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The Story of Caroline

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©Argo Spier
ISDN - 2003-09-06 and upon request

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content

no parking - 9
aemillian myths - 11
musculus frontalis - 19
touted lips - 23
atomic teleology - 27
primitive rituals - 31
spaced majuscules - 33
encrypted riddles - 41
disordered notes - 51
dialectical Imagination - 57
co-ejaculation as a complex - 53
alcohol myopia - 59
road to hell - 67
slowdown process -75
a far cry - 79
new portion - 91
incomplete experiences - 95
tower of song - 107
mordacity idiot - 117
closing time - 121
headlong nutmeg and intriguing - 131
berlin or manhatten - 142
without hesitation - 153

[Total number of pages = 163]

Dedicated to my wife of verbene.

Note by the editor to author

This section is wonderful Argo!

I felt fully involved with the story and the storyteller both, throughout this whole piece.
I wouldn't be concerned about the many random characters drifting through this story. I found their sudden emergence and disappearance interesting and diverting, and they seem to fit well with the idea of psychological disturbance you're playing with.
On a more personal note, I'm not sure how much of this is autobiographical, but considering what I know of you, and the style of your work, I'd say probably most of it. It has the stamp of authenticity.
I'm sorry you have such painful experiences. Just for the record, it doesn't bother me that there are tangible male and female aspects to who you are. In fact I find it endearing and rather attractive. I know, however, that society at large is generally harsh and judgemental towards things it sees as 'different' from the average. Maybe it would help you a little to know that I don't feel that way? I assume you have some kind of bipolar disorder? It must be very difficult for you. Your description of it here is very powerful. I hope you will find some way to reconcile the different aspects of who you are and find peace with them.
It's my personal belief that everyone has all of these aspects within them. In your case they are simply more exaggerated? more visible? This is not necessarily a bad thing I don't think.
Anyway, if I'm miles off the mark then excuse my assumption. I hope your trip goes well. Take good care of yourself. – Kiss Rae

[no parking]

Our rendezvous was planned for two o'clock in the park at the bench viewing the pond. She was late as usual but when she came running from the direction of the Art Museum I was happy to see her hurrying.
She was all over me, a beautiful Barbie doll with an eager face.
'No parking…' she gasped, surfacing for air with touted lips.
Oh and ah of course openness… Thawsssss her motto.
'I had you worried there, hadn't I?'
'Yes' I bobbed ... so blunt to the point. I was her Ken doll.

Feeling her fragile warmth as I clamp my arms around her I wondered if this sentence would at last be the right one to open Caroline with.
'Oh yes, it isssss!' she exclaimed reaching into my shirt with a slender hand pulsating with blood.
'Acquiescence, I’m in it too!' she thrilled
Oh she knew about it then I thought.
'Lillith, nooooooo! Oh muse, do not mould me so!' I protested but with her hissing at my neck, she just took a deep inhale.
She was a Phoenician nymph, an Iokaste of sorts, and the hoarse tone in which she vocalised her intimacies was irresistibly sexy to me.
'Oh my love for you is strong!' she whispered slitting the tip of her tongue into my ear.
A cold shiver ran over me. I was numb, helpless. I had no defence. Once again the role of writer in the presence of his muse was forced upon me! And only with a futile weak gesture I could shiver. A poor attempt to fend her off. But I didn't really want to fend her off. I wanted her to go on. I wanted her touch. To be seduced to pulp. And she knew that. She always knows what I want and what I need. Tenderly she reached out for my soul in my body and held it in her utterly feminine hands. And she put her fingers around mine. She looked me in the eye and slowly lifted my hand towards her mouth. Then she put my fingers into it one by one pretending they were candy. Oh the perfect bitch, she knowingly answered every rule in the book as to what stereotypical seduction was supposed to be. I had in front of me the most perfect woman. But she wasn't playing. All she did was for real. I felt the wet of her saliva on my fingers. She slowly squeezed them in through her lips one after the other and letting them out with plops. Kissing them, my writers' fingers. And when she had done that she washes her lips and face towards and into my neck, licking my skin and ears again. And she kissed my cheek, my eyes, nose. I felt the warm wet saliva trails all over my face. And then her mouth was on my mouth and her lips found mine, thirsted for mine, soft and dearly. I felt her tongue's thrust and its rasp. The soft secret intimacy of her lower lip mingled with the nucleus of mine. I swooned into another world following the exact orbit she was mapping out for me. She possessed me.
When she pulled away there were just her eyes in front of me. They were two vacant funnels full of alchemical knowledge. I realised she was Meidea, the one with the witchcraft. Mnemosyne, the mother of 9, she was space of all spaces. The crossroads of Fokis, Mother, lover, and I ... I was moulded into Oedipus.
'No! No way! I cannot role-play Laios!' I begged of her without uttering a sound.
But her winning smile showered me. There was the firm indicative of 'yes you can'. And I then it became clear to me as if materialising through heavy fog what the norm was to be in Caroline. It was a mantissa. A great addition. And clearly I saw what a disastrous course I had already embarked upon.
Caroline! De gustibus et de coloribus non disputandum est.

[aemillian myths]

Quiet waters, clear moonlight
Almost nothing
But better, much better
I've begun this voyage
Summoning a deep mirage
V.E.M Destino

Whether its opium straight
Or morphine derived
I don't care, give me more.
SDUTTY

'Things are what they are, aren't they?'
'So you have accepted it?'
'Nooooo Dorothy! Never! It stays! That's the wonder of it all. I will always be there for you, won't I?'
She smiled and shook her head.
'When will you learn? Will you ever change?'
'Of course not!' I rejoiced proud as a peacock spreading a tail and not being aware of the broken patterns in it.
'It’s Fokis' cross then, isn't it?'
She smiled again but said nothing.
Oh she knew I thought and I noticed how white her uniform was where she stooped there in front of Doctor Mädle's office. She, brilliance itself, a shining star, was a symbol. A white symbol.
It was from that moment onwards that I knew our story was real. It was real as the universe is real, as bubbles were real. And I was so happy.
'My god, what a chance we had to have recognised each other again in this life!' I almost said to her.

I remember the meeting in front of Dr. Mädle’s office as if it took place yesterday. She was there to take me on an introductory tour of the building and the classrooms of the Bonheim Experimental Research Institute. It was on Dr. Mädle's orders. He couldn't make the appointment but it had worked out just fine when I now think about it. One could say it was rather fortunate that he was delayed with a crisis in K47. It gave me a chance to get acquainted with her right from my first day of residence. And we became the closest of comrades and colleagues. Cavaliers de coupe. It was almost as it was love on first sight. But of course love was out of the question. We were professionals. Yet we had this immediate affinity for one another. And after that and during the few months of my initiation period we got closer to one another and shared whatever we could. And our fondness for one another grew. In the line of our duties we end up sharing even the innermost secrets of one another. Working with her was very stimulating. She had such novel ideas about diagnosis. Her analytical conclusions always thrilled me. We had the same view as to the validity of the DSM IV categories. I had the greatest of respect for her academic presentations. And ... of course I found her sexy, but I should rather use the word 'lovely', I know. She was always friendly and had such an open character.
'Unmatched' I thought many times.
Even today I am convinced of that. Her professionalism was unmatched too. I learned through the years how she could switch from one persona to another and with what intuitive ease. The characters she stashed in her scripts were superb. Role-play and even the mime sessions came to her as if she was born with it. And in the experimental research projects we did together, mostly I did the lay-outs, she provided her share. The comparative study reports, the evaluations, the in-group theoretical publications ... we got acclaim for it. And we got attention from many professors in the Scientific Research Journal Inc circle.
But of course not everything went as smooth as I now wish to think. I remember the time I was called away on a scholarship to the Ohio State University for the Rousseau's Socratic Aemillian myths and the Infield Gestalt Training project. It was in the third year of my stay at Bonnheim. It was towards the end of the second semester...

I had the responsibility for the preparation of sensitive evaluation reports. We were at the time working on a new publication on Gestalt theory I remember. The editing took much of my time and we hadn't had sufficient time left for the report. Or it was really the results ... the executive committee hadn't received the document on time for consent to be given. Anyhow, we went ahead with releasing the evaluations without the final ok from the executives. The results were just too thrilling to delay we thought. But on top of this there was the problem of my having to leave for the Socratic Aemillian myths and scholarship. Dorothy had to stand in for me at the K16 section and she had to stand alone. This particular K16 group however needed permanent surveillance and she couldn't give it alone. It is however a known fact that psychiatric clients in in-group associations and in-communities are very sensitive organic units. They are almost like amoeba strains. One can describe them as
cell structures within the bodies of larger conglomerations. Tremendous care should be taken with the change in temperature, so to speak because critical states affecting healthy co-existence are dangerous situations, etc. It affects the clients individually and has bearing too on the collective larger body of the community unit. Fluctuations, absence and transition are cancer to them and as far as Dorothy was concerned, in my absence she had to incorporate full responsibility. She had to take over my role as father authority while acting out her persona as well, and at the same time. Of course that was too much to ask of her. And of course it went wrong! Some blame goes to the executive committee as well though. It shouldn't have tilted so hard on the pre-releases I had done.
In my absence the group refused the change in authority figure and animosity developed towards Dorothy. The group started to revolt, demanding as one of the members put it bluntly to her face, 'not the adulterous father figure of a castrated substitute … but a real one! A man!'
Oh it ended in one of the biggest rows in the history of Bonnheim.
I have published extensively on these problems concerning transitional phases and the vulnerability in-groups but even that didn't prepare the rest of the staff and I for the disavowal that arose throughout the community. It was an exemplary case of the saddened affair of a lost father figure. The extent and magnitude of their refusal at the final stages became a serious security risk to the general order in Bonnheim. Aggression and overt reactions spread from this group to other sections and in its soaring epidemic behavioural patterns unknown till then surfaced. The community started acting out its own authoritative father script. The ancient dilemma of the down and the below and the question of normal states and transcendental meaning of these states became topic again. The insane idea that sanity was only the result of embedded insanity took firmly hold of the Institute.
Upon my return from Ohio I landed in the middle of all this. Dorothy was completely devastated by the development of it. I tried to calm her but she was too overstressed.
'Oh … really, you can play your role to its full t'Albert Eugene, can you not?' she blamed me.
Doctor Mädle also shared her views. I saw it in his unwavering eyes as he was sitting there now behind his large consultation desk in front of me.
'My god listen to the remark he was going to make now!'
'Ok Caroline … we leave it at that for today! The Aemillian myths you say? Anyway, next Wednesday we have our next session. If it’s ok to you we make it at the same time?'

It was something quiet new for Bonnheim. Hank Williams, the curator of the Art Museum, had made a proposition for an art happening coinciding with the exhibition of therapeutic artefacts produced by clients. And this was new too, it was to have taken place on the same day as the annual Open Door festivities. Apart from the fact that such a proposal was a ridiculous idea, the argument in favour of it, a joint venture as he called it, was that Bonnheim would profit from it in terms of advertisement. 'Involvement of the creativity of Bonnheim clients in a co-manifestation of real art from the Modern Art museum will open up new attitudes towards of psychiatry and contribute to the openness we all strive for in psychiatric research' was about the argument that was used to back up the idea.
I was completely against the idea.
First of all I didn't agree with the shift in emphasis in the concept client that inevitably would take place. Clients are not artists and to force this role on them ... oh it was just ridiculous and dangerous. Clients would then be seen and treated as artists and not as clients anymore. They would have to start acting out artists roles in addition to the scripts they were already running. It had never been done before and no single publication I know has ever hinted into this direction. And secondly, there was the fact that artefacts are not art and would never be art. The run of the mill visitors might be tricked into buying art and receiving a mere artefact. Mixing the two worlds would be like mixing the real with the un-real, the sane with insanity and that most certainly would lead to ambiguity in the psychiatric profession. It was a deontological question. Thirdly was the danger of a transition period during the preparations for the happening. It just would take too much therapy time.
'That, I really cannot allow! The incorporation of artistic scripts along side normal ... hey, roles would cause unjustifiable stress to personnel' I even had as an afterthought during that time.
Many scenarios flashed through my brain at the time. I told Dorothy about my anxiety.
'Haven't we had enough of that since my attending the Ohio State University course on Aemillian myths!' I asked her. 'And I meant what I said yesterday…' I emphasised my efforts to persuade academic staff. I was absolutely convinced that my arguments were justified.
'I was prepared to crusade for them' I told her.
And to win field for my point of view I even started knocking on doors of unknown to me colleagues. I told everybody, the gardener included, that a co-exhibition would be harmful, if not a disaster. The strain that would develop would hurt everybody.
'It was Hank Williams who started it!' I said and the fury against the planned happening in me sparked and flamed higher and higher.
And strain did develop.
The decision of Management not to make a firm statement against the proposal caused an uproar. First among staff, then among the lower levels and in the end it started to filter down into the therapy groups.
'My arguments weren't heeded!' I kept on saying.
Oh I remember how I had done overtime attending as many group meetings as possible. I just had to convince the adversaries of the danger and possible damage of the initiative. But that only made matters worse it seemed. The K14 in-group was first to start to show signs of internal collapse. And then K17 with the new comers, succumbed in a similar fashion. They picked up the traits of the K17. The Security Wing had to be signalled on four occasions towards May. Biased and overt behaviour occurred on a regular basis in the beginning of June of that year. And more serious incidences started to happen towards the end of it. In K18 there was the case of chairs being smashed. In K16's mess several windows were reported being broken for 'no reason'.
It came to the point that I had to do something. Management had to be made to re-evaluate its decision I decided and I issued an ultimatum to Head of Staff in person.
'If Bonnheim doesn't want to listen to me and if Management doesn't want to make up its mind to cancel the event … I leave!' I told him straight to his face and handed him my written statement I had scribbled on one of Sister Fattier's postcards with the Men-love-with-their-eyes calligraphy.
'As chairman of one of the sub-commissions I felt I had all the right in the world to challenge you' I told him.
My threat was formulated in such a way that it suggested openly that Management was the source of the violence and that it was conspiring with Hank Williams.
'Imagine a whole psychiatric institute going berserk!' I articulated it to him in the strongest possible terms.
And I told Dorothy I wouldn't stand for it any longer and that my ultimatum wasn't meant as a joke at all! I said to her that I was dead serious.
And it went from bad to worse.
Head of Staff ignored my ultimatum and when some of the doctors got wind of our clash they sided with Management. Individual rows followed in the canteen. I was even threatened by some persona doctors and scolded as persona non grata. They said that if I didn't withdraw my ultimatum they would never talk to me again.
'And to think that none of those doctors' scripts allowed aggression' I told Dorothy 'I have checked their files!' I assured her.
I was committed to have my argument and win it. I had to get Hank William's initiative annulled.
'Combining art and artefacts while promoting Bonnheim … don't you see nuke of it?' I shouted at staff members whenever I pass them in the corridors.
Some specialists saw in my ultimatum a direct attack on Management's potentate and towards October their anti anti-lobby campaign against me got so dirty that it was hard to believe that one was dealing with highly qualified academics. They accused me of putting too much emphasis on the hype of staying on olden tracks. They said I was claiming to be in favour for more serenity but that I wasn't and just used the argument to advance my career. They even accused me of being neurotic about it. I wasn't. Against that I argued that it was blatantly obvious that Williams was the one who would reap the publicity and that Bonnheim would be the puppet. Etc. But it was to no avail. Even a quick idea I had at one particular emergency discussion group, free candy handouts, was point blankly turned down by the general assembly.
'Free candy handouts are ridiculous' Professor Linde told me straight to my face. 'It’s seductive commercialism and it’s rubbish! Nobody gave us any free candy … ever! Has anybody?' was his argument. His puppy dog assistant Laplasse agreed with him.
Ok granted, free candy was a stupid idea but it was only a thought that I had developed at the spur of the moment when my grand scheme to force a dialogue with Management didn't seem to win field. And anyway, there were a lot of weird ideas floating around at the time.
'It was a mistake of mine to have suggested it' I excused myself with Dorothy.
But the end of it was still to come. More silly mistakes occurred and all sorts of blunders showed faces lighting up the debate and driving it to its catharsis. Management started notifying trainees and nursing staff before they notified the academics for one. And in all other cases they neglected my opinions!
'Oh, there were many little things … small foxes!' I pleaded with Dorothy.
I remember spending more time on the third floor at the window drinking Milo than any other time during the whole of my emissary at Bonnheim. At one stage I was so furious that I just couldn't help it and when I saw Head of Staff passing to K17 I shouted from the window 'Violence and anarchy! Behind backs' dealing!'
It was however at that infamous Wednesday emergency meeting that it all came to a head and it all ended as abruptly as it had begun. It was the day that I let Head of Staff have it in front of everybody! Dorothy was there too. She was very surprised when I turned up for the meeting. I was namely not invited she told me afterwards. I was not even supposed to know that the meeting was to have taken place that early in the morning. And to make the predicament even worse, they didn't want to let me in at first. And when at last I climbed through the window and was in they didn't want me to have my say! But I overruled the chairman.
'Oh boy, did I give Head of Staff my lip!'
I mean I was part of the team … I … an educated professor! I … with my astonishing learned experience and spotless academic career and publications. And that bloodless Hank Williams…
'Voodoo Video Art and those terrifying On-line Happening Sequences!' I shouted on the top of my voice trying to make everybody in the meeting see my point of view.
And I gave Head of Staff what he deserved! I even brought up the case of the fire escape!
'It is perfectly safe to use it!' I told the assembly.
I was furious.
'Fools! Grex! … So-called bunch of professors!' I challenged who ever that as much as look at me.
I remember how out of breath I was towards the end of the meeting and how Dorothy had come over to vouch her support for me. And later when word got out of my unrelated campaigning and I was calmed by Sister Fattier I even got hoorays from the cleaning staff. They appreciated my crusading for them. The use of the fire escape would have saved them a lot of cleaning in the corridors afterwards.

Doctor Mädle sat there behind his desk with eyes large as saucers. He was an alien from another planet, listening and believing every single word I uttered. When however he saw that I was done with my monologue he stood up with a small slit of a smile on his face and said, 'Ok Caroline … we take notice of that and as for today ... when you go to your study please pass Sister Fattier's office and tell her how I appreciated the help she gave you on the meeting! Or no, it was Dorothy, wasn't it? Anyway ... and your mentioning of the Fire Escape ... well that was a good idea of yours. We will take it up next Wednesday, Ok?'

It was then that the suspicion came to me that there was something eluding me in the pages above. There was something very wrong with the script and Dr Mädle ... It was the second since I have met him that he used the same template for the closing of a session. Only this time he hadn't referred to the Aemillian myths but had replaced it with the Fire Escape.

[musculus frontalis]

I tried the lounge. There was nobody in it. I left the lounge and tried the corridor. There I met up with the newly arrived script, Patricia, a Rogers orientated psychiatrist. She too was an invitee to Bonnheim for project work and was to run Section 14's awareness program. After some introductory chit-chat between us we started discussing cards … mark up cards.
'Oh, the Sister Fattier cards, you mean! The one's for good conduct? They're nice, aren't they?' she laughed.
'Yes, I love the calligraphy on it, Men-love-with-their-eyes. Its such a tender message deriving from it, isn't it?'

However it may have been, it was through Patricia that I discovered the Sister Fattier free card system. And through Sister Fattier I met the rest of the crowd. Professor Linde and Laplasse, Mona Liza and Small Cissy and all the other still empty templates. They all were pre-posted they told me and engaged in the same project. Sister Fattier too was a card. But this wasn't to be know outside 'the circle' I was cautioned.

