying leopard as a demonic physical threat, whereas Nigerian philosophy would view this same leopard as a patient and skilled hunter. Another African myth comes from the pygmies of Zaire. Tore, the wood god, is represented by the leopard. He is said to be the 'lord of the animal' and patron of the hunt. (Lindemans) This conception also focuses on the leopard as a graceful hunter. The African people glorify the leopard for the same characteristics that are frowned upon in Christian literature.
Following the leopard, Dante encounters the lion, which he uses to symbolize sins of violence and ambition. A group of lions is called a pride, which is also a sin of ambition, punishable in Dante's Hell. A lion is the ruler of the land and asserts himself as such. Dante writes of the lion, "…he was coming straight toward me, it seemed, / with head raised high, and furious with hunger" (Inferno I 46-47). The reader draws the violent, destructive nature from the lion symbol which is also displayed in Christian literature. Perhaps I Peter 5:8 displays this paradigm best as it reads, "Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." Dante invokes the reader's conception of the lion as he uses him to represent sins that involve violence against others. This symbolism births feelings of fear and recognition of the danger of the lion as one to fear, which spawns a literary barrier to serve as a deterrent from sin.
The lion is also symbolic in Egyptian Mythology. The goddess of war and vengeance, Sekhmet or "Powerful One", contrasts this negative perspective of animal symbolism that Dante portrays. She is pictured with the head of a lioness and symbolizes divine retribution. The Egyptian Sun God, Ra, calls upon his daughter, Sekhmet, to slaughter humans that had concocted a plan to rebel against him, in his aging and vulnerable state. Ra punishes humanity be sending his vengeful daughter. She single handedly defends her father, the almighty Ra by ravaging through the rebellious village, devouring those who plotted against him. Sekhmet, in all her glory, wades through the blood of the punished, claiming her father's exaltation. (Willis 41) Beginning around 1000 B.C.E., Sekhmet began to be portrayed with an alter persona, Bastet. With the changing persona, her appearance changed as well. She began to be depicted as a domesticated cat. Her new duty is to be an "avenger," and slay enemies of Egypt and enemies of the gods. (Cass)
While Egyptian myth conjures the vicious and vengeful spirit of the lion, they do so respectfully and recognize the strength and brutality in a grandiose manner. The story of Sekhmet's wrath recognizes that she attacked only to protect her father. Sekhmet's power was dually respected and feared. Messengers of Sekhmet were thought to be infectious disease. Following this notion, her priests also served as doctors. (Willis 50) While the Egyptians shared many of the same characterizations of the lion as Christians, they applied them differently. Egyptian conception focuses on the strength and power of the lion and makes its mission divine retribution, as opposed to the brutality and violent nature that is the focus of Dante's symbolic representation.
Following the lion on the path is the she-wolf. Dante, using the she-wolf to represent the sins of incontinence writes of the she-wolf, "And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness / (how many people she has brought to grief!)" (Inferno I 49-51). He draws from the reader's negative perception of the wolf, which attributes the wolf as of a predatory nature. The she-wolf is portrayed as a callous hunter who does not differentiate her victims, nor is she merciful. This view is also displayed in Christian literature, especially in the Bible. Genesis 49:27 reads, "Benjamin is a ravenous wolf; in the morning he devours the prey, in the evening he devours the plunder." The author focuses on the negative characteristics of the wolf as a violent and agitated hunter whereas other culture and mythology revere the wolf for its majestic power. Dante opposes this positive vision with his symbolism, as he uses the wolf to represent the sins that humans find irresistible. He uses the mystery and power of the wolf to emphasize the enticing and alluring manner of these particular sins.
Contrastingly, Native American kinship with the wolf is prevalent as they view the wolf as the brother of man. (Maxwell 348) The Chipewyans honor the wolf as their creator. Their creation myth attributes the body of a wolf to have become the world. The land is made of his flesh, fish are made from his internal organs, and birds were created from his skin. (Maxwell 330) Sub arctic tribes, such as the Ingalik and Koyukon of Alaska, hold the wolf in the highest regard. Members of the tribe are forbidden to kill wolves, as they are considered as brothers to the tribesmen. (Maxwell 348) Native American antiquity accounts for humanity having spawned from animals and does not differentiate the two. They believe their ancestors began life as animals and then transformed themselves into human beings. (Willis 31) The First Nations view wolves as teachers or pathfinders. A wolf is seen as fiercely loyal to their mates and therefore dedicated to their families. (Beaupre)
Roman Mythology offers another positive conception of the wolf, with the ancient story of Romulus. Along with his infant twin Remus, he was abandoned beside a river. They were rescued by a she-wolf and reared alongside her cubs for a few years. (Lindemans) This mythological she-wolf is given a nurturing and affectionate persona that may stem from the animal's loyalty to the pack. While focusing on the characteristics more becoming to the wolf, the Romans have allowed a positive conception into human psyche that differs drastically from the sinister huntress we encounter in Dante's Inferno.
