Apr 042017
 

My dad was obsessed with World War II (like many white guys his age). He was born in 1933. He could be sitting in front of the History Channel right now, drinking a tall boy, watching yet another documentary about the storming of Normandy. (In fact, I see there’s another movie about Dunkirk hitting the theaters right now.) It makes sense, based on my childhood and my relationship with my dad, that when I go into my Internal Family System and start identifying parts, I find a little bully in there that looks like a Hitler youth. Hitler youth are the personification of evil (youth version), as I visualized it growing up in the seventies. When I attach an image to someone tyrannical, bullying, unreasonable, insane, and murderous, he looks a bit like a Nazi. It doesn’t mean that the part is a nazi or that I am a nazi in any way. Just want to be clear about that. In case you don’t know me and my personal beliefs and politics.

Also, this scene with the main character dressing up as a Nazi captain is just one tiny part of Don Quixote by Kathy Acker. The character dresses up, goes to a party, picks up a man/woman, and takes her/him home, all the while wearing this creepy get-up. The couple engages in friendly sado-masochism. S+M is something I literally know nothing about and have (almost) no opinion on, at least not one I want to share. But I do have this inner bully, I guess you’d call him an inner critic. A rather severe one. He’s calmed down a lot since I started working with these inner parts. Actually he’s gone I think. But I didn’t kill him. That was a joke.

The inner child joke brings me to my introduction, to lucky you, of the film The Brood by David Cronenberg. Maybe you’ve seen it? Probably you haven’t. It’s such a lovely companion to this conversation. There are so many good things about it, especially the guy who introduces it in this clip. Don’t miss that! (The actual film starts at about 19 minutes.)

The main character, otherwise known as the psychotic killer, is named Nola. Nola is in intensive therapy to heal the trauma of growing up with an abusive, alcoholic mother. Nola’s inner children somehow escape her psyche and they start running around murdering people. Guess who they murder first? Her mother. Then they go after her husband’s new girlfriend. A delicious detail (to me) is that these inner-child embodiments wear ski suits.

It’s all just about right. Just about psychically right! The deaths are TOTALLY her therapist’s fault. Could have been avoided, you naughty psychiatrist!

Quote from Nola’s mom right before she gets wacked:
“30 seconds after you’re born you have a past. And 60 seconds after that you start to lie to yourself about it.”

Here’s this from Wikipedia: “Nola’s rage about her abuse was so strong that she parthenogenetically bore a brood of children who psychically respond and act on the targets of her rage with Nola completely unaware of their action.”
But really it was her therapist’s fault.

Oh and not for nothing, remember this Nazi Youth representation from the Seventies? Oh, man. He dances and sings. He loves you, baby.

Just remember that every image that gets imprinted on your brain is in danger of sticking there. Close your dang eyes.

Jan 072013
 

 

“My family says: “Don’t ever see him again!” And implies things in a low voice.
But my eyes have their own life; they laugh at rules, and know whose they are.
I believe I can bear on my shoulders whatever you want to say of me.
Without the energy that lifts mountains, how am I to live?”

from “All I Was Doing Was Breathing” by Mirabai, Shiva devotee (1498-1565) found in Women in Praise of the Sacred, ed. Jane Hirshfield (HarperCollins, 1994.)


 

Are you mad at me? Because you seem mad. I don’t know. Your body language. Your eyes and mouth. You haven’t been laughing at my jokes. Some of them have been funny. You’re sure you’re not mad? Oh, okay. I knew it. What did I say? What? I didn’t say that. When did I say that? Wait, that was more than three weeks ago, when we went to Meg’s party. You can’t be mad at me for that. It doesn’t count anymore. Besides, that means you’ve been chewing on this for three weeks. How am I supposed to look at something as rank as that? The interaction has officially expired. All the planets are in different positions. Stars have exploded. Cells have regenerated. I’m not even the same person. It’s too late.

 

 

film clip is from Scanners, dir. by David  Cronenberg, 1981.