'Scripts always come in pairs' Professor Linde with the Laplasse looking over his explained '… running solo is and dangerous and a great responsibility'.
When I frowned at that looking for help at Small Cissy she just sat there without a word on her lips. She was glued to Mona Lisa and mute.
'She's mute ... her trait's being absolutely non-vocal'.
'She still has to be upgraded' Laplasse nodded.
Patricia also whispered something about the secretary. I gathered that there was some kind of erotic relationship between her and the secretary.
'She's a mistake on the registration form. Masculine traits was wrongly ticked off'.
I couldn't helped it, but I felt sorry for her. So qualified and yet only a mistake on a registration form. A botched up template! And Small Cissy, it must have been terrible to be stuck with a non-vocal script.
'Does she never speak? How can a character be that flat?'

I thought of Dorothy.
'Who's Dorothy?'
Gosh, that gave me a fright. Mona Lisa was into my face with her blinking inquisitive eyes and she have asked the question as if she knew what I was thinking and was reading my mind.
'How did she know what I was thinking?'
'Kleio, is she Kleio? Kalliope? No, Euterpe?'
'How did you know what I was thinking?'
'Never mind, she's a Muse, isn't she? she replied and cuddled Small Cissy who was now clinging to her arm like a baby.
I tried not to show embarrassment but I was really caught off guard.
'How does a writer work with such scripts?'
And it bothered me how it was possible for Mona Lisa to asked about Dorothy when I think about her. And that she didn't know Dorothy ... that was an even greater shock to me!

Sister Fattier's free card system or 'the human resources exchange project' as she likes to call it, was a system whereby good conduct was rewarded with a card, and bad conduct punished with exclusion from a 'circle'. The cards were all calligrapher's copies of the message Men-love-with-their-eyes. She had developed the idea and the text of the card while working with abused women in Section 9 before she was transferred to the Drama Section in K14. It was a good idea everybody thought at the time and it exploited the need for sharing and peer group forming which was good too. I thought the idea OK for use in group therapy, yet I was to discover later that not only clients were in need of these cards and used the system but that it was also much in use and asked for among the staff. Everybody bartered chores and favours with it. The cards served another purpose as well, they satisfied the human need for the collection of things. Everybody seemed to value these cards and collect them. Mona Lisa with Small Cissy on her arm had showed me my first one seen ever. It was with neat calligraphy on the front side and there was a black surface on the hind side for the making of notes with white writing pencils.
'You can even play oxo on it' professor Linde explained.
I was also to learn rather rapidly that Sister Fattier had the reputation of not giving anything at all away free. When I asked her a card she said 'No!' and pretended not to know anything about the cards. I wasn't in the circle yet. The system wasn't a free-wheeler at all.
But I was in for yet another surprise. When I tried to discuss the 'value' of the cards with Dorothy afterwards she too didn't seemed to know a thing about it. She even said she wouldn't even care if such an ingenious system was in operation. I couldn't believe my ears at her saying that. I was under the impression that she would love such a Men-love-with-their-eyes card because I had, when discovering about the cards, immediately thought I could obtain one and send it to her as a token of out friendship. I was confused. How come she didn't know about Sister Fattier's system? There was such a lovely underlying message of tenderness in the text of the card! It was so fitting for her and our relationship of sharing!'

That night I couldn't sleep. I got up and went into the corridor. At the window in the corner I saw the straight dark alley of the night as it rode into nothing outside. And in the reflecting windowpane I saw my own face looking back at me. I watched my eyes as they scrutinised me. I saw myself seeing myself. And I looked at myself … for a long time. I discerned the various parts of my face.

Musculus frontalis
Musculus temporalis
Musculus oculi
Muscles zygomaticus
Levator labli superior et alae nasi
Levator labli superiores
Depressor alae nasi
Orbicularis oris
Depressor anguli oris
Depressor labii inferiores

It was a man's face yet I was not affected by it. I was not a man, I was Caroline. And there was more, much more to me than my face alone. There were things inside me that existed deep down. Things that nobody knew about. It was however only afterwards that I realised that it was from that moment onwards that the awakening had started to take place inside my consciousness. From then on things started to happen to me. Things that I wasn't in the least prepared for or in the slightest way could have suspected.
'Oh, pique! Rive the carve…! Dorothy is my love!'

[touted lips]

Her relationship with Doctor Mädle sometimes, even today still, created anxiety in me. I never really knew what to make of it and I think it was my own dire attitude towards women that caused the uncertainty in me. Women find me irresistible. Yet Dorothy's attitude towards me was ambiguous. She was in love with me yet she was forbidden fruit due to her closeness with Dr Mädle.

At the door of his office Dr Mädle gave me his hand. It was a warm sweaty tendril for me to hold but I liked it. And as he let me into the room the erotic hale in his voice pleased my ears.
'We are complete now, Caroline, and we can start with it' he said.
Dorothy was already present. And so was 't Albert Eugene hunching very close to her in the corner.
'Compagnons de discours' I smiled and nodded to them.
I don't know why but I wasn't in super form. The agenda for Caroline? How could I be in it and what was I supposed to do in this session? My role? And 't Albert Eugene's line ... Dorothy? I just didn't know how to fit into a session when I didn't even know what the topic was.
'It might … just might be useful to start with the dialogue sequences' Dr Mädle suggested nodding and looking at Albert's script.
I felt more unease. Why did he say this to me. I am not 't Albert Eugene!
'Punchy style dialogue and chained sequences in a storyline … that could be the line in which illusion can play a part. That will surprise the reader and keep his attention' I offered.
No one responded.
'Continuity in mantissa is a great problem' I continued. The one-liners and short pulls hit in dialogue ... say, how can a writer keep creative scrolling up without being a bore? And the paragraphs? How long should they be? Of course one can use dots to indicate spaces between the punches and lengthen the whole caboodle that way ... without really saying anything, no?'
'How does that fit with the dream analysis and references to Bonnheim?' Doctor Mädle asked.
I looked at him with surprise.
'Where did you come from?'

'Oh, it will work without fail' I promised him 'Reading becomes a new experience when it is read in the style I write my stories. The punches I use feed into the reader's unconscious but you know that, don't you? The mind's jumpy and it's so easy to collect these punches from existing literature and just copy and paste them into texts'.
And I gave him an example.
'Oh, virginal daughters of Kolchis. Oh, theme of deception! Why do we all wear our cold-blooded masks?'
'This' I said 'could be linked to the following one-liner 'I exalted and explained how I feel myself a woman again today … Shania!'
'And that…' I continued 'should then link up with 'I gave him the one-liner punch and the question from Shania's CD'
'Yes I see what you mean. You got a car?' he smiled.
'Hey, that's sharp! Yessss! Shania's got a very seductive hale in her voice, don't you think?'
But it was when Shania interrupted us by saying that that was her sentence and that it was copyrighted that both of us quit the exchange.
'Oh!'
But it wasn't to stop there. The subject was set.
'You do have a car?' Dorothy asked.
'Oh my god this is taking us way off track!'
'Why? Am I carrying this too far?'

I tried something else.
'Calligraphy and etymology … role-play? Caesura Evora. Oh, that masculine dare even in women!'
'Quite obscure … these one-liners of yours' he replied and we both had to laugh about it. No reader would have followed us.
'What people wouldn't do when they're in love!' I said trying to get the discussion into safer lanes and I thought that when I left him today I was going to think about Dorothy's mouth and lips as she sat there glued on next to him'.
They are so beautiful and full of flush her lips. But I disregarded the thought. He was professional and so was I. And Dorothy too.
And dreams. We talked about dreams.
'We could dream from Captain Freud's cabin … at the tennis court in Section C's domain to Bunzli Jung's archetypical tetrakis at his luxurious villa on the slopes of Tiertschen in Graubunden cutting Lacan completely from the picture' I said.
He didn't think it funny yet he gave the punch a challenge.
'And we all could be back just before closing time'.
Oooeee, that was a wrong remark! I saw it in his face. He could sometimes be such a bloodless stern patriarch! His face was 'patriarch' now. And I just stood up, ending the conversation and left the consultation room without any further ado. I went straight up to the third floor and had a cup of Milo at the window in the corner of the corridor.

[atomic teleology]

'What's the use of using the universal organisational modes in the increasing rates of organisational entropy? Love? And what is the use of creative and unidirectional processes? Work? Where? And why? And what if optimistic and/or pessimistic arrows of time … well you know what I mean? And what if lovers were driven nuts because of desire? What if they are not getting it?'

Good sentences and serious subject matter for themes. I could imagine how Dorothy would react to this.
'There isn't anything like that in the play, is there?' she would ask.
'Ah non!' I would answer 'You're moving too fast for me now! I don't think tink is write but ooh-la-Lao you seem to have a card and ticketty to ride tonight!'
And 'Lillith, nooooooo!'
And closing in at the door of the tunnel of light, Mnemosyne slit the tip of her tongue through the keyhole and into my ear.
'Oh, heaven behold me…!'

'Role-play and atomic teleology'.
Reading this on the bulletin board, I almost insisted on writing down underneath it 'I reserved the freedom to write in Caroline whatever I want! Perceptions are just what they are but don't you enter the land that's called mine. It's mine!'

That night I had a sleepless night. In front of the window in the dark corridor this time a strange thing occurred. While I was standing there looking at my face again in the dark shiny windowpane a breathtaking sensation washed over me. It was as if I was catapulted into a state of multi-dimensional consciousness. A feeling omnipotence came over me. I saw things, strange things. Literally things. And in the cold world of my mind my thoughts became material objects. And I saw podia and stages. Vibrant happenings. There were stages all over the place with bustling action taking place on all of them. And all the sets and scenery from all the different plays were in motion as well. It was a dazzling brilliant world full of inter-activity. And it all bubbled up and blobbed away and came again in different shapes and colour. Landscapes appeared where there was none a moment ago. And evolution was taking place right there in front of my minds eye. I saw how things evolve in time.
Time! I saw time and it was as if it was an entity as everything else. And it re-enacted itself over and over again. And slowly the various occurrences flowed over into new time sequences. Past occurrences and real-time sequences merged into one pulsating intermingled mandala of happening. All the sets joined in. And I was there. I could move into every one of the sets and out of it whenever I thought of it. And all the time everything was mutating. Reality underwent a million mutations and every single mutation split up in several more. As I moved into a situation of my choice, others were closing behind and faded away. Life itself was beating like an animal in a cage in me. I became a Mandlebröt Julia pattern of procreation. I was a master file or template of life. And I was everywhere at once. In the future and in the past tense. And in a New time. My world had become a kaleidoscope with thousands of perspectives forming with every click of a thought I had. Newness surfaced. Old things died. And things that had happened to me many years ago started to happen to me again. And all of my life happened all at once as I stood there. Omnipresence oozed from me like an aura of shiny gold. I understood all possible reasons for all possible things that had happened to me and will happen still. My history was itself the very palimpsest for all future happenings in my life. And I knew I could use it over and over again to write down the story of my life. On this palimpsest I knew could paste whatever had happened in my past life wherever and whenever I wanted it to happen again. And there was the certainty it would not disturb the whole of the mandala. It would just fit in and merged with the occurrence that was taking place there and then. Old scripts became new scripts. New information, old information … and it got replaced by newer templates. Causality, duration flow and time arrows didn't matter anymore. Events even happened backwards. Troublesome worries dissolved into thin air like dissipating piss without leaving holes in my consciousness. I was completely raised above cosmic laws and prescribed notions of rationality. Conventional existence had lost all its purpose and meaning. And it was so very eerie! It was just me who manipulated everything! Like in a story. I could remove or delete anything from any one set of scenes of my life without difficulty or complaint. I could delegate, give command, change my mind and even scrap irreality and become normal. I was on the inside of Nirvana. My ersatz was just there. I had become the clairvoyant yogi, a Bahpu Zen captain steering while being in the process of being steered. For example at one stage I was considering playing the role of a writer. I remember desperately wanting to have a vision of being a writer … a good one. And wham I was a writer! And a good one! It happened with the wink of my eye. It just came out of me. I wrote what you are reading now … the proceedings of the story of Caroline. And then I thought about readers … and there you were … reading it! You were in my story!
'I had put you in Caroline because who else would read it?'
Oh the identification and correlation between the desired and the object was just phenomenal. And oh, it gave me such a powerful feeling. Creating one's own story was great. I saw how I wrote Dorothy and tried to make of her a living entity … and she too was there with her soft tender look in her eyes. She stood next to me and I saw her sensuous lips. She licked at me.
'The nucleus of mine…' I thought.
And it happened!
'Her lips, her tongue...'
And she seeped into me.
She was Terpiscore, Euterpe, and Kalliope. All three in one, the second set of the daughters of the irresistible Mnemosyne. My words had created her, her hale voice and her apparition. I made her voice an octave lower. More sensual, almost masculine. And in real time, in the present continuous sense of tense I made her mine. I even put words in her mouth. Beautiful words. I dealt her with love for me. And she loved me! And when I looked around me I saw the corridor behind me and I knew I had created it!
'The window!' I thought.
It was there.
'My face in the shiny dark pane'
And I looked at myself.
'And by god I was standing right in front of myself!'
'Oh, pique! Rive the carve…!'

[primitive rituals]

Delaying of matters is just a manifestation ... oh symptoms and syndromes. And when more and more matters get delayed its a definite sign that something is wrong. I understood that and I noticed how my awareness of things around me were slipping into a slower phase ... how hiatus in my thought processes started to appear. I just seemed to forget things as they happened. Meetings … even self analysis got put on slow wagons for me. I started doing less about it too. And later, the little that remained possible for me, I unloaded that too. My track was running to a standstill I knew it. At the bottom of Racy Pear dragon there was the cul-de-sac.

I rushed to Dorothy's door early in the morning, the day after I had the Grande Experience and sense of omnipotence. I just had to tell her about the wonder of it. And upon seeing her I immediately told her that I had designed her persona in Caroline and furnished it with a sensual hale. I told her how the seniority of such a low tone in a woman's voice excites me. But her enthusiasm wasn't what I had expected it to be. She was formal about it, even cordial. She told me she had a rigid schedule ahead for the day and didn't want me to rush in and out of her office ... unnoticed and whenever I felt like it.
'And as far as omnipotence concerns...' she said and dropped the rest of her sentence.
Desperately I tried staying on her brink. 'Terpsichore or her sister Erato? Not Ourania, the youngest? You aren't the youngest of the bunch, are you? No you aren't!'
'Shall I work further on this?' I continued disregarding her wishes but she just ushered me towards the door saying 'Doctoream Analysis … that's shorter, take that route! And please leave now I am terribly busy' and she added 'Get Interpolation of Logic, it's worth reading'.
'There isn't a crisis again, is there?' I insisted as she tried to close the door.
'No. Yes, there is. K16. Clients are stealing anxiety phobia from one another and maliciously changing their scripts. It has resulted in a lot of unhappiness already'.
And she told me how Mona Liza is running a double script at the moment.
'Cissy might even start to talk! But hurry! Go … get out before Dr Mädle gets in!'
I was aware of these tricks clients play. The Schizophrenic cases would even multiply their personalities and run masculine and feminine polarities at the same time.
'Oh, that kills distinction' I said still lingering and hanging around her.
At that moment Doctor Mädle got in. He must have overheard what I said to her because he said from her face using her lips and hale 'That's exactly the pointe, 't Albert Eugene'.
And then I realised I wasn't standing at the door, I was sitting down in a consultation chair in front of him across his large consolatory desk.
'How did you get there?' I asked him.
But he assumed Dorothy in full again and in my minds eye I saw how the two of us, young and happy teenagers, were rushing away in a car … a mini bus. Dorothy and I were eloping from Zeus. On our flight path was the crossing at Fokis. She was at the steer, and happy and relieved to be with me. We laughed. I touched her hand when she shifted gears. She blushed, fell silent, took a wrong turn off and kept driving into that direction. She didn't even notice we were on the wrong road and rushing back to Bonnheim.
'Oh, Iokaste! Oh, Mnemosyne! Not your daughters but Dorothy!' I wanted to scream into Doctor Mädle face when through the haze of mind shimmering he waited for us at Bonnheim’s entrance gate.
'The minibus is for us plus Daiso! Hyatt that…!'
He just stood there shaking his head as if he knew what I was thinking and at the closing of the session he reached for one more sample of his hand in his pocket and gave it to me across the desk. I could keep it he said.
Then he ushered me to the door but there he took his hand back and put it in his pocket again safely. It was again hidden from sight, I presumed because intruders or nosy bodies could come and inspect it ... even steal it.
And 'Next Wednesday?' he said with the hale tone of Dorothy's voice.
'Yes' I said 'I know'.


Back at the window on the third floor I thought first about hands and what women's hands can do to a person who writes about desires like I do and then about busses and roads. Where was the road in Caroline leading to? Was it merely a question of an A that will be followed by a B and from B then the C would advance itself?

'… The C of the Arabian Alphabet Stepladder' I said out loud to Sister Fattier as she passed on her rounds.
Something was worrying me still.
'How did Doctor Mädle do it? Mutating into the role of a Psychiatrist, then into Dorothy? And merely on the basis of how I bring her to life in my mind in Caroline?
'He does it so bloody efficiently!' I said to Professor Linde as he and Laplasse passed to the Milo stand.
Outside the window, on the pathway below, I saw the staff of section K18 passing by for their daily grass games on the lawn.
'They look like Arunta's on their way to the re-enactment of a primitive ritual' I said to Mona Liza and Small Cissy as they tiptoed behind me, sneaking away from the Milo stand.

[spaced majuscules]

'Oh, it doesn't matter whether you approach it from a man's point of view or from a woman's. Just don't adopt a diagnostic approach about it and leave DSM IV out of it! Maybe you also could keep your notes on self-talk and introspection to yourself in future, don't you think? These Men-love-with-their-eyes cards, really… do you think that is the best suited way to deal with inhibitions?'

I had to smile to that. Of course I was doing my notes on the cards! And what she didn't know was that I was writing her while I was working on the cards.
'Oh, free cards, free cards from Sister Fattier. A chore for a card and a story from my hand!'
'I too can write good sentences' I wrote on a Men-love-with-their-eyes card.
'Love is castigation and in the end it can drag on till it reaches the domain of the inevitable' I block lettered with minuscule underneath it.
Playing my role and working it out on Doctor Mädle I took more cards from my lady's purse and started serious work on dream analysis and The Story of Caroline. On the first one I wrote, neatly and with spaced majuscules, Neurotic Syndromes. Underneath it I wrote 9 separate items for consideration regarding Dorothy and a possible literary baby. I kept the 9 Muses' names firmly in mind. Kalliope and Kleio and Euterpe and Thaleia and Melpomene and Terpiscore and Erato and Polymnia and Ourania.
... Ourania from Autobahn Kreuz Köln West' I told Dr Mädle.

1. Career.
2. The flight of it.
3. Dysfore, neurosis and/or psychosis, paranoia.
4. Male/female neurotic syndromes, schizophrenic.
5. Caroline/'t Albert Eugene?
6. Alliterative verse writing. [Staple octosyllabic couplets and romance wasn't my scene. Too much risk for monotony].
7. J.R.R. Tolkien. [leave Türin for Tinüviel].
8. The Lay of the Children of Hürin and the Lay of Leithian were in the Lays of Beleriand.
9. The frontispiece of The Story of Caroline. [PS A wilgcoffee Argo Spier *.JPG from the AVK Project - use it].

