An untellable Story

An excerpt is best

GIVE OR TAKE TODAY 1
“Take a step ahead
“A step forward
“It’s enough to be told
“To be liberated
“It’s enough to tell
“To be free.”

Listen to the story
To the story teller
The voice of some phoenix
Abandoned in the night
Forlorn in rejection
Rises from his own ashes
The ashes of his trauma

God bless the child!



Rod of Rebirth
(Bordeaux, Tour Pey-Berland)
[Inspired from Hildegard von Bingen]

I salute you, wand evergreen
Erected strong and vigorous by the wind
Summoned by our sensuous prayers
Your time has finally come
To bloom and blossom between our limbs
Climaxing its fertility
I salute you, rod evergreen
You satiate my thirst
My inner fire inflames you
With the noesis of love



CRUCIFIED NIGHTMARE

“There is in every one of us . . . a type of desire that is terrible, wild, and lawless . . . Shall we just carelessly allow children to hear any casual tales which may be devised by casual persons . . . ? Anything received into the mind at that age is likely to become indelible and unalterable . . .”
My dear Plato, what about any casual act from any non casual person performed casually on a child? Is there any road to rebirth from such acts? Is the noesis of spiritual and mental love, not to speak of carnal sex, enough to purge the mind and the body of these casual events?
“Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling, and our story shall be the education of our heroes.”



MENTAL BACKFLOW
ONE

Have you ever gone on a trip in your mind?
Have you ever tried to shift yourself back to your past?
“You will remember this one! He is such a pig! He never stops inventing new tricks!”
“Don’t you think you’re harsh? A little bit too harsh?”
“He will remember this one, I’m telling you!”
I was so small, insignificant, sitting in my little bed in the dark front room of the millhouse. I heard the church clock, but I could not count then. It was the afternoon. . .
It is the afternoon. I can hear them talking in the kitchen next door. My mum and her shrill voice. My aunt and her deeper voice. Two voices. To and fro, left and right, up and down, and I alone in the dark room. Alone with myself. Calling never helps. Better wait in silence. Prepare a present, an offering, a part of me and myself for them when they come. A little bit here, and a little bit there. It is warm to the fingers. It does not taste like anything. Or at least I don’t remember the taste or the smell, maybe it had a taste and a smell but I don’t smell, I don’t taste.
A flash of light. The door opens. A shadow in the light.
“What! That! Not again! You pig! You’re going to pay this time and remember next time . . . before doing it again!”
She picks me up like a piece of wood. She takes me to the kitchen. She pulls the big basin from under the sink. She gets me right in the middle of it, standing. And she pours a couple of buckets of water on my head.
“Isn’t that too cold, Simone?”
“That will teach him a lesson!”
She takes a hard straw brush and some soap and starts brushing me with the brush from top to toe, particularly in the middle, front and back. And I enjoy it. I enjoy her. She is, they are taking care of me. I love their hands on my skin, the brush on my flesh.
“Look at that! Two years and a half and he is as hard as a bull in heat. He must like the brush and the water! Pervert!”
I love it. I want some more. May it last for ever. Their hands, their fingers, her hands, her fingers, the brush. I feel light, I feel dizzy.
“And let me clean the inside too with my fingers! Pig!”
I feel like when I am full with grub and want to go to sleep. I yawn and she just puts the washrag with soap in my mouth.
“Will you finally become clean as clean you should be? You did that yesterday, and you do it today again. I will brush your skin raw if I need to, but you will stop being a pig. I’m telling you, you will be clean and the sooner the better.”
That voice, that music, up and down it goes, up and down and around. I could follow the music, the voice, turn, and turn again, and dance to that harmonious chant and discordant dirge, as if I were a leaf in the wind, a bird in a tree, smoke in the sky.
And my memory gets blank. That was so long ago. That was so far away in the dark wings of the stage I was strutting on under the brush, and the show was going on, but the limelight got dim and the dance, the music, the chant, the dirge went off, vanished and here I am lost in temporal translation between two doors, two corridors, two layers of pleasurable pain. What on earth do I find in that exquisite pain?