Part VII: Time Warp 2000’s – Cut! #7 (Chapter 109)
Dearest George,
I
want to hear from you.
Perhaps if I tell you more about myself, you’ll answer my
letters.
As a hobby, I paint Jungian portraits of my life.
If I tried to explain what I mean, you wouldn’t understand,
but if I sent you a photo of my work, you might.
Maybe some day.
Right now, I’m into painting self portraits in variations of
Prussian Blue. Shel says my work is obsessive, that I’m cheapening its value.
The thing is, my portraits don’t look like me ‒ they’re
all abstract. Twisted geometric motifs with deep shadows and contrasting
lights. And all different.
No circles, though ‒
Too much roundness in my real life. You can’t even tell
there’s a human being in my work.
Maybe that’s the point.
To help supplement the budget, I teach beginning psychology
classes part time at the community college, twilight classes, 5:00-6:30; I
spend about two hours finding significant things to say about Freud, Jung,
Adler, Horney.
Thinking up new ways to present old material takes a lot of
effort, and some days I don’t even bother: I’ll just run to Audio-Visuals,
round up a videotape ‒ usually an old, hoary psych film
in which all the players, all anorectic and pale, have long, stringy hair and
bushy sideburns. Bell bottoms and Day-Glo shirts. Likely, it’s some behaviorist
thing featuring B.F. Skinner training mice, using operant conditioning to get
them to perform unnatural tricks. Like pushing buttons for food or running for
their lives through tortuous mazes that would stymie even the most brilliant
Ph.D.
Better yet, my bored students like that Freud film where the
“id,” dressed in a leotard devil suit, dances around the “superego” (in white,
of course), chanting,
“I want, I want, I want....”
*
January 1, 2001
Bing!
Midnight.
Finally,
2001.
I
wanna forget.
Cinder,
tinder, spinster, twinster…
Double, Double toil and trouble.
I do’n wanna to go home.
A
swirling room.
My
kaleidoscope spills bloodstone tidings. I’ll paint my song all over this place!
“Minnie
the Mermaid” rising from my gut.
Looking
down from a tabletop, feet tapping.
Miming
The Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.”
Shimmy,
shimmy.
Frills
from a shawl, draped over my shoulders.
A
shawl I don’t recognize, shaking back and forth.
A
cauldron of rum, whiskey, champagne, and fried holiday hors d’oeuvres churning.
Rushing
to Nicole’s bathroom.
Head
over toilet.
Ughhhhhhhh!
Impressionistic
moments splattered on canvas.
Sheldon
hoisting me to my feet, nudging me toward the car.
Lights
like pinwheels and flashing stars.
Hanging
my head out the car window.
Ughhhhhhhh!
Gut imploding.
Car
coming to a stop.
Home.
Through
the door.
Hurry,
hurry…bathroom.
Ughhhhhhh!
Clothes
off, warm water spraying all over…
Shaking
body.
Flannel
nightgown.
Warm
between the sheets.
I
want elixir…sleep.
I
want anesthesia...
I want amnesia.