And when I had done with stipulating the 9 points and looked at my work I realised that the number with the PS in brackets, number 9, when backwards masked.
Number Nine means turn me on Dead Man!' I explained to him and I got such a fright! 'Number 9 is the satanic number of calling up the dead and having intercourse with a corpse!'
No fuck' I thought 'I don't want that'.
But not to spite the devil I used my Balthazarian hand and rewrote everything again on a new card … this time leaving a blank space behind the number 9.

1. Career.
2. The flight of it.
3. Dysfore, neurosis and/or psychosis, paranoia.
4. Male/female neurotic syndromes, schizophrenic.
5. Caroline/'t Albert Eugene?
6. Alliterative verse writing. [Staple octosyllabic couplets and romance wasn't my scene. Too much risk for monotony].
7. J.R.R. Tolkien. [leave Türin for Tinüviel].
8. The Lay of the Children of Hürin and the Lay of Leithian were in the Lays of Beleriand.
9.
10. The frontispiece of The Story of Caroline. [PS A wilgcoffee *.JPG from the AVK Project].

he frontispiece of The Story of Caroline was now in number 10. That was OK. Number 10's the perfect number! 9 muses and Dorothy ... that's 10. I was OK! Oh 10, that was my number, I just knew it!
Nothing can go wrong now!' I said and click I was on-line rushing towards a Catalonian love called Bixto Lee and I left expected logical reasoning in storytelling far behind me.
Truly 't Albert Eugene, it's a time bomb!' Doctor Mädle said with wooing eyes.
I could see his worry.
'Hmmm' I smiled 'There are more ways to incorporate codes and numbers into Caroline. Word-generated games of numbers, that's what Caroline is about! Secret messages! Deconstructive code-working. The Halmes-Rahne Index of values of change. Men-love-with-their-eyes cards. 10 muses? I am no fool, am I? You didn't think it, did you? Thinking I don't know where I go with Caroline? Did you?'
'Of course not' Mother Mnemosyne said from behind me smiling wickedly like a Mrs. Applebee and a Fox from Armagh.
'Oooeee that number 9 again!' I shrieked.
'I beg your pardon?' Doctor Mädle frowned.
'Suggestive dialogue has more effect on you than anything else it seems' I said to him, quick to diffuse his probing. 'Words used with suggestive undertones are more intense in getting reaction … and easier. I know this trick. The writer gets away with murder. He uses it to gain time to concentrate on structural elements while the story-line runs automatically. Its a job saved. Definitely! Oh sure, the use of numbers can function effectively. And numbers ... always the suggestive power of numbers! Just use it, I say. Use numbers as linking clicks. But tell me, shall I cut this explanatory paragraph and just get on with the story of Caroline?'
I smiled at him with a large winning bravura but of course he could do tricks too. He turned his back towards me and when he turned to face me again he had Dorothy's pasted on his! And she looked worried at my surprise.
I tried not to show how rattled I was.
'Oh! Flat characters like you and Doctor Mädle … gosh, both of you are just right for Caroline. There's that eradication see?' I tried to keep my pose.
'Caroline…! Don't do it!'
Dorothy's voice was high this time almost a screech. There wasn't that seductive hale in it at all. And it trembled in timbre. She was a woman speaking as a woman. And she radiated femininity. It rang like a bell in me. Her persona was skew on the template of Doctor Mädle but I didn't care. Nothing would bring me off my stance. I am the writer and I will stay in charge. I just continued as if nothing had happened, keeping my stance.
'One can also say things in different ways, you know? It need not always have to be numbers. Well the other ways … poetry for one. Oh, one can say things with poetry that nobody else can with the long stupid sentences of prose. Numbers and poetry are in the same category, they're condensed. Verse are 1000 times more effective than parole. A larger amount of categorical value enters into poetry than the meagre syntax's of sentences can carry. Music's the same. And you know how weird music people are, don't you? They use music and most people think songs come out but that's only on a superfluous level. On the real level meaning comes from music! Not so in prose! Remember Shelly? Dead poet? Out of three sounds not a fourth but a star? That's a dead beater, isn't it? With poetry and song you don't even have to mean what you are actually saying. Meaning comes from the sound. Just like that! And the de-construction of it… There are always hidden secret intentions and licit love in it.
Poetry in poetry … poetry! Why? Because illicit love is more tempting and the reader knows it! And then there's the imbedded collective unconsciousness and Yeats's stream. The current of La Napoule! Poetry is all thought, plain naked desire! And it's not to be hampered by cognitive concepts. And from there on it runs into feeling. Oh, and after that meaning is just another stupid semantic categorical value! It really doesn't matter how the reader gets the picture … as long as he gets it! That's the point! And one more thing, Dorothy love, these Men-love-with-their-eyes cards are perfect for Caroline! You will get the point!'
'Please Caroline! Don't! It's not from your script. Stick to the line you started out from!' she pleaded.
Her voice was tender now, understanding, yet she was firm. She reasoned with me but I felt the distance between growing. And in a certain way I sensed her unreality. She was an A.L.I.C.E. artificial intelligence. She wasn't really real, but merely a template on Doctor Mädle's face. And she was skew on it. I could see it, I was no bloody fool! Oh, it was a distance a writer sometimes feels exists between himself and his characters. It was crossroads Fokis time. And it made me sad. Both she and Doctor Mädle were just characters and unlike my kind. I was human. They not. We were of different sorts and to my horror the distance at that moment seemed to enlarge itself. I knew instinctively that it was actually me who was slipping away from them. My inability to return to their level caused me enormous grief. Our being together had become a departure and not the fraternising homecoming that writers so dearly strived for. Effectively I felt how I tumbled backwards as she moved away. She faded more still, into the distance. Her face melted into Doctor Mädle's and she went to the back of him. Then to the far end of the room. He sat there in the foreground like a zombie in a chair in a large room. His soul was the Dorothy template and she was leaving him now. The consulting desk looked like a wasted desert plateau between us and in the corner she now shimmered like a mirage. Her sensual lips where forming words but the pathetic inducement resulted in nothing. The distance between us was largest now. She was escaping me. I couldn't hear what she was whispering. I was writing her but she was fading.
'Dorothy!'
A shriek came from my mouth. I saw the monstrosity of her shattering into pieces of porcelain. She didn't hear me and she disappeared completely into the wall. Only wall now was left of her. I felt paralysed. Then Doctor Mädle came to my rescue. He mechanically awoke. He stood up from behind the desk and came over to me. His face tried to compensate the lost of her. It was an aberration struggling to re-enter my rituality. I saw how he struggled to overcome his pitiable facial _expression as he worked on it manipulating muscles like a rubber.
It didn't work! Now there was nothing!
And I thought how Dorothy's face had diminishing into the wall, shrinking away inside it. Her open mouth had become smaller and smaller, a petite shutting vagina and zipped miniature. Her lips were calling for help!
'You are so divorced from me … from me … from me. Oh, come back … come back…!'
I heard myself shouting into the face of the bent Doctor Mädle. Dorothy's mouth was a shrunken pinhole inside the wall. I realised I was lying on the floor making desperate spastic gestures, trying, reaching for her mouth. I was in a nightmare and I was unable to salvage her mouth from the wall inside Dr Mädle's mouth. He opened his mouth, yawned and swallowed the pinhole vagina mouth and wall. Zeus consummated Mnemosyne! He swallowed 9 times and then I became completely hysterical.
'My god, my love … you are being eaten by another man!' I screamed out of control and in absolute horror.
I jumped up to grab her mouth from his throat. Doctor Mädle thought I was going to hit him and instinctively did what professional therapists do everyday. Nothing! His inactivity froze my half-risen crooked body and my grabbing hand in mid-air. I stood there in front of him, paralysed and crooked, with a stretched out hand. I was a client trying to rake the vagina of the one he loves from the mouth of a professionally trained psychiatrist.
'You may sit down now' he said and I plumped down into my chair, a beaten man and a poor writer. A castrated ennui with no possibility of retrieving from the stomach of one of the characters in the harem the most important person in Caroline. And I knew the monolith lid of the tomb was shut for me and the stone on it was too heavy for me to move. Zeus and Laios … both have struck me down and put me in the dark casket of blindness.
'Oh my god ... number nine!'

That was the first half of the session. We stared at each other for the rest of it. Almost the full hour that was left. I got as sober as a drunk during this time. I was numb and crumbled thrown away wrinkled draft in my own writer's wastebasket. I felt discarded. And just before closing time I couldn't hold it any longer. I stammered and said to Doctor Mädle.
'I … I can't remember her … her face! Her face was … was her face was … was something like yours!'
And then I started to sob like a small little boy that was abducted and locked away from his mother. They have taken away my joy toy.

[encrypted riddles]

'Pisces … three wishes: Beluga, Ociëtra and Sevruga.
A sunken Tilkin boat, a piece of me and her feet were like hers'.

this poem

a poem, not this way
a poem

a poem cannot be
a poem this way, it just cannot be
a poem this way, forty words and
a poem will never be
a poem this way

not this poem
a poem

'The recommendation for self-changers during the action stage would thus be to maximise helping relationships, to restructure environments with stimulus control, to employ action processes such as counter-conditioning and contingency control, to increase willpower and self-liberation and to avoid excessive wishful thinking and self-blame' Doctor Mädle explained to me.
His voice was comforting and there was that inevitable hiss in the hale tone of it ... so unlike Dorothy's. It was almost more sensual and listening to it was so pleasant. Oh, the smooth talk he could furbish! I sat there listening to it, to the timbre in it, the tone of the various vocals the way he pronounced them, the consonants as they swelled in volume and went down in pitch, the stand-up staccato of it, the use of syllables washed over me like refreshing cool water. I was not in the least listening to what he was saying.
'Yes' I murmured enjoying it to the full.
'Such beautiful long sentences and jargon he used!' I silently mused.
And I swooned away. I saw how I was looking up into the sky thinking what a fantastic doctor he was. A real professional psychiatrist, long, tall, dark and handsome. At the end of the session I stood up, blushed like a Flemish poppy, paid him with a free card, Men-love-with-their-eyes.
At the door I had a sense of happiness and wanted to give him something personal of me. I reached for my quivering hand and gave it to him. I felt how he touched it and then gave it back to me. His token of sharing with me. I browsed him over one last sweet time and was ready to set off for the window. But then I noticed something out of the ordinary of the situation. He wasn't himself anymore but Dorothy! Dear Dorothy in her full old self. And in her hand she held the card I had just given to him.
I smiled.
'Oh I can handle this!'
I went straight back into the room again and sat down in front, full of myself too. I was no idiot!
'Us...' I said winking and busted into a gay laugh 'Its weird how I cannot control what we flick into! It's Caroline'
'Yes' she nodded 'us ... I know!' and she returned my wonder.
Oh, the whole business of love and writing about it was irrational to the core. And in the end all of it always boils down to what's in the mind. Or as it is said in Latin, to an Ohmen et nomen. The more love the more love.
And she enjoyed my company and thoughts. It made me happy. And before I stood up a second time to let her end off the session I recited her Papageno's song. Scene 2 Song 2, giving her the translation of it with the original German text I had found on the cover of a library CD. I was a professional writer knowing my stuff ... that was for sure.

Wenn alle Mädchen/When all the girls
Waren mein,/Were mine
So tauschte ich brav Zucker ein:/Oh I'd swapped sweet sugar
Die,welche mir am liebsten war;/That is so dear to me
Der gab ich gleich den/Oh I give I'd give it to them all
Zucker her./Wham … sugar away … ay …ay!
Und küsste sie mich/And I'd kiss them all
Zärtlich dann,/Immediately
Wär sie mein Weib und/Were they become my wives
Ich ihr Mann./And I their spouse
Sie schlief an meiner Seite ein,/They would would sleep at my side
Ich wiegt wie ein Kind sie ein./Like babies I would rock them

Oh, I was good at this insight-orientated diplomacy, short paragraphs, references and poetry in lyrics I thought. Yes, Insight-orientated psychoanalysis … that's the in thing lately.
'That and Modern Literature. Quite a hype, if not more…' she agreed at the door.
Ok, not all characters take to it as fluently as she did. And some of the theory behind it … well flat characters too have minds of their own.
'Haven't they?' I asked.
'Sure, they have!' she winked.
The technique I use is a good tool. One just writes down what comes up in your head and whoosh there's a story skirmishing on the screen filled with copying and pasting from all sorts of already published literature.
'But be careful with answers like 'Only, you shouldn't have scaled that flat board from the workman's shed to built the Spanish Oleo dancer's floor'. Embarrassment can come from such remarks! Better delete such items right then and here … when you see 'em appear on the screen'.
'Oh, sure, far-reaching consequences can come of it! A writer has to be some kind of honest Shambalah warrior keeping his posture when the world is washing over him'.

And then the session was done finally. The corrections up to here too. Racy Pear had mailed them from Christchurch as soon as she had done with editing the piece. It got to me at about the same time I left the consulting room. I left her in a happy mood having a feeling of fulfilment. The Story of Caroline was taking on an easy flow and that pleased me.
'Its getting somewhere, if you know what I mean?'
Dorothy nodded at the thought smiling too.
'It was an easy session, no?'
'Oh yes, it was t' Albert Eugene!'

And when at the window on the third floor I saw how Patricia and the secretary, Professor Linde and Laplasse and Mona Liza and Small Cissy were playing croquet on the lawn.
'Oh, templates…!' I mused and shouted at them from the window 'Hey! You all enjoyed the dances on the flat board last night, didn't you?'
Someone returned my call. There was a jovial exchange of good waves to and fro.
'Caroline Number 9!' someone shouted.
It was then that I seriously had to think about Caroline again.
'Here I sit in my lonely room and this is what comes out of my hand! And the bloody rudeness of that remark!'
I listened to the ring of the silence that followed after I had typed the previous sentence. Then a faint voice sounding quite inhumanely came to me.
'Here I sit in my lonely room comes from No Parking. You copied it and pasted it here!' it said.
'Of course I did! Its my story!' I replied angrily 'Any sod reading my work would immediately have guessed from the introductory paragraph. Look, I know every sentence I write down! Everybody who can read would have grasped that too by now! I know what I write and where in what book I write it and why. I design my own mantissa' I sneered.
I was quite taken aback by such a stupid and irrelevant remark.
'… Oh, he didn't get it!' I thought and I listened for possible further responses but none came. Only the ringing silence rang again.
'I know about storyline structures too!' I typed '... and how to work with recurring themes. Anyway, whatever I type is applicable here! That's why I make use of it. Copy and paste ... everybody does that! How else are books written today? And what's more ... I needed you here. That's why I made you make such an idiotic remark!' I said into the nothingness of the silence in front of my computer.
'Oh Invincible, when you write like this I just want to hold you, Caroline' the voice interjected again. 'I get goose pimples all over my body!' it said.
It was Mnemosyne that was leading me on I realised.
I got youuuuu!'
Voices? Flat characters? The breaking of silence?
'I am here and now you seem to be here too. You are reading this sentence, aren't you?'
My god, she was typing it!

[non-thing flat]

Mnemosyne tease and seduce was for real … it wasn't any musing.
'She's probably not the one for you!' Polymnia whispered 'She's too old for you!'
Who? Montserrat Caballé? Never!'
No, I'm not' Mnemosyne affirmed 'I am the other one ... for you!' and she went with Polymnia off on an errand.
'Oh!'

And more voices came to me over periods of time. More scrolling words and new feelings never before felt. And conversations like:
'So? Does it bother you?' appeared on the screen.
'Infidelity?' someone interjected.
'Seeing it from my side…' a non-thing flat character tried.
'And the gardener… Oooeee, his so virile!' yet another one remarked.
'Gardener? How did you get the gardener in here?'
'Efficacious change processes, man!'
'Dorothy's not a Spanish OLE dancer!' Laplasse said.
'Ah cut it out Laplasse! You are not supposed to speak on your own. Professor Linde has to say something first before you can talk! You are merely to be his shadow!' I told him bluntly to his face.
'Frankly, this is weird!' Mnemosyne teased.
'Why am I ill at ease, Mamma Muse Madame Montserrat Caballé? Kleio? Oh, Euterpe come to me…! Thaleia? Muse me lovers! Come my lovers! Game Fox, Bix, Rspy! Dakini!' I shouted.

PUT IN HERE EXTRA 1
(moet nog ge-edit worden!)
EXTRA Piece

Relationships have grown to soft professional bonds. Dorothy and I was forming an evermore-tighter team with what was literally in me! Literature ex-nothing. And nothing could jeopardy that. Not even the stupid riddles I wrote on the free cards Men-love-with-their-eyes as answers, ideas and themes. Not even Doctor Mädle's non-active reactions to my personal growth in writing stories. Not even the poetry that I had lost somewhere along the timeline of Caroline because of virus infections of MsWord. The bubble was sound. It was round. And the gossamer skin of it held. And I lived in it blind as a bat but I lived. I was but a she inside a he. And Dorothy was in there with me! Doctor Mädle couldn't do a thing about it. I had him cornered and Iokaste was now firmly attached to Oedipus and Mnemosnye was dumping Zeus for me, the author of Caroline. It was Bold and beautiful in full screen and panasonic colour. Doctor Mädler ... Laios…
'Unappreciable information?'
'Oh … and ah of course openness… Thawsssss her motto!'
Oh her blunt pointed lovely remarks! Yes, she … although very nice and fragile and never having had to resorted to violence has a mind of her own! And a clear one to that. She had chosen for me with her mind. It was just rationality and for real. She couldn't mask it. Oh she could rock most of her superiors on the emotional scale too. Everybody knew it, I was not the only one. She could easily make a precise cutting remark about any item that does not fit in the course of good correspondence. And always it boiled down to emotion. Mind for emotion.
'No, Caroline, its not what you think it is, it is what you feel that counts' Doctor Mädle steered my thought processes.
A stern voice in a remarkable world.
'Ok, I agree to theta but she heavily leans on me! Did you know she blipped me off once?'
I continued to talk to myself.
'No, Caroline!' he warned.

