Breuer, who at that time was Freud’s colleague, had made the interesting discovery that by merely encouraging patients to talk freely about their maladies and about the times and occasions when their symptoms arose, the patients showed marked improvement. As such persons usually have vivid dreams which they like to relate, Breuer began to notice that many of these dreams, obscure as their actual significance was to him, seemed to repeat the origin and course of the disease and that, in some mysterious way, the recalling and relation of dreams seemed also to clarify the patient’s mind. –Worcester, Elwood and Samuel McComb. Body, Mind and Spirit. Charles Scribner’s Sons: New York London, 1931. p.42.
During lauds, the monkish hour for chants of praise that center earthbound souls, Owen suffered nightmares that at once stiffened yet animated his arms and legs to lash out from under the bedsheets as if engaged for his very breath with Lucifer. Owen’s subconscious brimmed with dementia while his every sense illumined perverse passions. Only after dawn’s warming spark did the visions yield, dissolving, unraveling, becoming a sutra of slowing breath upon merciful breath–
at breakfast with her later hours of tantric love then sleep and further into an abstract fabric of abandon of acceptance of colors fitting never meant to fit seeming to wake to a brush of unashamed flesh of moist wisened lips her so-near soul obscured by shuttered eyes memories of me surely evidenced with her every breath of this room’s telltale scented oils still penetrating even along these strands of our now matted feral hair strewn about us leftovers of sliced apples cloves of mandarins marmaladed breads salty cheeses and crystalline goblets of bittersweet ale the sanctity of this moment with barely evident jazz and whisper of evening breeze through an open window as if a gracious hand froze time allowing us singly to rest in divine warmth and centeredness to desire our breaths as two become one a ‘conspirare’ a corrective of reality mirroring the romances preserved within images now with spiders on walls and ceilings crumbling fictions of love captured in Botticelli’s ‘Primavera’ and ‘Birth of Venus’ I fall into this painting brushed by my mind too late realizing her breath is not mine to create nor steal she possesses her own canvas of desire a warm scene in another room or on another wall mine left a wanting portrait of one breath desiring a goddess Flora to breathe two as one with me through eternity wanting of an incarnation of beauty when in the bondage of flesh there’s no perfection or beauty in imperfection so truly messed-up and someone up there must be rolling in the aisles as I ceaselessly stupidly dog for some idea some soulmate this Sysyphus-like punishment for desiring capture of eternal breath absurdly like reaching up through this bedroom ceiling expecting the Creator’s touch in return as through Michelangelo’s brush to somehow open to me alone her shuttered soul.
–Continuing soon with “The Meeting.”–
–copyright 2012, Stephen Bort