Tuesday, 11 September 2007

The Tuesday Group.

After yesterday had seen the entire trajectory of guilt and punishment, I woke this morning with a certain sadness, an almost seventeenth century melancholia and so, understandably, I had a quick, almost liquid shit to the mellow undertone of a well known Bach. And so it was in this receptive mood that I welcomed the Tuesday Group. Of course, the foolish P. had forgotten to give me his monthly cheque but I bided my time to see if he'd elaborate and, finally, he did.

I think I'm angry with you, he said.

His flaring nostrils, pompous chin. I could have crushed his windpipe. On this day, I smiled and gently made it clear he wont be welcome again if he fails to bring his cheque. As the conversation formed I began to wonder at my violent impulse toward P. and sensed it came from seeing in him, the little weasel, an echo of my own infantilism the day before.

I drifted away and considered how yesterday I had left my father's will upon the grass, his gesture of amnesty, of paternal annulment and the manner of my response, seeking the chastisement of mistress M. over the telephone. And what is masochism if not, in excluding the paternal law and in seeking maternal punishment and therefore, in this, the secret admission of incest. Something was tethering me back to this behaviour.

I looked at client P. What terrible innocence. In fact, I rather hoped he wouldn't return next week. He inhibits the women. They either open their legs or feel sorry for him. I imagined him forcing his ungainly dick on the weak and vulnerable and as our time finished, as they breathed again and left the room, I understood that P. was very likely a danger to women and children. As he passed me by the door, I considered taking a preemptive action, pinning him to the wall and making a citizen's arrest.

Later, I rang my father.

1 comment:

Prozacville said...

Can you hear me panting with eagerness on the other end of the screen waiting to hear what father had to say to you?