Norman Allan : the story
book two: secrets
chapter one: maybe cynthia
Chapter 1: Maybe Cynthia Chapter 6: the substance of life and painting the city
Chapter 2: Past Lifes Chapter 7: Three Portraits of Lucky
Chapter 3: Stoner Chapter 8: Creep
Chapter:4: the Sacred Chapter 9:The Psychic Lover
Chapter 5: Spring 2015 Chapter: 10: the Devil's Story
|Chapter 1: Maybe Cynthia|
There are some secrets I
want to tell around or about Joan and Cynthia.
Cynthia had a "contracture"
in her gut, (in the later third of her ileum), five centimeters long
on the barium swallow. She had not eaten, or passed stool, for eight
days and was scheduled for surgery (on the morrow's dawning). I was
asked to visited her in hospital on the eve of her operation.
Ah! concerning the moving of my hands the "three inches" that appeared to accompany the "unwinding", the release of the constriction? It had to be in some sense (in large part) symbolic - a ritual that I had unconsciously devised - or at the very least it was a gross amplification. And the vectors, the direction was "wrong". (The release, very likely, was radial, of sphincter-like muscles, not lateral.) but but who knows
Naturally I became very excited
about the work I was doing with Cynthia. I became fascinated. She was
intelligent, vivacious... And I found myself telling her that I found
her attractive. "That's not a problem if it's only a little bit,
is it?" Cynthia speculated. I was silent. And of course it was
a problem. And the shit hit the fan when Cynthia discussed this transgression
of professional boundaries with Joan, her therapist. . Joan was outraged.
I had betrayed her, Joan, and she told the world. (more or less)
I was devastated.
It was immediately after this phone conversation that I wrote Maybe Cynthia (the poem) in the very first of my sketch books, woven there in with pictures Oh, I must send this to Joan she was almost like a sister, well, a cousin
A few weeks later, Ted returned
to Toronto from wintering in LA. I picked him up from the airport. Had
I seen Joan? Ted asked. "Not lately," I answered. "I'll
tell you about it tomorrow."
I rolled out of his lap, off the couch, to the floor.
LOL holy LOL
and that's so Ted-like like love I really have to tell your story
My sister's telling of the last time she saw Ted, as I recall, correct me if I'm wrong,
My father used to tell a
story about how, on the several occasions
when he was close to death, his Grandfather would appear at the foot
of his bed and say, "Not yet, Alan," which was very reassuring.
Though Ted's Grandfather had died when Ted (Alan)
was only four years old, Ted credited his Zedda's love, care and attention
with his own emotional survival. His Zedda was the most important positive
influence in his young life. (1)
Now, some years after Ted's death (1a), Julie was on an airplane that ran into really serious turbulence. The plane fell a thousand, two thousand feet. The oxygen masks tumbled down out of there holders. Everyone thought they were going to die. Julie recalled Ted's story about his Grandfather's reassuring 'not-yets'. "I wonder if Ted will appear for me?" she thought and looked up the aisle in the panic stricken airplane and, sure enough, there he was standing by the bulkhead. Only he didn't say, "Not yet." He stood there and he beckoned - he gestured "come," it was fine on the other side, that there was nothing to fear.
As Julie told the story to me over the phone she spoke with some chagrin. I burst out laughing and she followed into laughter, remembering she had laughed at the time. Ted was not going to miss an opportunity where a jest might teach a deep lesson..
Tell the story of Ted and
Lea and the vodka?
Me, I was in therapy half
my life and after Maybe Cynthia I did some training, in
councelling: I need better boundaries, I thought. And
I got bounced out two courses (on Bioenergetic) by Big Mommas (that's
worth telling, perhaps, as a footnote).
The Baby with the Bath Water
what I think is that
your skull bones was squished
or that bottle
then you had another end
and then there was mother
I had an oral phase
I discovered my hands
I had a stage
and I had attachments
and there were hungers and
and there was terror
there is all sorts of drives
Later, the class was saying
good-bye, and hugging one another: and Louise said, "You should
give Carl a hug. You'll regret it, if you don't."
Are we weird, as a species? You bet. ..
and that will do for a chapter
though you might want to read Maybe Cynthia (the poem .
chapter two: past lifes
Maybe Cynthia (the
. I wrote this in my very first sketch book (3)
and perhaps this psychic shock ignited propelled
So here's a poem
We met with your pants down
and your guts blocked
through mourning bleak hours
with and without the white flowers weeping
we found a way to unwind your anger
and your sorrow
save you from the surgeon gamble
I'm glad we contrived
in my house
in the heart of my sacred space
I have your "sample"
bottled clouds and innards
and beside it
I have your two faces
on the wall
so many layers
you said intensely
the issues were:
your inner doctor
piece was a
I said I have
I tried to make sure
you felt safe
that's why I spoke of my stuff
around placing my hands
in intimate places
there's stuff in bellies
I told you I'd had Bertold Brecht's
four simultaneous mistresses
held before me as the ultra Byron
the beyond Bethune
or words to that effect
"My father was a fucker."
My therapist pointed out
that when we speak
our words command an image,
and that this image may attach to us,
I said my father was a fucker
(I did not say
that "my head being
therefore sometimes cuntstruck/cockstruck:)
I distrusted the impulse
to put ands on breast
or belly on intimate parts
in the sanctity
hugging would been too intimate
then doctor duck
having blown spirits away
I fell into a contusion...
of suck and blow
(what was my grin
you probably didn't even notice
my only excuse.
my Naturopath said
the thought of sucking
below your diaphragm
it might give you hickies
and yes that's an impropriety
said my notes to you
in my record of that last encounter
which you complained
one bad day
book one: beyond substance
oh, and do visit normanallan.com : the website