A single case (is not an isolated case)

Have you noticed how often women flee to a clinic when they can’t cope in their relationships? You’ll hardly ever see a man in one for the same reason and/or with the same symptoms. Says a lot, doesn’t it?
Not quite sure what to think of therapists. They call themselves scientists, but I dunno… it’s  a bit of a ladies’ science, isn’t it? They claim to name things, measure them, prove you’ve improved, cash their fat cheque and sally on home to their nice pad in the suburbs. I mean, c’mon! And then there are all these fashion illnesses, you know the type, made up of initials, acronyms and the like. Do you really believe in those, or are they just another money-maker? Can they be known to be true? And, more to the point, true to/for whom? Like; who has hysteria nowadays??
We could talk about this  – and God – till the cows come home. You can’t prove a thing unless I want to believe you. And just because you may discard my arguments, don’t mean you’ve proven they don’t exist, whichever side of the fence you’re sitting on.
Fuzzy. Very fuzzy.
In Verses Nature, there’s a character called Catherine. Marriage on the rocks. Has a nervous breakdown. His fault, this time. He’s hopeless in bed but instead of seeking out a specialist (or just a heart-to-heart with a chum), he passes the parcel. Says it’s her fault. Wanker. Weak women are one thing. Weak men? I can’t stand them.
Anyhow, Catherine’s one of these brainy, touchy types and her best friend, Mazelle, gets her into this fancy private clinic she runs called Morton House, where each room is now named after one of the House’s ancestors. Part of the therapy involves keeping a diary. Let’s have a peep:


Get it down, they say. Get it done…

To write in 3D (or more). To make of the printed page the legitimate siblings of paintings, of dancers and symphonies, but no–

thicklipped words bemusing tongue-tied masscrawlers

In between and off my head. They say?
At least the meals are nice here

Her name is Dr Schonbaum. I am to her Ingrid. We are to meet daily. She recommends at least one lunch-time walk a week and regular attendance of at least one group therapy. She says I have a very nice room. It suits me, whatever that means

There is little to remind me of Him but for these ghastly sessions. Beta-Man. lol. Better (half). Whatever

There is a void I seem unable to navigate. Days are not lived, simply survived. How am I going to put all of this back together again?

My Loneliness is rich in the nature of its unique constellation of humanized projections that no one other than myself can appreciate. It is this world of intangibles of which I spoke.

And yet…

Sometimes I fear I will implode. I thirst for the banal, to be in the crowd, to be flesh, not mind, lapping to my fill, gleaming, heaving, satiated

uncensored senses sorely red:

What is a woman when no longer desired? Who is she?

So many cobwebs we need to sweep aside.

No I do not want to. I will take my meals in my room.

The rooms here have names as though they are able to accost/befriend/molest us. Her in Victoria Morton, acute dementia (not that I’d know): she keeps walking in and out of the main door and into other people’s workshops, bothering everyone. She seems fond of handles. Yesterday she crapped in the corridor. On purpose. In those horrid brushed nylon leggings of hers, you can always see the crack of her bottom. Why doesn’t anyone say anything?

We know she takes advantage of us, sneaking into our rooms at night. Some are jealous. She fucks those ones first, to keep them quiet

You say we do our best to block or enhance our doubt zones. I still stumble over the idea of enhancing one´s doubt zone. You’ll explain that to me?

Yet another restless night…
between my legs it smells as though I have awoken from the dead. Unfucked puckered rot.

‘If I do this all my life, I will have missed something. And when you realize you have missed something essential, that’s when you start thinking about age…’ (Her in Isabelle Morton).

Mazelle goes home every night and I fall asleep with her kiss on my lips. Our thoughts are so similar, yet I am the one in here!!!

I, I, I…

Get it down. The loquacity of lies…

Anything trapped in a word cannot but be half lie; half construed, let me say, with a touch more clemency. I must be on my guard, not let myself be swept away by their force, for they are only words…

Heard them at it. Her next door in Yelena Morton. She doesn’t like me. I take my meals in my room. None of them like me. I’m not here to make friends with any of you.  Won’t be taking any of you with me. Not even in my thoughts

Anticipation: constitutes a danger for the reflexive, critical mind since it means that conclusions have already begun to be massaged into place, which in turn renders us potentially blind to unforeseen eventualities wherein might precisely lie (some of) the answers to (some of) my questions…  Maybe I should have said this much, much earlier

Am I ready to go home?

uncensored bareness in the flesh:

‘What you resist persists. That was the thought you were wearing yesterday.’  Who said?

I’m on the wrong side of the line. Don’t think for one second that I don’t see through this whole circus. I should be the one on that chair. I, I, I, I




A clever but by no means unimpeachable theory

Make up (verb): to invent, to create, to assemble. Make-up (adj): embellished, enhanced. Make up (verb): to reconcile. To RE-member??? Make-up (noun): components, elements, constituents, cosmetics

the truth and I:

(……………..lisSTten ……..)

To uncover roots so carefully buried it will take more than destroyed hulls and spilled languages. It will take more than alienation shovelled like rain on stars. It will take uprooted minds stitched to concrete

A single case, not an isolated case

It always turns out in a good way, here, but maybe not there

Labels. Ideological sleet. Left in a random place. Then the wall came down. Be prepared. Full colour escape.

uncensored darkness in the reddish mist:

I disappear in the meaning,

in musty moors of lifeless deception

my name gets caught in my hair, latches onto my skin like a speck of dust. Brush. Blow.

Like a ribbon I cover my roots and vanish into secrets

What does perverse mean? My mind, full of open doors. Mindful of open doors. Sex and cum everywhere. My mind is not a brothel. I disappear down alleys. Down the meanings, dug up, yet unavailable to the definitive.

If only double standards had a neck to break…

The Others become a border to be constantly overcome

(from Verses Nature. Special thanks to Laura Gentile, Sophie Gitzinger and Federica Bianco.)

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