Downstairs I knocked at Doctor Mädle's door. When he opened the door I begged him to give me an answer as to where Mnemosyne went with Polymnia. But he doesn't work like that. Psychiatrists never give answers, not even single words ... a writer can use.
I got dishearten and frustrated.
'Retrieve Dorothy for me … please!' I begged of him 'I need to talk to her'.
No answer. Not even a no. He just shifted in his chair.
'A shift worker shifting exactly on time' I thought.
I felt lost. Home alone.
'Hey you! Faust!' I shouted into the hollowed emptiness of his orb but my voice just rang against the concave walls of his being and echoed back to the centre of my universe … me.
No answers and no mamma's.
'You did knock at inferno's door when you tried the Muse family, didn't you? Paying sanity in poetry for insanity in your prose? You should have tried Nancy's door instead! Your Mayas Vestitas and Mayas Nadas in Municipal Paint Opera Lodge Café. God, how do you poets suffer … you are not a prose writer!'
'Who said that?'
It was the Lady of Nyx who had spoken from the nothingness of the collective unconscious. Her voice was bleak yet filled with righteousness. It was a far cry from my reality and the Ersatz of Nu. And it irked me. With vindication I shot again at Doctor Mädle's inactive persona again.
'Come on man, Mädle, come back … please! Talk to me! I won't call you Faust again. It was just a joke!' I pleaded paying my due with regret.
But he was out of his role and on stand-by.
'Ok, keep on hiding! Gerry! I am Bluebeard … bearded 't Albert, Eugene! All poets are Bluebeard didn't you know that? And Ora Snake Charmers!'
Then I heard a stir and faint muffle in the vicinity where the icon Doctor Mädle was sitting idle. There was somebody behind it.
I listened.
A whisper ...
'Hush!'
'Dorothy?'
I dashed forward to looked behind him.
Nothing.
I hastened to the window!
Only the gardener was outside … mowing the lawn.
I was sure I had heard something. I tried the cupboard.
Nothing inside!
Then under the table ... there!
'I got youuuuuu…' I kiekeboe Dorothy where she was hiding at Doctor Mädle's feet. She was flat. She hunched there in a heap, folded and bundled up like a discarded plastic sheet completely farted up with decadent lull. She was a blown-up porno doll … not in use. Wasted and wrinkled. And when I pulled the plug on her the last bits of air vented from her with a soft pfffft.
'So that's what you are doing! Irking Dorothy under the table' I said to Doctor Mädle and became extremely cross with him.
He made no movement. He was still sediment on his chair, an Atlas abiding and a stone statue. To the heap of flat plastic at his feet I sneered 'Come on Dorothy! You are not going to do this to me! Blow yourself up and let's leave this fucking room! Mädle is marble!'
But it wasn't as easy as that. I was once again caught in an impossible situation. The level of stress rose in me. I detected an oozing miasma coming from Dorothy's decaying remains under the table. I became nauseous. The vapour rose from the floor and dispersed through the room. The stench became unbearable. She was a dead thing too and had started to rot. I thought I saw maggots creeping from her body and crawling up my shins as I sat there in front of Dr Mädle. And the come-on redolent leprechaun was forcing its way towards me. I wanted to flee. I just had to get away from this incongruity in Caroline. I made for the door. Broke one of the hinges as I rammed it open and dashed out into the corridor. Nobody stopped me … and I ran for the stairs and the third floor. Only when I was safely at my window I caught my breath again.

[disorder notes]

It was a beautiful love poem and copying it I thought that I could easily have written it myself … were I able to write Italian!
I signed underneath the poem using my own name again and asked the Auxiliary to bring it over to Dorothy.
' … As quickly as possible, please!' I imposed on her.
I made her also promise not to discuss it with Doctor Mädle.

Wednesday night, still at the window, I copied onto several Men-love-with-their-eyes cards verses from Oberon.
'If Euterpe wasn't for me than Thaleia was! Or Polymnia? Oh, which of the three veiled virgins … mine?'
When I had done with the copying I rang for Sister Fattier to bring the cards to Dorothy. I also asked her to tell Dorothy that it was all over between us. I don't play scripts anymore and I had enough of creative ex nihilo writing. I am also not working further on Caroline. I am now in Caroline's garderope and a woman of my own! When a woman is a woman she stays a woman I told her. I am I and I am staying me. I'm done with gender Dysfore, Asperser K, Borderline or whatever. I'm done with Doctor Mädle. He can find himself another set of files to work on for all that I care.
'I don't go for this tripe anymore. I have much more important ways to waste my time than to do it by writing silly stories that originate in collective unconsciousness!' I told her.
Secretly however I hoped that Dorothy would find the meaning to the encrypted riddle that was in Oberon's poem. However, I didn't mention it to Sister Fattier. She was good at her dealing with human resource systems and she ran her wards well but she was no expert as far as deconstruction of poetry was concern. I was absolutely sure of that. Not of Oberon's anyway.
I signed the card with my own name.
'Caroline' I signed it and had a last thought for this paragraph.
'She was Titania and I was the King'.
And I handed her the card.

To Dorothy from Caroline

'He is still sleeping! - The first time
Since his breach with Titania
Certainly a more petty cause than theirs
Has never before separated man and wife.
Who is more fickle, women or men?
The Queen naturally took up the defence
Of her own sex. The quarrel became more vehement.
In anger they swore by everything
That is sacred to elves
Never to come together again in love until
An affectionate couple is found who remain true to each other,
Whether in good times or bad
Whether in danger or in need, never a moment of doubt!
And now the penitent King would give his crown
To find such a pair of turtledoves
In order to keep his hasty words.
But be quiet now, he is waking, he is coming!'

At about 2 o'clock, when I had no return message from Dorothy, I decided to messenger her again. I called Sister Fattier once more. But the Night Auxiliary told she was off duty and had gone home. I had never thought of her in terms of having a home but I let it go.
At 3 o'clock however I couldn't hold it out any longer. I decided to act once more. I looked for more Men-love-with-their-eyes cards but to my disappointment I discovered I had none left. All I had left in the way of paper was my bounded Gestalt therapy and Personality Disorder notes. I tore off the cover and used the back of it. This time I copied a love poem I had found some time ago among waste paper in the sitting room. The poem was printed in an Art Museum brochure. This museum was in Italy. It was the Museo Della Tortura. There was a photo of the museum in the brochure … and of course it was a much better museum than Hank Williams' Z-psychiatry! One could see it immediately. And the fact that the museum was in Italy came in handy. Nobody would suspect that I have copied the poem from a brochure.

To Dorothy from t'Albert Eugene

La Vergine
La Gabbia
La Sedia Inquisitoria
La Ghigliottina
La Garrotta
La Pera orale
La Spaccaginocchi
La Sedia Eletttrica
La Schiacciatesta

At 4 o'clock, when there still was no sign from Dorothy, I decided to messenger her for the third time! This time I send her a poem of my own! I used several more pages of my Gestalt Therapy and Personality Disorder notes. I even wrote write across the schematic Doctorawings explaining homeostasis and well-being-in-relation-to-the-environment. The poem was a story and in the story there was yet another riddle. It was the story of my story in the story of Caroline. 'What is Doctorawings?' Racey Pear mailed me while she was editing Caroline. 'Its a mistake by MS Word corrector ... I've forgotten what I had wanted to say, anyway, three fishes and three wishes … the total's 6!' I told the Auxiliary as I gave her the bundle of paper and I explained to her that it was about the boat in the poem.
'We could escape by boat' I said. 'Isolde and Tristan's boat. It was time she realised that I meant business!'
However the boat in the poem had sunk to the bottom of a lake in Tilkin … Cyberspace. It was Hitler's uranium transport boat and the Allied Forces had blown it up in World War II.
'Quite complicated…' I spelled it out for her.
She wasn't an expert on poetry either.
'Oh, I was positive of that!'
And this time I did not write Dorothy's name above the poem … for obvious reasons. Neither did I sign it with my name. She should by now know from whom these notes came. To the Auxiliary I said it's ok if Doctor Mädle finds out about it because it was a sec poem-story and therefore it didn't matter at all who knew about it!
'Poetry belongs to the Gezellschaft … anyway!' I said as she left with bundle of papers.
The errand cost me another three weeks double duty in the kitchen but the urgency of the matter seemed to justify such a heavy price. Sec = Signature Evénement Contexte. Derrida! It was from Paulan's Log, the document I used for the Socratic Aemillian myths in Ohio.

To (No Name) from (No Name)

Unstained puissant the light

Word language … but she tried
Yellow it was and slight sluttish that night
But she tried.
A nose a tail a mouse and a frog
A piece of ham and her feet were like mine
We bartered with it
Green it was
And smaltsy slightly the flight
Due to jealousy I tried
A sunken Tilkin boat a piece of me and my feet
That were like hers
We ran for it
Red it was and unstained
puissant the light
It was with love
But we tried
A river, a delta and a piece of trinitrotoluene
And when the boat blew up
And the ham was eaten
Deep at the bottom the sediment sunk
Both of us had found anandamite
The bright cascading light
Both of us knew we had to veil
The arcane that had saluted us

[dialectical imagination]

'Pardon me! The role you are playing ... I can't place it!'
'No, Doctor Evasive, not now! Now I am on your level. You will see what I mean when you have read the end of Caroline. Yes, the story has a story behind it and yes, it is on track'.
Doctor Mädle mutated into the template of Dorothy right there where he sat behind his desk. But I was not to be put off from the pursuit I had stipulated for myself. To show him how much in charged I was of myself as a character I vented and whoosh was gone into thin air.

And time lapsed on. It was water splashing against rock, eroding the sharp edges to smooth lovely surfaces. And solaced new next days turned to solaced previous days. They became yesterdays. And the yesterdays faded into thinness and nothing, small forgetful units of time and were gone. I noticed this at my window. I also noticed things were escaping me. More and more I experienced how my gift of omnipotence wore off me and how vulnerability set in and nestled in me. I seemed unable to stay in control of whatever proceedings were needed to write a story. The designs I made were all unworkable models. Doctor Mädle noticed this too.
'Emotional outbursts and breakdowns slowdown progress, Caroline, but it is nothing to worry about! We can bridge that. Time has a healing effect' he tried to justify my staring out of the window, but I remained concerned with the disintegration of the time flow. I seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. His words were vague and meaningless.
'It's Dorothy, isn't it?' he persisted.
'Who is Dorothy?' was constantly my response.
I just kept on staring at the grass games of the various K Sections on the lawn below.
'Its Caroline then, isn't it?'
My response stayed on the level of denial.
'What is Caroline?'
'The congruency of the characters?'
'I don't know'.
My world seemed to have been built on quicksand, slipping away as I went. Every time I opened my eyes I saw how precarious the precious phase I had landed in was.

[de-constructive messages]

'Macadam Pinkerton, Prego! Leonard, I am your man. If you want a lover, I'll do anything you ask me to' and 'Hi, Don! Poor half-man' came to my mind.
It was the day I created a Scandinavian man called Don.
'I will need you towards the end of the story of Caroline' I told him and he smiled proudly as I have never seen in a character.
That gave me some hope. 'Caroline ... maybe after all...'



'You are overdoing it! Not everyone can reap de-constructive messages from a pooch! Aren't you making fun experimental literature? Woodlands fun of the mind. Bonnheim. That can make learning what is to be unlearned harder for you, t'Albert Eugene and the point is you know that!' Mnemosyne warned from behind us on the third floor at the window.
'Yes and no. A flew over the Cuckoo's nest. Jack Nicholson! He's such a cool actor, isn't he?'
'Yes he is but the point is you are the love of my life and I am the life of your love. Isn't that what matters most in any world of literature ... the relationship with the Muse? The writer in his bubbled cocoon ... the womb?'
'Precisely! But it's a time bomb? Writing's an addiction'.
'Addiction, god! What are you talking about? I am busy trying to start up some sort of dialogue and you come shit with addiction!'
'Ash non, not like that! Let's work from lists again. That could solve the problem, no?'
And with that I was once again put into a position to do what I was told. To work with a list.
'I want you to … while' and the sentence didn't get finished but the list was handed to me.
'While being in bed with you I suppose' I thought.

'Who was speaking to me? Doctor Mädle, Dorothy or was it Mnemosyne?'
Dorothy opened her mouth to answer me but she shut it again saying nothing.
'Oh yes, its you!' I looked at her but it was Doctor Mädle in the ornate full that I saw sitting behind his desk.
He reached over and handed me the list of topics on a small piece of paper, wrinkled into a ball like draft sheet in a wastepaper basket. I unruffled it half-heartedly and looked at the contents. Dialectical Imagination was printed in bold at the top of a list of topics. It was in Garamond typeset 18 point ready to be scaled down to 12 point for printing on 7 inch pages.
'I could sleep on it for days' I said to him and wrinkled the piece of paper again into the format he had given me and put it in the left pocket of my white coat.

Dialectical Imagination

Roles
Procedure
Clues
Expression
Differentiation
Affirmation
Integration
Impasse
Resistance
Patterns
Scripts
Phenomenal orientation
Self-actualisation

'Screwed up, man. The words, they're screwed up!' I heard myself saying once more. My words rang into the hallway and echoed back to me.
'It was a pity though' I thought 'that John Fowles has got his Mantissa out last year … ahead of me. And Orson Wells too … Animal Farm'.
Caroline's that same mantissa those two giants wrote. Its the same creative modern doodling on a computer.
'Caroline's good! Dorothy is good! Four legs! Doctor Mädle is good! Sister Fattier is good! Eight legs! And I am good…!'
And I wanted to vomit.
'Academic stuff!'
'So you accept it? The role?'
'Nooooo…! No, I cannot accept the role! There are Grenzen to my abilities! But come to think of it ... why not? but say, I really wouldn't know what I would do if you were to fall in love with me!' I shouted into Dr Mädle's face as he looked over my shoulder at the window.
It was a last warning to myself before I completely lost sight of the purpose of this chapter.

[co-ejaculation as a complex]

I was late in getting up the next day and missed the plenary. When Doctor Mädle came to see me. Hara-kiri! A lapse of memory.
'Who is Doctor Mädle?'
And when he mentioned that it was Sister Fattier who had informed him about my being late and not wanting to get out of bed I couldn't place a Sister Fattier either.



'Co-ejaculation as a complex? While I wrote it she came…' I rejoiced.
'And?'
'Oh Yessss…'
One morning early I saw from the window the sun trying to come up behind the other walls of Bonnheim. It was bright and yellow and the world outside the walls was filled with light. This side of the wall, on the inside, it was shadowy and still dark. But the light seemed to want to come to the shadows and dark. It crept slowly over the wall like a thief. And as it illuminated the undergrowth I saw something moving on the wall. It was a figure of a man. He was scaling over the wall with the light. I instinctively knew he was coming for me. My heart pounded. I watched him running over the lawn towards the building. He hopped onto the terrace annexed to the building and made for the rain pipe. I saw how he climbed up it and slowly worked his way up towards the third floor and me. When he got to the window I was looking through I saw his face as he grabbed the windowsill. His face … his face … it was the gardener's rugged face! And I saw his hands as he was reaching for me from behind the glass pane. I saw blood on his hands. He was a murderer. I backed up with fright and then I saw where I had stood laid a pool of blood. My feet were in blood. Blood was dripping from my legs coming from my thighs.
And I screamed!
The scream tore from me so loud and hysterically. Commotion in the rooms followed. I kept on screaming because at that moment I had a vision that I was not Caroline but a man, a man called t'Albert Eugene, the gardener. The pool of blood and the dripping of it off my legs wasn't my concern. It was the fact that I was a man and not a woman that scared me.

[alcohol myopia]





'There were ice cubes in her eyes and the usual friendliness and spontaneity that shone from those beautiful nutmeg tunnels before and had created such desire in me was completely replaced by this new look she was now fashioning ... blue pin sized pupils'.

Distance developed between t'Albert Eugene, Caroline, me and practically all the characters that I had thought would have helped me to merge us all into a cohesive body of new literature. And in the face of it I thought it best too not to co-operate with them anymore. Role-playing and script learning was so senseless.
'I am on time-out to think' I told Mona Lisa.
'Like Small Cissy … she's on time-out too all the time, isn't she?'.
'Oh Mony…' I begged defeated 'You are just like Thaleia, aren't you? You have such a nice bum!'
'Really? Do you think my bum's nice? When did Thaleia get in? She got a nice bum too?'
I had to smile at that. She had liked the comparison.

'Those messenger notes you gave to Sister Fattier and the Auxiliary Nurse, I haven't read any of them but … the third one, wasn't it a bit abstruse? How does Tilkin and the 3 fishes fit into Caroline?' Doctor Mädle wanted to know when he came yet again to the window on the third floor with the excuse that he was only coming to inform about my health.
'I don't know!' I told him 'I am on time-out! So leave me alone!'
Stress works on a good man! If it is not Morfologija skazki than it is quoll, woylie, boodie, bettong, bilby, mala and numbar! Deterioration of brain cells? Strain ordinair? Reaction formation? Flat characters?
And … why can I not remember the days anymore as they go by? What day was it yesterday? Is today a totally new and different one? Why do I forget things? Sublimation? Why don't I know whom t'Albert Eugene is supposed to be? And eh, today? Is today Wednesday too? Or was Wednesday the day before yesterday? And what did I do with what that ruddy-dutty diggety free cards I earned from Sister Fattier for doing Mona Liza's kitchen duty? And what happened to my Gestalt therapy and Personalities Disorder? Why were there 43 pages torn from it? Where's the cover of it? Who fried up my book?'
The interrogation cum introspection of myself didn't impressed Doctor Mädle. He just sat there across his desk looking at me as if he had alcohol myopia. His head was jingling from side to side resembling a brandy glass filled with Black bush Single Malt Irish whisky and I imagined I could hear his eyes making noises like ice cubes as they click from rim to rim.
'What happened to my Men-love-with-their-eyes cards? How many of them do I miss?'
Oh, and the extra baggage that one carries in times of emotional uncertainty!
'Pre-menstrual Dysfore? Gender Dysfore? Paranoia? Double diagnosis? Neurosis! Psychosis! What are those? What has it to so with me? Who am I? Who is t'Albert, Eugene? Who's Caroline? Why do they all call me t'Albert, Eugene when I have told them distinctly that I am not a t'Albert, Eugene? And Caroline! What a common name! Why am I not called Francesca or Elizabeth? Or Loreena? Texas? And one more thing, how can a man have pre-menstrual Dysfore? And one more still, why didn't Dorothy like my poems? Obtuse … abstruse, my foot! Oh, my burdened mind!' I sighed.
Oh, pique! Rive the carve!'
Pardon me? Who said that? Was it an incognito flat character revolting? A quickie…? Sedition? A breakdown of organic structures? Who took my cards?'
When a man is tired of London he is tired of life.
'My name isn't Caroline! I am t'Albert Eugene! Why do they all call me Caroline when I have told them distinctly that I am not a Caroline? … t'Albert Eugene! My god, what a common name!'

The next day came and it ended too.
It ended so abruptly that I was completely flabbergasted by it. And without warning the following day ended even earlier. And the day after that… It followed the same procedure. It just ended there right in front of my eyes where I stood at the window watching the staff of K16 passing to and fro for their grass games. And after that all the days and their follow-ups repeated similar patterns. They started off bright in the mornings and in the evenings they turned black. It was quite a phenomenon I thought. The sun would set behind the outer walls of Bonnheim and immediately it would be dark.
'Just like that!'
And I philosophised about it. I thought that in the darkness of nights small new days were getting conceived by the older days and the little foetuses were growing inside their tummies during the night. And in the morning these foetuses got born … and voila a new day.
'How could days otherwise get born?' I asked myself.
These little day babies get born everyday in the morning when the sun comes up and then they crawl over the walls like naughty children.
'Everyday!' I said 'It is the same day everyday!'
I was becoming very feeble I thought but then again I had nothing to do since I was on time out. Still, I comforted myself with that.
'Regression? A pauper…? Getting born in the morning and dying at night! And how are stories born? Baby Caroline’s? In the tummies of writers?'.
'Caroline… am I conceiving her? Is that why I am a woman? Or is my gender Dysfore just a literary Janus thing? Do I have gender Dysfore? Am I the eternal hermaphrodite? My writings brain apparitions?'
And I wondered if Caroline was a real story and worth completing. But I didn't dare to think otherwise…!
From my window.
I saw the grex's coming in.
Bringing in… irrelevant information. Irrelevant evaluations of diagnostic processes. The gardener is out there mowing the lawn. He is climbing the walls. Trying to upper his class. He is coming for me. His voice and other voices… And writing about voices a voice said to me 'There isn't sufficient feedback from the in-groups' it said.
And then more voices joined the conversation. I found myself in a group discussion within myself.
'And quality Control…?' someone else interjected.
'Evaluation!' yet a third person said.
'Progress?' a fourth voiced.
'There is always something lacking' his friend added.
'Where?' Sister Fattier asked.
But then all of a sudden the ‘elses’ were used up and nobody answered Sister Fattier's question. I noticed Melpomene smiling in the background as she watched the cacophony in me. Like a guardian mother she closed in and slit the tip of her tongue into my ear. Goose pimples ran over my whole body.
'Lillith, nooooooo! Oh muse, do not mould me so!' I protested.