While many pre-Christian and non-Christian faiths may use animals symbolically, they tend to focus on less sinister traits or emphasize these animalistic traits in a positive light. Christianity has long sought to exterminate the primal instinct of humanity. Thus, their use of animals in a symbolic manner tends to focus on the negativity of animal behavior. Animals will submit to their carnal desires instinctively, as will humans, which is an underlying problem in the Christian plight to purify humanity and deter them from sin.
By experiencing Dante's animal symbolism in the Inferno, the reader is connected to his negative view of animal behavior which is the exact form of carnal human nature the Church sought to eradicate from humanity, so as to lessen chance of sin. Human beings are prone to their impulses. Mankind bears an interpersonal conflict between his urges and his will. These "animalistic" urges force one of Christian faith to feel guilt for having submitted to them. Some may say that it is will and faith in God that separates us from the animal kingdom. This is the reasoning behind Dante's choice of individual animals as representative of the three dimensions of sins depicted in Inferno. One can clearly see the type of negative animal symbolism that pervades both the Old and New Testaments, in Dante's Inferno.the leopard, the lion and the wolf. They symbolize the major categories of sin: incontinence, violence and fraud. Or as they are more commonly called – lust, pride and avarice. In her commentary, Dorothy L. Sayers explains that these categories of sin were associated with the three stages of life – lust with youth, pride (self-conceit) with the middle years and avarice with old age. Of course, they can attack a person at any time of his life.
Whatever his conception, Dante likely drew inspiration for the beasts from this biblical passage prophesying the destruction of those who refuse to repent for their iniquities: "Wherefore a lion out of the wood hath slain them, a wolf in the evening hath spoiled them, a leopard watcheth for their cities: every one that shall go out thence shall be taken, because their transgressions are multiplied, their rebellions strengthened" (Jeremiah 5:6).
It is perhaps best, at this early stage, to take note of the salient characteristics of the animals--the leopard's spotted hide, the lion's intimidating presence, the she-wolf's insatiable hunger--and see how they relate to subsequent events in Dante's journey through hell.
I’m thinking about all this in dire detail as I’m walking the streets going somewhere aimlessly. I pick a street and start walking down it and then when the mood strikes me, I take a different street and all the while with no accurate measure of where I am or where I’m going, just random turns. I need something to visualise it. A familiar mark, a subway station. But I’ve got nothing because I don’t even know where I’m going.
Oh wait, yes I do, I just remembered, I’m going to meet with Kimberland, a salesman of some kind. I don’t know what, does it really matter? Do you ever WANT someone to sell you something? This whole moaning culture is a giant vat of selling, shovels full of bullshit they take in their hands and lovingly shove between your lips into your mouth. You can spit it out over and over again but that bullshit taste is still there, long after they leave. It’s their calling card, these punks, these gigantic destroyers of the human soul and champion bullshit feeders.
I met Kimberland on a street corner somewhere. Lost, chum, he asks me as I stand there trying to decide which corner to turn. Fuck off, I said because I don’t like strangers coming up to me unsolicited and talking to me. Not unless they’re fit birds scoffing a light or copping a feel. There now, are you offended? You see, your glass ceiling is fucking low, kid. You’ve gotta raise that glass ceiling really fucking high if you are going to get through all this shit without it getting caked on to you.
Kimberland was used to this kind of street abuse apparently because he was utterly unflustered.
Wanna buy something, he asks.
Like what?
I dunno, what do you want to buy?
I would like to buy a gun and then shoot you with it.
You’d have to buy the bullets too. And probably a hunting license. In fact, if you bought a gun from me and bullets as well and just shot me right here…were you thinking of shooting to kill me or only wound me?….
I haven’t decided yet.
Well, in either scenario, you’d have to buy a lot of influence with the local authorities to get off whatever myriad of charges you’d be facing for shooting someone in broad daylight on a main street corner.