And the wheels of karma churned for me. They grounded into the days' actions and their noises kept me ill at ease every day. Then I got used to it and apparently reached a stage of Chimalski flow. Sensitivity and awareness germinated in the letting go of it all. I was aroused by the development of it. And then I got used to awareness and boredom set in again.
'Issues. Spaces. Intricate organs. Eyes. Ears. DNA double helixes and the Omega pointe…'
I tried explaining it all to myself but I couldn't convince myself of anything. There stayed an irking thought in the back of my brain that Caroline was going nowhere and that did its harm.
'Let me get this straight. I did write a free card, didn't I? And I incorporated poetry into whatever I wrote on it, didn't I?'
'I must have written poetry because I love poetry! And if that is true… I must be a poet too! A writer and a poet! And Dorothy? Who is she? Andromeda in an Iron Box? But then I have to be Perseus to free her with the cut-off head of Medusa! Oh no! There we go again with Zeus! He fathered Perseus…'
Oh, I felt like crying. I seemed completely inadequate to safeguard growth processes in literature via creatio ex nihilo and creative writing just seemed bloody wallpaper that goes on and on. My mind seemed unable to solve my own riddle. It doctorifted.
'God knows alone what that means! Doctorifted. It's not even a word, is it? It's an ex nihilo word I suppose. A mistake from a copy and paste'.
But yes, my mind was doctorifting all right and it went far into dreamlands and over prohibited borders, fences and grasslands. And into deserts and mountains. It went into foreign territory … Section C's domain! And there in passing the entrance to it I saw three dead fishes drifting in the pond.
'Three fishes … the theme from Paulan's Log and Douche and Addition. Why? Was it a sign?'

I thought about it and wondered how on earth I was going to get Caroline away from this too. And I became so disheartened! From where I stood in Section C's domain it seemed to be stretching itself into infinity like Caroline. There seemed to be no end to it.
'How can a section be so big? Such a long story?'
'Don't worry so much, Sweetie!' Terpsichore whispered as she surfaced in the centre of the pond dashing the three dead fishes to the side 'Mommy will help you'.
She spat out water from her mouth. I noticed the tip of her tongue and her sweet little wet ears.
'Schöne mermaid Melusine!'
Then Kalliope and Euterpe popped up too. Three happy and playful virgins! Or were they three witches in disguise looking to see if I am edible?
'Tria Fata? Moira? A single eye?'
'Oh no! Not Zeus again…! It's his three daughters!'

'A therapeutic initiative? An experimental hoax? Was it an inspiration out of some blueness of eyes that made me started writing Caroline? Brown eyes? What is it that worries me so much? What is it that evades me? Coloured perspectives? Masks?'
'Things are what they are, aren't they?' Kalliope smiled.
'So you have accepted it?' Euterpe teased.
'Nooooon!' I surprised them both. 'Its stays… and that's the wonder of it!'
Then I caught myself off hand.
'Like always…'
And shaking with my head I touché-ed them with the 'Will I ever change?'

'Neuroses. Minimalism. Yes I know that! I am living in a dream of my own.
'Dorothy's head and your face' I explained to Doctor Mädle 'but the best clients can do is to redirect their attention, if such strength could be mustered, and enter small and safe parts of their self-concept first. Isn't that right? They can use cognitive deconstruction. Write? Instincts can be supervised that way and be put under control. That sort of thing? The i-into-b … identity into body … sure that will work, won't it?' and I woo-ed my face like Dorothy always does when she is discussing intimacies. Then I pointed my ears as a rabbit and listened for the approaching oncoming onslaught of the bad bad hunter. The return of the invincible father figure.

'Psychosis. Maximalism. And that's the point!' I said 'It removes inhibitions! An i-into-b reduces the need to think about own personal bamboozles, don't you agree? Wow, an unwooed face! Yours! But there's a price to pay for this! What I am suggesting is to create a state of emotional numbness and that's a total fuddy-duddy Argo Spier up when it concerns writers and professors and men the likes of me and you!'
And I challenged the phallic patriarch but just in time Erato saved me.
'Women, you mean?' she asked.
Her voice sounded in ear and there was an intimate call for privacy in it. And the rasp of her little tongue as she, like her mother once before, slit the tip of it into my ear.
'Like mother like daughter! Oh no, come on … don't tease me! I am in confusion enough with Caroline as it is!'
Goose pimples flash over my whole body however and I enjoyed it.
'That's writing for you! Action and reaction. Characters just have to react when you hunch at them! Ok, I know withholding information is persistence in self-deception! And it boils down to cool callous bloodless lying. Even if it is only towards oneself'.
'Why do you woo your face?' Polymnia asked 'It doesn't suit you as much as it suits Dorothy!' and she broke into full laughter making a fool of me.
'Yes, it does!' I defended myself.
'It does not!' Kalliope backed her up and put a golden lock on my mouth with her delicate fingers.
I couldn't talk anymore. So indeed I was quiet.

'Was this another session?' I asked Doctor Mädle.
He nodded with professional courtesy, stood up and chaperoned me to the door. Outside I thought 'God, that was a quick one!'

[roads to hell]



'My dear little new wife of fragrance .... Loreena, where are you?'

There were still those who thought reality was real and those who know exactly how futile creative writing is. Some approaches to change, interaction and intercourse also are still focused entirely on behaviour without any necessary reference to the self or related constructs.

And the discussions...

'Women love with their…?' I overheard the Secretary explaining to Mona Liza and busting out in a cackle, common like a bitch.
'Men also!' Mona Liza replied screaming out with laughter.
They folded into each other like two worn mattresses dumped from a lorry.
'Their what?' professor Linde inquired like a blind bat.
Laplasse, faithfully at his side, frowned too. Oh stress in Psychiatric Institutes, and the strange ways it surfaces.
'Never mind it! Forget it!' Mona Liza piped him swallowing a mouthful of spit desperately trying to recuperate and getting her breath from the laughing spell. 'Go get behind the couch both of you!' she ordered professor Linde and Laplasse.
And once again there were screams of hilarious laughter on the part of the women. But when Patricia came in everybody fell silent.
'I didn't play pfutting table tennis with Patricia!' she solemnly declared loud as if she was taking an oath. It was for everybody present to hear. And she added to it 'I am now 100% sure of that!' pulling at the secretary's sleeve.
'Let's go' she said to her.
Both of them got up solemnly like two prudent convent girls now and left the room quietly. They were two actors with their one-liners done. They tiptoed off the stage as inauspiciously as possible and without making another sound.
An uncomfortable silence settled following their exit. Then a young invitee dared to break it.
'Mona Lisa's nice' he said.
Immediately an ancient flew into him.
'Man … you have no idea how nice she is!'
'No? How nice is that?' the invitee challenged him.
'Champion! She's a champion! She's Polymnia's sister' the ancient proclaimed and he laboriously started to explain the complications of her script.
He told the invitee that the words Mona and Lisa came from Monet and Myriam Syffra, Mary the Immaculate. Mona is feminine for Monet … and Liza … she's Liza Stars.
'Liza Stars's name was Myriam Syffra before she had changed it to Liza Stars' he said 'It's from Argo Spier's Belim Tower Road'.
'Oh' the invitee replied and gave it up.
And then the ancient turned round and repeated his explanation out loud again to make sure that everybody understood his meticulous analysis too. And he ended his disport with 'That's why Mona Liza is so nice'. He also menaced everybody by cautioning that '… should there be anymore new invitees present that still don't know why Mona Liza is so nice … well, then that persona should have his or her head re-examined by Doctor Mädle first thing in the morning'.
Nobody dared breaking anything anymore after that. I too just sat there listening to it all.
'It was getting more and more difficult for me at Bonnheim' I thought.
When I discussed the incident with the window on the third floor it fully understood my fear about flat characters and how they sometimes forced their way towards fuller scripts. It told me however not to worry too much about it as it was only in Caroline that this sort of thing happened.
'If Mona Liza was the sister of Polymnia then she was also the sister of Ourania and Thaleia … all of whom are nice too' it concluded and asked me whether it made sense to me and I agreed.
'Its not as simple as that…' I nagged at the window 'there's something else too' and I told it how, while I was listening to Mona Lisa and the secretary's delightful chirping, a coruscate had flushed through my cortex. I envisioned Mona Lisa bending down in front of me at the kitchen sink. Her posterior was so feminine and the back of it … oh, her thighs looked so agreeable inside her tight jeans… etc.
'Oh my god…' the window exclaimed 'That's serious!'


'I have seen her play table tennis on Thursday!' Professor Linde insisted when the row over table tennis started again soon after the Mona-Liza-is-nice-episode.
'Me too!' Laplasse too was enthusiastic about it.
'She misses the ball every so often and then she has to pick it up. Oh, this is a matter of grave importance! You should see her … her bending down pretence!'
'Oh no! This was getting out of hand' I thought to myself as I sat there wasted and listening to them talking.
'Yes, she plays well and has the nicest hindmost I've ever seen on a woman!'
And on and on it kept. My mouth stayed shut as a trap but I was well aware where it all was going to lead to. Mona Liza and I moved in separate in-groups since some small breakdown in relations between us. I shouldn't have touched her hind in the kitchen when she bent down for something under the sink.


'Oh, some approaches to change, interaction and intercourse still focus entirely on behavioural patterns without any necessary reference to the self or related constructs!' was yet another of such topics.
'I read that too! It comes out of Interpolation of Logic. There's that diversity in culture!' an newcomer to Bonnheim responded over enthusiastically, and I smiled as I made a fool of him by typing his extravagant response.
But there was a chance that he had read my notes for the dialogue bits.
'Hey! What are you doing? Don't peep over my shoulder like that!' I barked at him.
He had a point though. Between Mona Liza and me… there was a point of delicate behavioural patterns.
'Oh sure, its a difference of the diversity between the two of you'.
Thank god, nobody in here was dumb enough to answer that.


'Did you know what Mona Lisa did with Caroline in the kitchen the other day?' Arachne remarked and mutated herself into a spider.
She was a Greek mythological figure.
'No, I mean yes!'
'That's right!'
'Hmmm, I see…'
Oh, man … I felt like crying.

But it kept on.

'Analysis is meaningless!' Erato remarked coming to my rescue 'Honesty and congruence … and fragile openness. Openness is among the neat steps to Self-change! Oh and ah of course openness… Thawsssss her motto. Dorothy's... Ah why not throw in a poem? A poem from some opera. And I thought I better asked if anyone had a lead for me for a poem. And by sweet Christian faith the same foolish invitee was at it again! He even started reciting some verses of the opera I had secretly hoped they would refer me to.

Es waren einmal zwei Freunde.
Beide Erzengeln gleich.
Von der Mädchen Lippen
brachen sie die Blüte.

'Pathways to Internalisation? When does overt behaviour change the Self-concept?' he said with bravura after he had recited the verses.
'How the pfutting should Caroline know that!' Mona Liza cut him short calling a spade a spade as she stuck her head from behind the backstage curtain. Small Cissy's silhouette was behind her. She was watched over Mona Liza's shoulders with her big saucer eyes full of adoration for both me and Mona Liza. And then she shuffled past Mona Liza and came up to me with a free card in her hand, giving it to me. It was a Men-love-with-their-eyes card with a note on it. I looked at it and read the note. Mona Liza had signed it. It said 'Say … did I play table tennis or not? I am not sure of that anymore!'
I looked past Cissy at Mona Liza's anxious waiting in expectation near the curtain. She was dressed in the costume of Polymnia and noticing it my heart gave a jump because she looked so sexy and voluptuous from the front as well. Her lips were of the reddest red I've ever seen.
'Man, Bonnheim…' I thought and with great affirmation I nodded 'Yes' but my lips formed the word 'no!
'No, you didn't!'
Oh, anything … anything to make her happy and restore whatever went askew in the kitchen at the zinc!


And then there was the pantomime. A new set was being installed and early rehearsals called! Hustle and bustle. Noise. People. Straight jackets. Police. Incognito evanesces. Emergency meetings. False names. Baptism. Influxes. Mistakes. Serious misunderstandings. New systems. Mini board meetings. Hallways and corridors. Beatings about the bush. Pecking orders. Evaluations. What-s-m-call-it? So-and-so. And no time for teatime!
'Oh we know! We are no fools!'
'Yes and the official monthly reports…'
'Christ! What a line! Who chose it?'
'Unlearning and habits changing … that's what you get!'
Mary Magdalene. Official figures. Hard cases. Ordinary cases. Exceptional comparisons. Extreme Comparisons. Foreigners. Language barriers. Decisions. Allocations. Traditions. Challenges. Body Language. Speedy recovery. Valid points.
'Everybody knew…!' Melpomene winked.
Misinterpretation. Signals. Environment. Description. Essential therapies. Individuals. Progress. Embarrassing incidents. Backlashes. Skipped duties. Doctoropping. Ashtrays. And Peine capital.
'Not all aid always work to the good of everybody … that's a fact'
'But at heart she is very sweet! Isn't she?'
'Yes, she is…'
'So you accept it?'
'Nooooo…! Wonder! The wonder of you!'
'God, she's nice … too! Like Euterpe' I thought 'Look at her lips … too!'
Hard to change. Hard to keep up the pace. Hard to unlearn. Theatrical or Narcissistic But it went through. And role-play, role-play, role-play…
'Women over 40 have to carry handbags and men with mother complexes have to wear something that remind them of their mothers'.
I refused to partake in such nonsense. I stuck to being myself … a man called Caroline. A writer writing The Story of Caroline.
'I would like to be a woman too … not so much as a man is. I just have to be a man!'
'What are you saying!'


The psychological bias in Caroline …the concept of it was thin Mnemosyne told me. But I couldn't bring myself so far as to grasp anything else that I could have written than that which I had written.
'A changing of scripts? Faust dialogue?'
'I cannot role-play Laios!'
'Oooeee … even nicer, you are talking to Mamma muse now! Don't forget that'.
'Woman? Man? What's the bloody difference?'


And…


'You never reply to my letters, my cards, my riddles and I don't seem to get the full scope of the physiological components of my emotion … as for now'
'Spit it out'.



And…


And actually there is no love between us. And I want love, love, love. A woman's love! Don't get me wrong! Not lessee…'
She hissed a hale. A Fenicischtic nymph, an Iokaste of sorts. Then nodded 'Yes … they will never know!'
And closing in … her tongue…


Oh, and then suggestions.


Can't we schedule the Monday morning calls for Wednesdays? Wednesday is half of the week and it is quicker to pick up Saturday after that … its also easier to remember'
'Yes, that's right …'
'I am working on negative cognition in self-esteem. Rational self-analysis. Rational challenges. Boredom. Irrational self-talk! Very interesting … I didn't know I was so nice!'
'It always ends up with you on the other side of the bureau! Why?' I said to Doctor Mädle.
I was in the trap again.
'Yes' Doctor Mädle said 'you are! We were discussing cryptic summaries of so-called routes to take but you didn't respond'.
He was ahead of me like a gazelle. Always ahead of everything. He had seen my hesitation when Mnemosyne stuck out her tongue.
'Oh, world!'
He changed himself into Dorothy … warm and sensitive and he used her template with galore hale.
'I get goose pimples when I see you! Does that satisfy you?'
'Dorothy!' I exclaimed 'Oh, where have you gone to so long?'
And he laughed like a hawk but he was Dorothy. It was Dorothy who laughed like a hawk and her hale was so lovely.
'You leave Dorothy out of this! You are a flirting liar! She's my client script!' he/she said fiercely into my face like an android.
'Who was talking to whom? He to her? She to him? To me?'
'Don't worry so much. My love for you is strong!' Mnemosyne whispered in my ear leaving red lipstick behind on it.
When I touched my ears my fingers caught hold of it and when I saw it on my fingers I at first thought I was bleeding at my ear. When I tasted it I realised it was lipstick.
'It tasted like peaches … blood red peaches'



[slow down process]



The Outside.
pondered the meaning of this concept for a long while standing at the window on the third floor working, rehearsing for the next session. If there was an outside then there just had to be an inside as well I decided.
'I am on the inside!'


And naturally, spilling over from one thing to that and then into this And that thing ... into what had been, constantly, was becoming normal in the process of writing and talking and having therapy sessions and rehearsals. But still, there were guidelines for procedures of progress. Sharing information was absolutely imperative and obtaining sound evaluations had priority and was the fixed viewpoint that Dr Mädle swore by.
'Withholding information gives wrong pictures! There's no ands or buts to this. It's a general rule!' he told me over and over again.
'Does that includes non-empirical understanding of the universe? Info re the Ersatz? Introductions? Wallpaper? The 'why' of the therapist being there in front of a client? I mean, the therapist does seem to have a bigger problem than the client does. It's natural for a client to be there in front of the therapist because he is some kind of patient, isn't he? But the therapist? He is not a client! What does he do in therapy? Definitely he's got explaining to do, hasn't he? Also, why is it that certain staff always work the same recurring shifts on Wednesdays? What about PC and BC? They get all the easy ones?'
'Oh say, the debate about this and the attitudes about that … in general … it had been careering on for too long now, don't you think?'
'Oh, it pisses me off too!' I told him.
'Really?'
'Yes and definitely there's something lacking in method. Am I comprehensive enough for you to understand what I am trying to say and do with Caroline?'
I didn't want to play anymore. I needed something else … love?
'My days here are numbered' I told him 'The seasons had come and were gone now but soon I'll be out of here. You just mark my words! There's an outside to the inside! I am absolutely convinced of it!'


Whereas I hadn't suspected the reality of the concept 'outside' before, I now seemed to have discovered that it was out there and that its virtuality was something I knew nothing about. It caused strain in me ... not knowing anything about this unknown world. Everyday as I stood at the window … looking, longing and waiting for something to happen that would put me on a sound visualization of it I was thinking and thinking about it. And things popped up, but they were in wrong places in my consciousness.
'The scripts weren't right, were they? The sets and stages are mixed up. For example, the gardener, what is it with him?'
And as the word gardener came up inexplicable fear struck through me like an electric shock.
'He'll spoil it all for me! He is a catharsis man like t'Albert Eugene! The slumbering phantom and the slow emergence of the dead phallus inside the tomb of the underpants?'
'Why do you think that?' Doctor Mädle asked.
'Because he is in the wrong paragraph now! Always popping up when I don't expect him. And his script also has nothing in the least to do with Caroline. Or has it? And also he is a Chatterley Man ... a runaway from DH Lawrence'.
'He hasn't got that allure, has he?'
'Wittgenstein’s more your man. He could uncork double philosophies from uncut lawn borders you had wanted to listen to!' Ourania, who had sneaked in without Dr Mädle's noticing her, threw over my shoulder.
'Shit, lipstick on my neck again'.
'Why is he in here? Why in this paragraph?' I asked her.
'Who? Wittgenstein or the gardener?'
Doctor Mädle tried to salvage some direction from the dialogue.
'For the lawn of K16 probably? But I cannot work on that now. How am I to keep Caroline's structure rigid when characters can force their way into any paragraph? And at their own will? Coming into consulting rooms unasked for. Hermesses? Was he a Hermes? A pre-scheduled messenger and warning of a coming crisis of Dysfore?'
'Who? Wittgenstein or the gardener?'
Sister Fattier came in.
'Oh, is she still in Caroline too?' she asked looking at Ourania.
And then the gardener wanted to know if Sister Fattier had permission to come in too.
'Is she too in Caroline still?' he asked.
'Yes of course! She's Head Nurse! She will always be in Caroline. How can one run a mind factory without a Head Nurse?' I sneered at him.

[a far cry]

[Note by the editor

This section is wonderful Argo. I felt fully involved with the story and the storyteller both, throughout this whole piece.
I wouldn't be concerned about the many random characters drifting through this story. I found their sudden emergence and disappearance interesting and diverting, and they seem to fit well with the idea of psychological disturbance you're playing with.
On a more personal note, I'm not sure how much of this is autobiographical, but considering what I know of you, and the style of your work, I'd say probably most of it. It has the stamp of authenticity.
I'm sorry you have such painful experiences. Just for the record, it doesn't bother me that there are tangible male and female aspects to who you are. In fact I find it endearing and rather attractive. I know, however, that society at large is generally harsh and judgemental towards things it sees as 'different' from the average. Maybe it would help you a little to know that I don't feel that way? I assume you have some kind of bipolar disorder? It must be very difficult for you. Your description of it here is very powerful. I hope you will find some way to reconcile the different aspects of who you are and find peace with them.
It's my personal belief that everyone has all of these aspects within them. In your case they are simply more exaggerated? more visible? This is not necessarily a bad thing I don't think.
Anyway, if I'm miles off the mark then excuse my assumption. I hope your trip goes well. Take good care of yourself. – Kiss Rae]



Sister Fattier's Schindler's list of duties as pay-off for Men-love-with-their-eyes cards had become a long one. It flashed through my brain that there might be something very wrong with the situation. There isn't a central plot in Caroline what so ever. It's a madhouse. Its about a madhouse. And I am stuck in it. Also the time sequences of the dialogue seemed unpredictable to such an extent that it will bore the reader in the end. They were out of balance. And … there were quite a number of people moving in and out of the story. And that at their own will ignoring the authority of the author like shit. I realised I might have miscalculated the time line of the script but then and yet again the elusive butterfly … eh, a Schmetterling feeding on nectar at whatever flower comes its way is quite a normality in Modern Prose.


Amnesia. Paradise Lost. No trail. No Head. A far cry? The Marian Quirt in Vienna? Pot plants and/or the height of fig trees in the Amazon?
'She got married in that Church!'
A vacuum.
'Which church?' Doctor Mädle wanted to know.
'I am not repeating the name, no way! Eva Gardener. Beate Gardener. Suzy Wong. Its quite a relief remembering things when you have that faculty, isn't it? Forgetting things … is that a sign of the dawning of psychological health or the deterioration of it? And what is remembering...?'
And I rang and rang and rang. And I remember. I forgot forgetfulness and was in another mood … manic and high as the sky.
'Oh, bliss! Bliss due to the absence of things to forget. Manic freedom and no mislaid card for me now…!' I rejoiced.
And I was high … high. And Dorothy? Well she can can can!
And standing at my window in the hallway on the third floor I started humming a song of Leonard Cohen. Tonight will be fine ... will be fine ... will be fine ... for a while.
'Pardon me?' Doctor Mädle drew on me 'You are playing a role I can't place!'
'No, Doctor Evasive, not now! I am now on your level now. Wait till you have read the end of Caroline. You will see the why, the what and the how come. Yes, I am already working towards that end… And … the track is running! Cards and letters! Men-love-with-their-eyes cards have two sides. Front sides and backsides … outside!'
And 'What is on the outside of the inside?'
'The Outside…' Terpsichore was the one now who came doing the whispering in my ear smearing lipstick on my ear and collar all over again.
'Somehow outside sounded so different from the Inside … the opposite from Inside'.
'Yes, it isssssss! Go and have a look!' Erato Swissed a knife of corruptive thought into my brain.
Polymnia licked at my other ear. Then gnawed at it. Lipstick and goose pimples again. Titillation!
'It thrilled me … the Outside'.


The outside it might just be the sequence I needed.
'Oh, its something other than working on the Story of Caroline anyway!'
And then I made the leap! My mind ran to the Outside. It slipped through the safety bars at my window … whoosh and I was over the lawn running fast. I jumped the wall as if it was nothing. And viola I was outside!
And what a surprise it was to be on the Outside!
(Paranoia had yet another off shoot, flight!)
There were shops in the Outside and I immediately started to buy things. Things and art. But it wasn't that easy to pay for it. I had no money. I skipped the paying process. I rushed into Casa-Blokker and bought 9 short drinking glasses. While shopping for suitable ones I noticed that the short ones, which were on sale, were too wide. And when I asked for longer ones with less wider openings Kleio told me that they were priced up and too narrow at the top. So I cancelled the sale.
'Buy new stuff!' Thaleia suggested when I entered the Innovation Warehouse. I asked for New Agey stuff. I reached for as many Men-love-with-their-eyes cards as I could muster and bartered with the lady behind the counter. She was Kalliope in disguise. It was thrilling to experience buying. And the onlookers were so friendly and smiled at my fervour. Even mamma Melpomene dressed as a customer too winked at me. And I was proud of my sale.

This is what I bought:

Reiki
Ayurveda
Tao
Tae Bo Billy
Chelatic Therapy
Massage Therapy
Spiritual Healing
Prana Healing
Faith Healing
Uri Geller
Apelazijn
Healing via the ndt-concept
Himalaya Qi Gong
Magnetisim
Vitality Healing
Antroposopfy
Intuitive Healing
Iridologie
Mensendiek
Creative Healing
I Ching
Quantum Healing
Acupunctuur
Acumassage
Jomanda
Iriscopie
Gems
Bromnem of Light … the ugly middle sized ones.

'Caroline! You are not responding! Your behaviour is rather lacking explanation. And your speech, it's erratic, please concentrate!' Dorothy said to me with a harsh hale in her voice.
'How did she know where I was? Has she slipped out from Bonnheim too?'
'Nooooo, I am not! I'm still in!'
But it rattled me and I became insecure. The outside was not as stable as I thought it to be. It was also so very foreign to me. Familiar and foreign at the same time. And I became frightened, a child in too crowded streets. I looked helplessly at Doctor Mädle. He said nothing. He just sat there behind his desk in his own rehearse watching Dorothy and I on the outside. His script carried a warning sign though. The non inter-activity and boring sanity that radiated from it contaminated the air. It suffocated the possibility of correspondence. Oh, the dreams of the fathers to kill their sons. Luisa Miller. I saw him opening his mouth like a cleric drinking coffee.
'Who is the Muse? Dorothy or me?' he asked me straight to the face.
The triviality of it baffled me.
'A sign of mental health, paranoia? Can't be! The failure of a Muse? It can't be!'
And then I remembered it! Its From the magic mazes of Melian the Queen'.
'You must be out of your fuvving mind to think I will tell you who Dorothy is!' I refused.
Teenage rebellion.


And I put my mind to more important things. Art! I rushed into an art gallery nobody knew about. The Christiana Stukenbrock & Barbara Töpper Art gallery at the Könemann Verlagsgeschellschaft MBH in Hong Kong and bought a 1000 Masterpieces there. All dated from the thirteenth century till the nineteenth century.
'Oh, you wouldn't believe what I bought!' I told Mnemosyne as she waited for me at the entrance of Bonnheim when I tried to smuggle the paintings into the premises. I named her the pieces.

'2 from Niocolo dell' Abbate
2 from Willem van Aelst
1 from Pieter Aertsen
2 from Francesco Albani
2 from Alessandro Allori
3. from Alessandro Allori's son, Cristofano Allori
7 from Albrecht Altdorfer
2 from Christoph Amberger
5 from Andrea del Castagno
6 from Andrea del Sarto
2 from Sofonisba Anguissola
1 from Cornelis Anthonisz
4 from Antonello da Messina
4 from Giuseppe Arcimboldo
1 from Hendrick van Avercamp
1 Architectural Encyclopedic from Alberti Leon Battista
1 from Dirck van Baburen
2 from Giovanni Battista Baciccio
1 from Ludolf Backhuysen
1 from Alessio Baldovinetti
6 from Hans Baldung
1 from Jacopo de' Barbari
1 from Barnaba da Modena
4 from Frederico Barocci
4 from Evaristo Baschenis
4 from Jacopo Bassano
4 from Pompeo Girolamo Batoni
2 from Lubin Baugin
4 from Domenico Beccafumi
3 from Gentile Bellini
8 from Gentile's younger brother Giovanni Bellini
4 from Bernado Belloto
1 from Marie-Guilhelmine
1 from Bonaventura Berlinghieri
1 from Batolomé Bermejo
3 from Pedro Berruguete
2 from Abraham Hendricksz van Beyeren
1 from Jacques Blanchard
2 from Karl Eduard Ferdinand Blechen
3 from Louis-Léopold Boilly
1 from Veronese Bonifazio
1 from Richard Parkes Bonington
3 from Paris Bordone
12 from Hiëronymos Bosch
10 from Sandro Botticelli
4 from Francois Boucher
8 from Dierick d.O. Bouts
1 from Bramante
1 from Bartolomeo Suardi who had signed it as Bramantino
1 from Jörg d. O. Breu
3 from Paul Bril
3 from Melchior Broederlam
8 from Agnolo Bronzino
2 from Adriaen Brouwer
4 from Jan d. O. Bruegel
11 from Pieter d.O. Bruegel

And pffffftttt to the names of the rest…!' I said.

'That should teach Frank Williams a lesson, won't it!' Doctor Mädle remarked dryly and smiled.

A governor thrilled at his son scoring a boast.

'Of course it will, but please don't tell Dorothy. She might get the impression that I spent all that money just to get even with Hank Williams' I begged of him.

'… Which was of course not the case' I told him.

Teenage conspiracy.





I also told him not to mention the name of the art gallery or where it was situated to anyone. '… Because I had bought all its stock!' I said and it wouldn't be of any use to anybody to know where it was located or what its name was.
'It was to no avail to anyone…' I said.


'Which paintings? By whom? What are their names? The paintings have names, haven't they?' Dorothy interrogated me when she heard about my spending spree.
'Oh no, Dorothy … not you again!' I cried out in despair but started to name the paintings for her as well.

'2 from Niocolo dell' Abbate
2 from Willem van Aelst
1 from Pieter Aertsen
2 from Francesco Albani
2 from Alessandro Allori
3. from Alessandro Allori's son, Cristofano Allori
7 from Albrecht Altdorfer
2 from Christoph Amberger
5 from Andrea del Castagno
6 from Andrea del Sarto
2 from Sofonisba Anguissola
1 from Cornelis Anthonisz
4 from Antonello da Messina
4 from Giuseppe Arcimboldo
1 from Hendrick van Avercamp
1 Architectural Encyclopedic from Alberti Leon Battista
1 from Dirck van Baburen
2 from Giovanni Battista Baciccio
1 from Ludolf Backhuysen
1 from Alessio Baldovinetti
6 from Hans Baldung
1 from Jacopo de' Barbari
1 from Barnaba da Modena
4 from Frederico Barocci
4 from Evaristo Baschenis
4 from Jacopo Bassano
4 from Pompeo Girolamo Batoni
2 from Lubin Baugin
4 from Domenico Beccafumi
3 from Gentile Bellini
8 from Gentile's younger brother Giovanni Bellini
4 from Bernado Belloto
1 from Marie-Guilhelmine
1 from Bonaventura Berlinghieri
1 from Batolomé Bermejo
3 from Pedro Berruguete
2 from Abraham Hendricksz van Beyeren
1 from Jacques Blanchard
2 from Karl Eduard Ferdinand Blechen
3 from Louis-Léopold Boilly
1 from Veronese Bonifazio
1 from Richard Parkes Bonington
3 from Paris Bordone
12 from Hiëronymos Bosch
10 from Sandro Botticelli
4 from Francois Boucher
8 from Dierick d.O. Bouts
1 from Bramante
1 from Bartolomeo Suardi who had signed it as Bramantino
1 from Jörg d. O. Breu
3 from Paul Bril
3 from Melchior Broederlam
8 from Agnolo Bronzino
2 from Adriaen Brouwer
4 from Jan d. O. Bruegel
11 from Pieter d.O. Bruegel


And pffffftttt to the names of the rest…!' I said again and I heard how hoarse my voice had become from the repetition.
And then something happened. Something that had never occurred in the story of Caroline so far. For the first time ever I dared ending a session! I stood up and said to both Dorothy and Doctor Mädle 'Ok, you guys, we leave it at that! We continue this next week'. And at the door I gave each of them both of my hands and left for the deep dungeon of the subconscious where certain unfulfilled desires from the Outside still slithered like salamanders across my castigated past.
And there I found this poem!

Awareness scares

I see … seeing myself seeing myself, seeing, feeling how you are inoculate.
Valéry, Young Prague

And when the night comes
Again as it rides and the music as it games
Again Laïs Bellecanto Dorothea I feel it again
Missa Ivrea it is coming again

When it comes as it scurries and the cozen
As he forfeits again and the blackness as it pitches
High again and you as you trespass into my sorrow
Cysthia I feel it again Messa De Notre Dame
It is coming again spreading again

When it comes and pain claims pain
Again and the low lover escapes fleeing exaltation
Again and the sweet courtesan as she wastes away
Again averring misery again I feel it again Beatrea
Ma fin est mon commencement lambasting again

And when it comes an addict's spurt
And as the cold kills the tepid again and gold
Is sold for silver again and me for the incarnate
Again Anneah I deem it again … seem it is coming again
Debasing again excoriating again
Credo in unum Deum Patrem omnipotentem factorem celi et terre
Visibilium omnium et invisibilium.

[new potion]





'Names like 'Csikszentmihalyi' are beautiful but they are also a bit Polish'.
Then the blow and burn-out of depression came when the manic was done and I least expected it.

Relapse! Farewell flowery refuge of happiness and love.
Back from the Outside some days later I necked down like a flower broken low at the stem. My legs just gave way. I was a tall Margot tumbling. Down, down, deep down into oblivion I tumbled. Deja vu again. A black similitude. And I heard birds flutter. I thought of mantras that would revive me but swear words came to me.
'Lesbian, transvestite, man … fuck'.
Sexist words. And I had a vision of cheap sleazy hotels. I saw how I painted my nails the colour of Smultzy Wiener Blut.
'How loud is lucid?' I screamed.
My stern male superiority had a half hale. Yet inside me womanhood was throbbing still. There was a circle inside the oblong swab. It was vulnerable. And both masculinity and femininity offered bits and pieces to fill it up. Man and woman. Lineage. Father and mother.
'It was a secret'.
From my window I saw how the walls around Bonnheim were covered in signs of walruses. Black fungus spoofed on them. And then somebody was climbing over the wall again! I saw how he got onto the lawn and crossing the demarcation line. He was coming for me again! And I found myself screaming and screaming when I saw him crawling up the drain pipe again. He was coming for my new dress. And I heard Sister Fattier and other staff rushing up the stairs at the end of the corridor. They were calling 'Caroline, Caroline no!'
When they reached me I had the security lock in my hands and there was blood on my dress. I looked at the damage I had done to the window and the cut in my hand. And like a juvenile caught in the act I let the lock drop onto the floor. It fell to the floor with a thud among the glass splinters that were strewn all over the corridor. The macro-cosmos had shrunk into the tip of the micro-cosmos again. A neutrino had shot through its interior. It went from large to tiny … to a singularised neuter. It had eaten itself a dark hole into my existence. Orobos was chewing on its own swallowing the tail first. Then the torso and head.
'Taily thingy in mouthy. And theethy bitey thingy. Vaginy Dentaty bity'.
And I saw the illicit lover with the ugly rough hands and dirty nails clawing. I gave out another scream. It was coming! It was coming!
'The gardener!'
Then I became completely hysterical.
'Befuddling pig bastard!' I screamed at Sister Fattier's face.
The sound of my screams throbbed against the walls and echoed down the corridors. Blobs of sound bounced off the walls taking blistered paint with it. Foam formed at my mouth. Epilepsy? My clenched knuckles beating, beating against the gardener's chest hitting Sister Fattier's huge bosom. I hit her several times. And then I lashed out to the second glass pane. My fist went right through the security bars breaking it too. I felt how my thumb broke as well.
'Take your filthy fucking hands off me!'
I was uncontrollable.
But Sister Fattier was a professional. She didn't let go of me and promised me cards … as many Men-love-with-their-eyes cards as I could use.
'Free!' she said.
'Three fishes dead three wishes … a dead man.
Belaga, Sevruga and Ociëtra … caviar and masculinity bleeding into womanhood. The transverse transvestite!
Vogliatemi bene, un bene piccolino, un bene da bambino.
Dysfore! Psychosis! Neurosis. Dyfore … staircases.


Sister Fattier Love-me-with-your-eyes did however do the trick. I calmed down when I saw them evinced from her apron's pocket. Then she coached me to my room and put me into bed. A small baby.
She was the darling mother, the true Mnemosyne.
And she sang a song for me.
'Auf die Lande ohne Namen,
ohne Zahl, niederbrach aus anderen Bereichen
der Wind, himmlische Faden brachte der Regen,
und die Gottheit der opfergestättiten Altäre
schenkt Blumen zurück und Leben'.
The following day I was drugged the whole day. And the day after that the sun came back like a small little bird and it nestled for a short while on the windowsill outside my room.
It was spring I knew.
And it was a Wednesday.
And as I watched the little bird flew off. I saw how it reached for far across the outer walls of Bonnheim.
'Such a lovely birdie bird!' I murmured to myself and I felt like crying again but there was a plague on me, I knew it.

[incomplete experiences]

- The road next to the road to hell -
Diagnostic continuum blue printed
From the Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders
- Fourth edition -

Prescription

Whether its opium straight
Or morphine derived
Or the imp: heroine educed

With naloxone
Or nalorphine
You can draw the line
- Here and now -
.
Between the strife and the initiate

Stadia

Pre-ignition
Doubt-ignition
Decision-ignition
Action-ignition
Determination-ignition

Plus sic and start again

Psychogenetic elements

Dipsomaniac terror
- The road next to the road to hell -
Diagnostic continuum blue printed
From the Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders
- Fourth edition -

The frame of mind, its journey into the unknown
The track downward, schizophrenic behaviour
The things you carry
The small things
The systemic complexes
The synDoctorome

Double diagnosis

Safe environment
Kicking off
Medication
Support
Structure
Diagnosis
Motivation promotion
- It rhymes -
Information
Education
Nutrition
Harm reduction
Addiction cure
Proficiency training
Prevention training
- It rhymes but it rhymes in a different way -
Inception
Recently a life afresh

Man and Woman

Orthosympathic! Look at the force!
Parasympathic! Look at your stomach!
Equilibrium is a woman
Homeostasis is a man
The taille line is the greens that Doctoraw a divorce.
'Look! I do what I can! Don't push me!'