What if I simply said I was religiously intolerant?
Well, firstly, I’m not religious so I’m not sure that’s possible if that’s you’re excuse for shooting me. And secondly, even if shooting in the name of religious intolerance, you won’t be exempted from contempt or conviction. But we’re getting off track. How much money do you have to spend?
None. I don’t use money these days. I used plastic. The plastic symbolises the substance of my need for consumption. How about a goat?
Do you have a goat?
No. But maybe you’ve got one for sale?
******
I meet Kimberlain on another street corner, weeks and weeks later. It’s raining now. I haven’t worn anything in anticipation of getting wet, or prevention of getting wet. So I am soaking when I reach him at the predetermined corner. He’s never tried to sell me anything again since that first meeting, I made him promise. If we were going to hang out again some time.
Kimberlain has a big fucking umbrella with him. A fuck you sort of umbrella that, if you were walking down a street carrying it you’d be poking every fucker you passed in the eye or the mouth or the ear. But because he’s stationary, people just walk around him, muttering or turning back after a few steps to hurl a hideous look of disgust at him. Little daggers of bad karma.
It’s like a fucking tent, I said, as I approach him.
There’s only room for one under here, he warns.
Then we’d better find shelter.
******
It used to be easy to find shelter. Just go into a fucking bar. Nice and warm. Drinks to get you fucked up and forgetting everything that makes you sick to your stomach. Drinks and more drinks. But not any more. I take pills that make me vomit if I drink alcohol. I gits them for free. From Big Bossman Government, all-caring,, yummy mummy father superior big business government who want me off the liquor at all times because otherwise I become a deficit to society rather than a show flower of happiness. On these pills, I drink only when I want to vomit which admittedly, doesn’t happen very often.
We could stand under the bus stop shelter, Kimberlain points out with the sharp tip of his umbrella nearly poking out my eye. Or you could, you miserable git. Look at you, soaking. What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why don’t you buy an umbrella.
What, from you?
No, not from me. But there’s other people around who are selling umbrellas. Especially when it’s raining. Rain is an umbrella salesman’s nirvana. You could have gone to one of them. You could be nearly dry instead of soaking and looking for a fucking bus stop to hide under in this downpour.
I like the rain. It makes me feel human. Why would I want an umbrella getting in the way?
Listen, I’m not standing under the fucking bus stop. If you like the rain so much stand in it out here like a man whilst we have our conversation.
Dark wood - symbolises lost in alcoholism. Speaker must find his way out of alcoholism. A bitterness that has cut him off from the rest of the world. (in the instant case, this will be the murder of his spouse)
I cannot explain how I got here. I don't remember the steps taken. I don't remember the thought process. I don't remember the motivations of the decisions taken. Suffice that I am here.
It is Happy Hour in The Fox and Hound. The Fox and Hound is a bar in the city. It is called Happy Hour because the drinks are sold at a reduced price and the patrons consume more cheaply. It is happy for the patrons because they both save money and drink at the same time, giving the illusion of getting something for nothing whilst simultaneously intoxicating the brain to the point of happiness. So goes the theory anyway.
It is happy for the landlord because the cheaper prices draw in bigger crowds and even at discounted prices, bigger crowds mean bigger profits. It is, I believe, what they would call a win-win situation.
Of course there are those for whom the mere or slight intoxication of the brain is insufficient. Everyone is different, has different needs, different motivations for drinking and thus drinks in a different way. For some, the intoxication is an exploration in moderation for others, like myself, it is merely the first stage of a temporary illusion of happiness.
So as I sit alone at the corner of a horse-shoe shaped bar I debate this issue within myself; the temporary illusion of happiness. The artificial induction of the temporary illusion of happiness. I attempt these little exercises of thought to try and induce moderation. The idea is that if I can convince myself that the reality of moderation is not allowing oneself to go beyond that certain point where intoxication becomes inebriation, where happiness prevails over misery, I will have achieved a small victory of sorts. Nightly I bring this challenge to myself and nightly, I fail, despite all thoughts of discouragement.
Gradually I will realise I am diseased. Alcoholism is a disease. The disease of wanting more when more is unnecessary. The disease of greed, the illusion of happiness. I am not unlike a capitalist in that way. A capitalist also has a disease of greed although one might argue that such a disease is at the very least, useful to capitalism itself, necessary. Alcoholism is the inverse; dysfunctional and counter-productive. But for those firsst few drinks anyway, when the temporary illusion of happiness is achieved and instead of stopping at that border to observe and behold and revel, the boundry is destroyed. Yes, destroyed. The nihilistic greed towards self-destruction must also play a role. Without it, moderation is possible. For people like me it is the goal. To reach the point of inebriation that life returns to the very stage of absurdity it exudes when sober.