Comorbidity

Catatonic disorder
Delirium
Detention
Lack of attention
WithDoctorawal
Symptom
Cognitive disorder
Disruptive disorder
Amnesiac disorder
Behaviour disorder
Personality disorder
Neurotic disorder
Somatoform disorder
Mimicry
Dissociate disorder
Dependency
Tolerance
Not hungry
Impulse disorder
Antisocial disorder

Evasive

Pleasure
Deficit
Schizoid
Depressive
Interpersonally
Imbalance
Ancillary
Theatrical
Narcotic
Antisocial
Intro
Psychically
Conflicted
Sadistic
Masochistic
Negativistic
Straitjacket
Structurally
Defective
Borderline
Schizotypical
Paranoid

Psycho-organic synDoctorome

Lack of love
Lack of sexual fulfilment
Lack of sexual harassment
Lack of sexual pleasure
Dependency
Orgasmic morbid life

Endocrine Glands in the Dutch Language

A poem for those whose glands were taken away from them because they were strangers in a foreign land and didn't speak the language of those whom had bigger glands

Penisklier
Hypofyse
Schildklier
Thymusklier
Bijnier
Zalfleesklier
Eierstokken en testikels
Eierstokken
Testikels

When you notice that you don't have
Glands
And you notice you are not your wholly old self
Because of don't have
Glands
And you notice that because of that
You are suffering

Then go out
And steal your glands back
Beg for them back
Buy them back
Borrow them back and don't let them
Be taken away from you again
Lie for them

But as far as yourself is concerned
Don't go out
Don't steal
Don't beg
Don't buy
Don't - as in the second verse -
Borrow yourself - use this verse -
And never lie to yourself

Oh you Strangers
- take it from me Adler-the-man -
There is a lot of suffering when
You don't have your glands!

Oh you Strangers
- take it from me -
Never let they come
For your glands again
Stay with your glands man!

Empty Stomach

Hypnotica
Anxiolytica
Damp ruhe
Immobilising
- Alcohol Doctorugs medication -
Lysergreen acid diethylamide
Mescaline
Psylocibine
Hamine
Harmaline
Ibogaïne
Ecstasy
Xtc mdma
Phencyclidine
Hallucination
- Alcohol Doctorugs medication -
TetrahyDoctorocannabinol
- Alcohol Doctorugs medication -
Snuff stuff stuffed
- Alcohol Doctorugs medication -
Benzene
Khat
Peyote
Cavacava
Betil
- Alcohol Doctorugs medication -
Herbol alkaloid
Psylocibine

It is popular man

Obstipation
Cramps in the entrails
Blue gut
Temperature regulation
Endocrine effects
Corticosteroïds
Cat eyes
Pinholes
No sex
No relationships
Fear
Unrest
Coldness
Farting
Vomiting
Diarrhoea
Sunken face
Running nose
Yawning
Muscle ache
Cramps
Blood pressure
Heartbeat
Cold turkey
Being touchy
Depression
Boredom
Tiredness
Tiredness of live
Emptiness

Is he a Doctor?

He can't walk
She can't walk
It can't walk
The eye is wrong
The pace is wrong
He doesn't know where he is
She doesn't know where she is
It doesn't know where it is
He doesn't know where she is
She doesn't know where he is
It doesn't know where he is
He doesn't know where it is
She doesn't know where he is
It doesn't know where she is
The fever is high
The vitamin B is low
Alcoholencefalopathy
Papil-oedeem
Does Wernicke know where he is?
Does Wernicke know where she is?
Does Wernicke know where it is?
Is he a Doctor?
Does Korsakov know where he is?
Does Korsakov know where she is?
Does Korsakov know where it is?
Is he a Doctor?

Paradoxical theory of Change

Primary ways
Prevention
Polar opposites
µ
Homeostasis
Eschew
Rationalisation
Zeon-arrow

Mental stability

Homeostasis
Schizophrenia
Repressed habitual bodily mechanisms
Somatic worlds
Penis theft
Is she a Doctor?
Biting vaginas
Is he a Doctor?
Investment of energy
Ongoing actualisation
Is it a Doctor?
Incomplete experiences in love
The sequences of being
Sanity in general
Insanity in particular

Environment, Ego, Hunger and Aggression: A Revision of Freud'sTheory and Method

Perls
Vernon
Van De Riet
Korb
John
Jeffrey
Gorrell
Hefferline
Hoodman
Polster
Zinker
Simkin
A technique is a freeze-framing of what at its conception was a creative figural leap in a difficult situation
Human organisation
Philosophical sub-strata
Neoanalytical theory
Phenomenology
Existential thought
Semantics
Scrutiny
In passing from intuition to analysis - the process of justifying subjective knowing or feeling states - we must confront existing bodies of evidence to determine if our theory conforms to scientific evidence and known facts.

Bye bye Benzodiazepine:

Epilepsy
Hypothermia
Tension
Insomnia
Nightmares
Irritation
Headache
Put out the light


***
MOET NOG GE-EDIT WORDEN
Part 10 *

[tower of song]

Things started to escalate. There was rush and fevour and fire in Bonnheim. The place was all of a sudden in a process of refurbrisment. Everything had to be defined new. Newness had suddenly become an issue. New stages were set and new sets appeared on them. It was an new phase in the Story of Caroline and it was maddening. The tempo of it was maddening. And it was maddening for everybody to keep straight on the sanity track. New staffs were arriving, new professors, academic staff, assistants and clients. New projects grassrooted and conspicious people arrived from all over and abroad. Their secret arrival created much excitement and pondering among the various groups of oldhands and it was so unsettling. The whole community had once again being plunged into transition. Some of the angiencs started fearing trouble. And it occurred. And Management's contingencies couldn't hold the rage back. Last minute attempts to fill all hours with compulsory conferences, courses, meetings, plenary sessions and improvisised experimental projects didn't work. Neither did the incentive to have new arrival times scheduled at the dead of night when everybody was asleep. Registration in so-called incognito time lapse zones failed. Even the plan to have more intervals between rehearsals failed. And of course, as a predicted result, anxiety broke out again and the fragile social fabric of the in-groups collapsed for the third time since I started to write Caroline. In my mind's eye the Aemillian myth appeared in all it glory on the horison of Bonnheims outer borders again. It was then that the flat characters refused their co-operation.

'Who tied me to the table write here…?'
Leonard Cohen

Letters, rapport's, evaluations, dances and books! Oh, occurrences and off-time self-analysis. And oh, letters, rapport's, evaluations, dances, books, etc. again.
And and again.
'Oh Small Cissy, my Free Card. Where did I hide it?'
'Oh Mony, my Free Card. Where have I mislaid it?'
'Oh, Scandinavian Man, where is it?'
'Oh, Spanish Ole, have I given it to you?'
'Oh, Patricia, have I send it to you?'
'Oh, Laplasse, did you take it?'
'Oh, Professor Linde! Where is my Free card?'
'Oh, Loreena, goose pimples! Where are you hiding? What is your code?'

'Oh Crypts. Sessions. Meetings. Training. Study groups. Therapy. Platte rust. Maf-and-Waff. Conferences. Discussions. Soul searching. Theory forming. Where is my nuptial nest? Where is my Free Card Men-love-with-their-eyes?'
'Crypts? What crypts?'
'What does one do with a crypt like Fatigue = controle = no sharing?'
Its tough enough to work without any answers leave alone solutions to such vagueness. Oh, leave off the shoots! Who in his sane mind can figure out in a one session what Fatigue=controle=no sharing means? None of us can! Not even in three one-hour consecutive sessions!
'Management should shift all Relax Sessions and Sport to some other times so that we can concentrate on one thing at a time'.
Also questions like 'Who tied the man called Horse to the table write here?' started to surface. And answers like 'It was the 27 Angels from Leonard Cohen's Tower of Song' really ground the mind and took even longer to solve. One needed deep Jungian achromatic insight to em hem work them out and incorporate the splintered off elements of eaning into fundamental reasoning. It got even weirder when someone remarked, as was with the Horseman's case, that 2+7 = 9 and that 9 was the number of the Devil and Death'.
'Do you believe in God?' Small Cissy asked but no one realised that she was actually speaking.
'How come, when one centrifuge apples with the skin on, the juice taste green? How can anything taste green?' Loreena wanted to know.
'Who is she?'
'She had come to Bonheim through the radio. Mckennit'.
'That's bending the branch into Theology's garden. Apples! Adam and Eve's bridal presents!' Laplasse answered looking at professor Linde with a question mark between his eyes.
'Sex change … the intermediary and Dengis Kahn with his Oedipal Complex and new persona'.
'What's those cakes called that you shuffled up to Dorothy the other day?' Patricia wanted to know.
'Lecoco. They're the very flat ones! I like them too' Mona Liza replied and stood up to look for something underneath her chair, bending down in her tight jeans so that all was shown to all present ... all the way down.
And we all watched her.
'Ooooooh!' David Maret mailed from davidmaret@wilgcoffee.com.
'Who's he? How can somebody mail in a story?' the Spanish Ole dancer asked.
'Who's she?'
Nobody knew.
'Nice women are like applets' someone else said 'When they're green there's no harvest to be harvest. And the red one's … they are the ripe ones at 40!'
'Sexist pig!' Caroline shouted.
'Who are you?' I asked.
'You!' t'Albert Eugene said but I didn't believed him.
'And me? Who am I?' t'Albert Eugene asked.
'Please! Please! I am not a pig! That was just a tease!' I denied.
I turned to Dorothy and looked for help.
'Smile please! Why do you blush now? Do my tease works you into an arrousal?' I winked but she looked the other way.

Oh Crypts. Sessions. Meetings. Training. Study groups. Therapy. Platte rust. Maf-and-Waff. Conferences. Discussions. Soul searching. Theory forming.
'Where is my nuptial nest? Where is my free card? My tickety to ride?'
'Bowling!'

And more topics came as more people arrived. Topics that cut ethical wounds. One ended up with the mistakes that people had made and lives that they had lived. And fights that had been exploded into almost rotten killings. And being fought again. Accesses in the use of excerpting substances, alcohol, beer, crack, speed, XTC and Vellum Venom. And also Discoveries of the Heroism of Flight. The use of cocaine. And lies. The lies people were led to tell. The lies they had told to their spouses and the lies their spouse had told them. Again and again. Infidelity and strength.
'Oh, sex is had!'
'Ooh, again at last'.
And mother complexes. Freudian phalli. Necro Poetica. Wallpaper.
'Oh, a lot of shame can surface with this kind of writing!'
'That's quite a mouthful yes, isn't it?'
'Yes it is! But I am busy … don't you see? I am doing the Chimalsky flow!'
'Ha ha! Ambivalence! Theory and practice'.
'I have often discussed this in my work and then there were the excises in theory forming. Mostly after… You know what I mean? Hey say, you did know I am a writer? I am writing this you know. Look at it and read it!'

And assertive therapy. Analysis. Reaction formation. Babies. Process Psychology. Gestalt. That's it! Gestalt!
'Oh, there are so many topics still to be discussed' Cissy tried again.
Again nobody gave her any attention ... nobody was used to the correlation Cissy and speach. Talking just wasn't in her script and so nobody even considered hearing what she was trying to say. Her lips had barely moved anyway. She was standing behind me … at the window in the hallway on the third floor.
Some grex passed down below for their grass games. I looked at them.

In one of the quick exchanges I had give above there was the possibility of some new attitudes and growth processes I thought.
'People aren't but that they become … see? Such kind of ideas we can use in attitude change training, don't you think? In the face of being complimentary to one another men and women are equal whenever it boils down to role-play! It doesn't matter whatever role was designed for the day. They're the same. Men and women are…!' I explained.
'Males are really females but still have to become what ordinary females are. And boys will be girls while girls will be boys … in the near future. That was if what the Kinks had said with Lola in the late sixties were true' I said nodding affirmative to my own argument.
'Are you playing a new role today, Caroline?' t'Albert Eugene asked.
'No! A tall fawn woman with a dog the same colour of fawn is not a woman! She isn't even a man. Why are you Caroline-ing me? No! Not even on an island alone!' I was quick to deny it but secretly I knew I was playing one.
Dorothy would have liked the way I sidestepped the issue. And she would have agreed with me that people are indeed unfinished products. They are merely in processes of becoming human beings she would have argued.
'I was on a good trip re cure' I thought but behind me Small Cissy left on the tips of her toes without me even having had the time to notice that she had come to the window too.

Then Laplasse too came to my window. He came alone and he too just stood there behind me like a shadow. I had told him not to do it and that he should go back to professor Linde but he just kept on standing there, watching me. And then he started coming on a regular basis.
'How come you are alone? Where's professor Linde? Aren't you his shadow?' I asked him when he had come again.
'He is working on my book Being Sane is being Truthful and doesn't have time for me anymore. I am lonely … that's why I am alone' he said.
And I listened to him while he told me that his grand parents, from mother's side, were from Greek origin and that his own mother was born in Fantail, Madeira! He didn't know where she now lives he said.
'Quite confusing … the way your life story turned out to be, no?' I said to him but he just replied to it that it had occurred that way.
'Oh, occurrences and realityè! You are a strange guy, Laplasse! But I think its a good thing you are moving on your own now'.

And as I watched the days coming and go from my window one Wednesday I noticed how constant their migration was and how they always shifted towards the dart side of everything … smooth like a Bar-ba-pah threads. It was really nice to noticed it.
'When the sun sets alongside the wall, it sets man. No wall is going to stop that dark! There isn't flesh enough on it'.
'I read your thoughts' Small Cissy said behind me.
She had come once again to beg for attention. And only then I realised that it was the fourth time that she had spoken since her arrival in Bonheim several years ago!
'Three wishes, three fishes … and a Bar-ba-pah Wednesday! Love and dances! Spanish Ole dances! Foot fetish! That's four! You are speaking, Cissy!' I congratulated her.
'Oh, is that what write Caroline?' she asked proudly.
'Yes!' I shouted with joy 'You spoke, Cissy! Oh, I am so sorry I didn't attend to you earlier!'
And we started a happy conversation. She had small feet and no shoes on.
'I freak out on small feet!' I told her 'All the time! And small little toes of women … ooh! I write about that every night in my bed in my head!' I said and I told her how I cherish my own feet as well and I showed her my red painted toenails.
'Oh, they're nice' Cissy said.
'Would you say I am a sexist, Cissy? Because I love feet?' I confidently asked her.
'Male or female?' she asked.
'That's an odd question! I didn't know women could also be sexist!' I protested.
'Sure they can, man. My wife…' she said and started to swear.
I cut her short.
'Of course they can't! Women are tender hearted creatures! I am role playing a woman now since I started to write Caroline and I know they can never hurt men with sexism! I can't! And anyway men can't be hurt by sexism. How can women hurt men when they are mad about men? Only soldiers do that. Ever seen a woman disapprove of a man's advances … whether she likes him or not? God, if there's one thing I know, its that! I know that because…'
This time it was Cissy who cut me short.
'That's idiotic reasoning! That was a sexist remark if yous ask me! Who says yous are a woman? You are a professor! That's what yous told us anyway in the Amellian myth. But yes yous write like a sexist sometimes! Why yous put all these words above in my moeth? I didn't say them! I am a person who only speak twice in any book! It waise yous who made me speak the third and forth times … and now! Did yous do it with all the women yous jab about? And what's this shit about yous and Doctor Mädle? How come yous shirks him with this Dorothy name thing all the time when you talk about him? Whoos isses shes?'
My mouth fell open.
'What a nerve you have!' I rebuked her and drop her immediately from the script.
'Idiot Cissy! God, one treats a flat character nice … give him a pink leaf and what does he do? Go running with your whole bloody ripped off hand full of blood!'
And I thought I'd better write something light (and fast) just to get over it.
'I can't stand independent characters!'
And I wrote a poem about women's feet.
'God … to think that I was so nice to her!'
Oh, I was cross!

And I wrote piece number 502, woman's feet!

'When I go for women's feet', I wrote, 'I take the Big Wall in China. First I start with Li Nei Ting=the lower Inner Court and then I go onto the Qian Hou Yin Zhu=the Hidden Pearl. Then the Yong Quan=the Giggling Well. Then the Shi Mian=the Insomnia. Then the Jing Gu=the Scull. Then the Jin Men=the Golden Gate. Then the Pu Can=the Master's Point. Then the Koun Lun=the Mountain of Tibet. Then the Tai Bai=the Highest Light. Then Ran Gu=the Sheltered Valley. Then the Shui Quan=the Well. Then the Tai Xi=the Lichtened Sea. Then Jie Xi=the Expansion Vat. Then the Chang Yang=the Yang Attack. Then the Pang Gu=the Valley at the side. Then the Tai Chong=the Highest Level of Attack and that is then that I take the last stepping stone before I enter their Nei Ting=the Absolutely Inner Court. They just love it. Their feet … and so do I, see?'

But Cissy hadn't accepted my decision to drop her from the script. She came round again forcing her own on me anew. Revolting character? Apparently I had impressed her with my power. This time she spoke like a real character. She had grown out of her own.
'Yeeeeeeys? Yous really doos that?'
'At last' I thought '… she's normal. One can seriously communicate with her'.
'Yes, that is what I do!' I explained 'It is also very relaxing and healthy. Foot Reflexolgy and such. It brings out their Yingies and Yangies…' I said.
'Will you do it with me…?'
'Oh!'

Part 11 **

[mordacity idiot]

At the window even I had to start working faster! Caroline was about reaching its completion and I still hadn't had a theme to close it with. There were so many loose ends it boggled my mind and confidence as a writer of class. In a panicky moment I even tried to exploit the anonamous e-mailer, David Maret, as a tool to excavate a workable end theme.

David Maret was an e-mail address @wilgcoffee. His handle was Loreena86 on Brokensword's Sharpened Word literary forum and as an avatar he used a hyperlink of a 10 by 10 pixel jpg of a woman's foot with red nails I had lifted that from Toewrigglers Com disregarding copyright. I thought that by making him an e-mail address I could mail him when I needed him. But then I realised I needed a computer with Internet access to do that. That was a bit of a drawback. Yet I build him. I had no other option first than to write myself a computer as well. So I quickly wrote one. This one I am typing on now. I gave myself fast ASDL access also for the extra speed and quicker access times. I was on the homerun of Caroline. And immediately after I had created what was needed to talk to David we started with the exchange of ideas. I told him that I was working on Caroline and I was into the fourth part of the plot and wanted to bring in Bogy Road or some other unused material. That, in order to advance quicker towards ending the book. I was sure I could find a suitable theme in previous work of mine to use as an end plot. I also told him that I was rather concerned with the niveau of what I had written so far and thought Bogy Road might do the trick. It might upgrade of the level in Caroline.
'Don't do it!' he mailed back.
'Don't? What kind of answer is that?' I thought.
I had wanted a dialogue and advice not a command!
I neglected his response and asked him to write an intro for me to the Bogy Road sequence.
'No!' he mailed back.
'That was a gallows remark too, no?' I thought.
I mailed him without delay again and again neglecting his answers.
'Ma hi u knw … my work and you know me but of course that could be plagiate using stuff from a library book instead of Bogy Road. So I am going to use Bogy. Just give me a line of what you think xx + I am busy doing finfish with the idea of a line to Bogy in Caroline. Quick please move + no word to Mädle'.
His reply came back almost instantaneously too.
'Mordacity idiot!' it said 'I don't have time to feature in your crap books. And I don't want to be a character in Caroline. Leave me out of it and don't mail me again! Spam shitter! And more over … who do you think you are ignoring my mails like that … like in the paragraph above?'
'Wooooh! Up-class bastard! Thankless email address!' I thought and mailed him back.
'Is that your intro?'
He didn't reply.
And that was that with Maret … a very very quick character.
'Didn't work!' I sighed as I watched the grex passing below returning home for their daily feeding rounds.
And I wrote the intro myself.
'Working within a simple plot where a young innocent boyish character left school and started to work as a bus driver's assistant in order to afford his aspired theological studies at university, the writer slowly developed the idea of Wallpaper poetic storytelling which is the generation and recombination of words, images, themes and stories to tell a new story. From utterances and everyday dialogue he created his literature.'
And as a blurb to it I used the following copied and pasted stuffy '…The complete and reworked version of Bogy Road with its endless generation of words, its messe des morts, its Doctoriving home, its a sitting pussy, its on unequal numbers, its at the station and its she wore a swimming suit'.
I liked the concept so much that I went over to Doctor Mädle to sell it to him … but I was too late. He had already read Bogy Road and didn't like it! Then I decided not to use the Bogy material as Maret had suggested.
'He wasn't such an idiot after all when he said don't!'
Oh Don't!