The drink is the promise provided to the disinherited.
(STAGES OF DRINKING ON THE BRAIN)
Kinderton, Winston and Delia. Kinderton is my psychologist.
if you do not work you become old in a short period of time.
The story of the girl in Budapest who rings a chat show on the radio dealing with love lost, psychologic problems, etc., the usual universal whining, and spills her guts, really lets out her true feelings about her boyfriend, what a sexual animal he is, how he is always screwing around on her and asking how she can find the strength to break it off with him. He happens to be working the night shift in some factory, listening to that same station and he asks himself, broken hearted at first before overcome with rage, is that MY beloved Berluska who is spilling her guts on radio all my friends will hear and humiliating me?
CIRCLE TWO LUST
the act of walking is so well practiced (overlearned) that you can do it without thinking. You program yourself to walk to another room, then your mind wanders, and when you get there you no longer remember why you started the motor program.^^^^^^^^^^^^
As I opened the door, waving my final goodbyes for the evening, I was rather surprised not to be greeted by a gust of wind or the slap of a rain pellet rather to find myself entering another room altogether. I stopped. I looked behind me. Had I, in a slightly enebriated state, exited out the wrong door into another antechamber of the previous pub?
But the door had already closed behind me. Locked behind me. Odd, I thought. A hallucination? Yet I was indeed inside rather than outside. My eyes grew accustomed slowly to the dimness of the tawdry red light of the interior, the red velvet covering on the sofas.
A pale blonde woman, a woman one might consider as having alibaster skin if one could have made out such distinctions in such light, touched my elbow gently.
"May I take your coat?" Her voice was a gelatinous ooze of sensuality. All in a simple query. I looked at her, dressed in sequins, or perhaps merely a sequin robe made of nothing but sequins, her nudity clearly visible even in this light behind the thread-bare cover of a sequin outfit.
She was already in the act of helping me out of my coat before I could think long enough to reply. I slipped out of it readily once I became accostomed to the idea of taking it off. She disappeared into the shadows. I became aware of a gentle, pulsating bass eminating from a distant corner. A thin girl dressed in a black satin negligee appeared.
"May I offer you a drink? A glass of champagne, perhaps?" she suggested without preamble. It's normal that a server would not introduce themselves before taking your order but there was something distinguishable in her manner that led me to the misperception that if we didn't know each other already surely we should and thus I was surprised by my own disappointment that she hadn't introduced herself. The question, on the surface innocent and normal, seemed inexplicably weighted by an odd intimacy.
"Champagne?" I managed to stammer, indecisive.
"By the glass, we have Bollinger, Delamotte and Gosset. If you would like a full bottle however, the possibilities are unlimited..." She smiled like what I could imagine to be an Eden snake, or THE Eden snake, her tongue lingering on the very edge of her lower lip, capped by her upper lip. Both were lightly painted in a plum hue. How could I make such distinctions in the lighting? Well of course, because of the occasional flickers of bright light that now emitted from what I could see was a stage in front of me. A stage decorated by a single pole.
"Just a glass of beer for the moment..." I finally replied. "Until I become better oriented."
Her expression did not change.
"As you wish," she replied perhaps robotically. "Please take a seat and I will retrieve the drink for you."
Jean François de Troy's 1735 painting Le Déjeuner d'Huîtres (The Oyster Luncheon) is the first known depiction of Champagne in painting
After primary fermentation and bottling, a second alcoholic fermentation occurs in the bottle. This second fermentation is induced by adding several grams of yeast (usually Saccharomyces cerevisiae, although each brand has its own secret recipe) and several grams of rock sugar.[14] According to the Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée a minimum of 1.5 years is required to completely develop all the flavour. For years where the harvest is exceptional, a millesimé is declared and some Champagne will be made from and labeled as the products of a single vintage rather than a blend of multiple years' harvests. This means that the Champagne will be very good and has to mature for at least 3 years. During this time the Champagne bottle is sealed with a crown cap similar to that used on beer bottles.[1]
I sat down at the nearest table. The room was scattered with single men at tables surrounding the stage. (BROTHEL IN Bratislava description...)
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