[closing time]

But it came together perfectly well. I took a hop-over to Prague. I went for more art.

I just did it!
Actually there was no session this time because Dorothy and I weren't present. I told Dr Mädle it didn't count as a session because of our abscence. That was reason enough I said.
'We are outside working'.
But what we really were doing was flirting on the inside with sharing communication techniques and sweet talk of love ... over at the bench in the park behind Hank William's Modern Art Museum. Bonheim was deleted from Caroline and my mind. It didn't exist anymore. The story of Caroline didn't need its setting at all and 'After all' I thought 'I am the writer and can delete whatever I want from any of my stories'. I chose for a poetic approach got again into art and the art of art.
'I didn't have the time then to care for insider Bonheim stuff and consultory sessions. And the Muse was with me! And she was Dorothy ... my under cover lover agent. I was t'Albert Eugene, professor and persona. I was writing her and writing for her. Every sentence was in its place and there was perfect harmony between me and Dorothy. It all came together like some of the poems of Charles Buckovski. boy, and the controle I had ... I even had the time while love turteling with Dorothy to hop over to Prague for some more art to purchase. Two thirds of Caroline was in the bin and on my screen and backed up on the web. That particularly gave great satisfaction. I just needed another third, the infamous third fourth' I told Dr Mädle 'And I would get it!' I said.
'Oh yes, you will...' she said.
I was absolutely convinced of the way I was writing.
'The fourth third will materialise automatically and right on time'.
I just knew it.
'That's the art part and the cure in all your stories?'
'Yes, the cure for the writer ... and hopefully for his reader. Cure with allure. That's the case with the fourth third. Numenosa come home and mix with the archetypes and Beauty Queens. Real time poetry should fill the pages!' I explained to Doctor Mädle and told him how I had on my way back from Prague, on the Eurova Buvs, displayed a boldness that I never thought I was capable of. In the back of the bus no body noticed us.

'A journalist from the Eurova Press Ltd of Lithuania had asked me for an interview and I had given it!' I told him.
'Normally I avoid journalists like vexation' I said 'but this time I had thought 'What the heck' and had given the interview. It also fills pages'.

And in the bus Bonheim, the invitees, the staff, management and the professors were millennia away from my thoughts and where I sat there in front of Doctor Mädel … giving him the interview I had given to the journalist we looked each other in the eye. Both of us had a weird qualified emptiness as we watched each other and as I talked. I thought our eyes' dullness fitted the general insipent atmosphere of my absence in Bonnheim. That was exactly the sterile empty vagueness I was trying to create in Caroline. There was that almost muff vagrancy about it. And I was on the mothball. I was write here in this paragraph and he … he was a wrong thought by a wrong man at the wrong time. Laios. Father figure. Gatekeeper. A necessity in channelling the architypical instincts of Cro-Magnon man in its Darwinist struggle for civilisation.
'The concept homo ludens doesn't fit with such a view. Caroline's far too innocent for that' I challenged him while constantly going forth and back to the interview.
'And ahh Poetry!' I told the reporter I told him. And 'You wanted to know what poetry is? The essence of it!' And I told him how I asked the reporter whether he had wanted me to explain it to him. And I said that I answered my own question concerning the essence of poetry with 'A poet is not concerned with this. His interest lies somewhere else and poetry is always something else too!'
And then I landed him the interview I had given to the reporter in full. I had carefully prepared it at the window the previous night.

'Essence?' and 'Of, A, Poet's and Concern?'

'Poems, Are, The, Very, Dark, Matter, That, Has, Been, Missing, And, Untraceable, Since, The, Birth, Of, The, Human, Psyche, And, Creation, Of, The and Universe.' A ubiquitous machine of art engineers the processes of bringing symbols to life and speaking the unspeakable, in both graffiti and poetry. 'Poems, Just, Come, Like, Graffiti and Come'. Both poetry and graffiti are dark. Both are illicit in qualification. Both are Language-that-forces-its-tongue-into-your-mouth. 'There is a lot of tongue and mouth in my Green Water Pain'. Graffiti is just quicker to appeal to the eye and/or to the conscience of the establishment. In a sense it may be more satisfying than writing poetry … it's quicker in its advance, but the expected thrill in spraying graffiti is no greater, even with the added risk involved in graffiti of being caught while doing it. The illegality and illicitness have the same effect in both. 'Poetry, Is, An, Illicit, Relationship, One's, Wife, Should, Never, Know, About, And, What's, More, But, You, Probably, Know, This, Already, Once, You're, In, Such, A, Relationship, There's, Nothing, You, Can, Do, About, It, And, There's, Nowhere, To and Hide!'
Like the Graffiti Man, the Poet Man touches the Muse's seam - One touches the Muse's seam when she is undrressing in front of the mirror while you are hiding underneath a bed - and the result of this is a curse. Blindness for the ordacity to look at a naked muse. The Graffiti Man's curse is that he has to run from the police after he has committed his poem. The Poet Man's curse is that he has to hide from ayatollahs. The Muse is a bitch. She cannot help it. She is the one and only one. She's Language Incognito and poetry (graffiti?) is her means of spoiling the wall.
'As is Caroline...' I said.

[berlin or manhatten]

I immediately started deconstructing the issues and rushed over to Dr. Mädle to discuss it with him so excited I was.
'That was the encrypted clue I had been waited for!' I told him in full ephory.
I told him how I knew that there was an incrypted clue in the issues. There was a mistake in the last sentence of it referring to choice. It ended with 'Well 't Albert Eugene, it was nice talking to you and I hope you will write back soon, and if not, I will of course understand it. A Happy Easter to you and your family and many chocolate eggs to go with it. Hide them in the garden among the tulips and lovely Easter bunnies ... two-legged or four-legged ones, the choice are yours!'
'The mistake said it!'
It said 'Two-legged or four-legged ones, the choice are yours!'
'Its was a give away. Choices are are and not is!' I said 'And when one looks at the tulips and Easter Bunnies…well, the word tulip is in there, isn't it? That explained it! It's the theme of Der Fliegende Holländer … and I am not a Hollander. Ich bin ein Berliner!'

Damnation. Sacrifice. Phantasmagoria. Änst.
'The author was Senta then and the 'I was the Holländer!' is you? No? And the lover? Erik?'
'No, I am her lover!' I protested 'This is not fool Wallpaper! This is for real! Or did you think I am not real? And its not about Sena. Its about Dorothy. She send the card!''
And I gave him an example of serious the case was. It conserned the end of Caroline.
'Der Fliegende Holländer ... is also, like the card, a fourth reference to opera in Caroline' I said and I asked him 'Or was it the fifth? Krause's Fifth Dimension … dark matter? No, I am sure it was the fourth! Or more? Come on … seek Dorothy! That is if you want to be in my end dream, hurry! Seek!'
Dr Mädle realised the importance of it all and grabbbed Dorothy's persona. I had him straight in the jacket. I even put on background music for him to listen to where we sat at our cosy table in the corner. The candles on it were also slow flickering. There was ample Papittillion au Saumon on the side plate. The music was from Leonard Cohen's I am your man. The CD skipped to its last track and I could distinguish the verses I can hear Frank Williams coughing all night long. He's a hundred floors above me … in the Tower of Song. A nuthouse! An old folks home! A Psychiatric Institute! 'I am speaking to you sweetly from a window … in the Tower of Song' the words rang. Gestalt and personality change! Neurological Happenings in Art and Z-psychiatry. Changing the Self-Philosophies, Techniques, and Experiences. Brinthaupt. Lipka. Chagall. Three Jews? Three fishes and an extra fourth element. The Oedipal script. How loving your mother leads to blindness? How to commit incest? How reality belongs too scurrility! How writing a woman where there is none? How to get in bed with her when the meal is done? How to sit alone in a restaurant with empty chairs docking your table? How breath? How marrying you're own farther/mother and confusing your wife/husband with that terrible sin! How trying? How borders and neurosis? How Persona? How with an American Beauty? The son's callous prevarication! The missing farther! The disaster! Crucifixion! Gestalt and his brother?
'I beg your pardon? What's the question …? Did you ask a question?' he asked absentmindedly.
'Your wife! What are you going to tell her? She sended the card? She's Sena!'
'What! Oh, yes … but she doesn't know, does she? How can you asked that? Do you feel at ease when you have to live with lies ... as she had?'
'Yes … No! I lie and that's that! I write and I lie. She doesn't have to know about Wednesdays, does she? So it's not a lie, is it? Ooooeee! You Doctor Madama Dorothy Mädle! She is your … your husband's lover! She will kill me for it … and you! And then we both will be blind like 3 Oedipus's!'
'Maybe I should leave you for that! You are in here and not out there. Remember!' she said with Doctor Mädle's hale.
A nose, a tail, a mouse and a frog.
'Stay with me … on the river, Caroline. We are almost at the delta! Cure's at the delta'.
'Oh, bright cascading light of sanity! Don't worry about the trinitrotoluene … I am Ok!'
'Just stay focused! Get the end! I can never do that to you … leave you!'
She had a problem. Auto suggestion. I inhaled deeply. I thought of the depth of lakes. Spaces. Cyberspaces. Delta's with just too deep water. Three fishes three wishes again … the fourth element? Numenosa. Oxygen passed into my lungs. Carbon dioxide went out of my lungs. It seemed to be the most normal thing that can happen to me, breathing.
'I am on the river! It is me who will never leave you!'
She broke it off. She became Dr Madle again.
'We'll have to come back next Wednesday and do this one over!'
Oh my god, there ain't no cure for my love for her… Caroline I realised.
'Yes I know! This is the end!'

My breathing in the paragraph ubove reminded me in the next session of what I was busy with in the previous session and what the Kreutzner logopedist had told me the day Mona Liza played table tennis with Patricia. She had said that one's breath will never leaves you while you are still alive!
'Isn't that a warm thought?' I asked Doctor Mädle when he opened the session.
But he used a scalpel with precision to indicate where I have to depart from.
'Psychoanalysis is just a German phenomenon' he said 'Heidegger … Philosophy! Was ist das? Philosoph ist die Frage nach Philosophy. Phenomenology! Of course it was a warm thought the idea of one's breath never leaving one but the meta-issue of it is what is important, no?.
'And deconstruction? The end of Caroline?' I responded and realised that by god, this might really be a possible end of Caroline.
Deconstruction was the tool to use.
'Ok, work on it then' Dr Mädle commanded.
And I started working on it all earnest. I selected the three random sentences not mentioned above and deconstructed them by asking myself 'What would she have thought my instinctive reaction would be when I recieved the card? Ok, let's see. The sentences were three corners of a mandala ... and the card itself the fourth one'.
I then I typed it out methodologically giving insticntive replies.

Question/remark Instinctive Reply

1. Does springtime agree with you? No.
2. Hibernation and … hairdressers. So?
3. Back to blonde. Oh!

Then I abbreviated my replies into a formula.

No + So + Oh = NoSoHo

From that I worked out the negation.

NoSoHo = No SoHo

'SoHo is the art community in the Cyber City of the Geocities com where I have a homepage. Its an art community on the web'.
'Did the card wanted to convey the underlying encryption of No Community or did it simply mean No Art?' I asked myself 'If the card .... Caroline … now that would be steep, wouldn't it? No SoHo? What then about the fanclub, the LWCFSD Poetic Society? The webpages is run by the LWCFSD! Its a real society and not a Dead Poets Society. Si how does negation fits in? Was it a lie? The society a lie? And then Caroline…?'
'The LWCFSD Poetic Society?' Doctor Mädle frowned.
'Yes … LWCFSD stands for Lots of Women Comes For Sdutty and/or for Look Who Comes For Sdutty? It distributes everything I write … wallpaper!' I explained.
He didn't answer.
'No' I decided 'No means = No. It is architypical!'
'And the insticntive reactions?'
'That's attitudes! So points towards a So what attitude'
'And Oh?'
'Oh, Oh ... that's for surprise! And what surprises most? Mmm Dorothy! Dorothy the ever evasive one. And Love does. Therefor No+So what(cool attitude)+surprise(= love). Therefor No cool attitude (towards) love. Its attitudes that leads to love and the evanscee of love!' I jubilated.
And I smiled from mouth corner to mouth corner. I was back from the scary outlandish backwoods where I had found the clue.
'God, imagine, my breath was with me too' I thought.
It was riding the tide in me. Up and down it went, sitting above me. It was fornicating with me. It was inside me and it wasn't the alien thing I always thought it was that scurries twigs for nest building among my organs. Heart, liver and lungs. She was there across from me … Dorothy, and both of us were in Doctor Mädel … or in me. And it was so unpretentious to just sit there watching. Castigation done. Games play defunct. Run.
And I was watching Dorothy.
She was never as inviting as then and her lips were showing an evermore and growing rosy colour. More rosy than a couple of paragraphs ago. Her eyes lingered in her face and she seemed to reach out for me like an octopus wanting to toughe is fragile baby, wanting to stroke it with its giant tentacles. And she patiently waited for me to grab the ends and when, after a long silence watching accross the consultation desk of Dr Mädle in which we both just sat there in each other's presence, she said 'I will always be with you'.
And then I grabbed the ends!
'Cure the So-what attitude!' I shouted.
And I cured it! And Caroline became a serious attempt and a living entity in world in a mind.
'She had accepted me! She had accepted my dream! The Story of Caroline is dream the proof of it!'
Yet the encryption went deeper. It led into sanity and its ulitimate purpose was to cure the insanity of the act of writing.

No + So + Oh = No + Cure + Love = No Cure for Love!

That was the cure!
'Oh, addiction, my love for you is strong! The Master Poet was write! But to Cure the So-what attitude? Oh, a more caring attitude will do! Cure for no care is cure by care. The Master Poet was wrong … no, he was write. The cure for love is Care. The cure and end for Caroline is the care I took throughout my residence in Bonnheim for her coming to being! Her birth! God, it's so easy.
'Love is the cure for love which has no cure! It had worked after all!'
The fourth third is in! Oh, that I could have been so blind! Idiot Oedipus me! Dorothy is Mädle's but she's mine in the deed of the desire! He's got the box and I have the content! Its the same way when a reader reads a story. He's got the book but the writer is still his own story. Love is indestructible and that's the cure … the cure is to know it! To be incurable is cure! To love is love! Not wanting to be cured of it is it! To love the incurability of love!
'My, my Aphrodite is indeed fucking the incestual born Adonis!'
'Almost a contradiction, isn't it?' Doctor Mädle remarked as if he followed my thought processes and progress.
'Yes, Myrrha yes!' I shouted and didn't care.
I was in love with him all over again! Whether he was Dorothy or himself didn't matter anymore. And I felt happy and mature. Sanity now took on the form of a cube. Dorothy cum Mnemosyne was a caring girl in a white uniform … in the persona of a renowned psychiatrist in an imaginary Institute called Bonheim. Oh, she was a balloon and she had taken me. I was drifting through the mists of Ira-reality to stratospheres of higher universes and heavens. I entered high into her being. I went through the shiny nutmeg tunnels of her eyes. Love and life had led me to this strikingly real realness of words. I was in! I was cured! And she was my home for me.
And I tenderly stretched out my hand and touched hers. Goose pimples infected her bare upper arm, then ran up to and across her bare shoulders and slowly spill over onto her naked hardened nipples. Her breath was gaining in staccato and weight, the same as mine. Stomach yogi breathing. Health. We both were real. And sane. And we both knew our breaths would never part from us as we were never to part from each another.
'There will always be the cord. The bi-lingual cord' I said.
'Yes, I know' Dr Mädle said and stood up.
He came round the table, put his fatherly hand on my heavily greyed head and said 'I won't see you next week, t'Albert. Its over! Caroline's done. I am going away now. The story's done'.
And at the door he nodded with a knowingly smile.
'Don't!'
He left the room and when he was gone I looked at the table. There was no meal on it and there neither were tulips or vases anywhere in the room. Only the usual bottle of Classic Tönissteiner fountain water and two drinking glasses stood to the side of the benison. I looked at the window. At this window the light seemed stronger. And my eye fell on the bottom part of the frame. There was no security lock on it. I had never realised that there weren't any security locks in Doctor Mädle's consulting room!
'Yet, how many times these past three years have I been in here!' I mumbled to myself.
And then I checked the word count of Caroline.
'31 812 … I've typed every single one of them … since last Wednesday'.
More light came in. Outside the sun was setting playfully like a happy teenager. Belfast and the lottery. A kiss on a piece of paper. And the Bonheim walls viewed from the window, was brightly sprayed with golden light as the sun was setting. The day was done and it was a beautiful experience to watch it. Tomorrow will be another good-looking day. Its spring again and it works with me. I am getting out of hibernation. I thought of having my hair done, blond, and I felt very relaxed and sure of myself. And I knew that the moment was fragile like crystal. It was so valuable. I never had wanted to be myself more!
Moskova Okhrana. Purity of heart is the will to want one thing.
'Kierkegaard said that' I reflected 'He spent his last days in prison. Tilkin…?'
Oh, I felt in touch with time all right! Caroline was born! And to bring myself yet a bit closer to reality and to prove to myself that this was reality I created the quick Scandinavian character I promised I would on page 54 and I let him knock on the door.
'Hi t'Albert Eugene is Doctor Dorothy in?' he asked and wanted to know whether I had given her the Free Card he wrote for her the previous night. He browsed the room with a wild eye and saw the table. 'What's that tulip doing there?' he asked. 'You gave her a tulip as well? Where's Mädle man? Gone too? Say, how's she doing?'
I smiled and let him be.
'Fine. Who told you about the card?'
'The Spanish Ole Carmen Dancer … fourth floor. She said you wrote her a card as well but she didn't remember whether she had received it or not. You have sent it to her, haven't you? And Dorothy?'
'Yes … Dorothy gets all cards! Don't worry about it!'
He smiled appreciatively and slapped me on the shoulder. Just before he left he asked me if I knew whether it was Wednesday.
'Yes' I said '…Its Wednesday all write but who cares?' and winked at him as a creator winks at his creation.
'Ok thanks Don!' he replied and with a last 'I got to go man Mona Lisa's needing a hand in the kitchen. C u bye!' he left.
'Oh Woodlands Psychiatric Institute! What a territory for an ephonymous hero! For a man called 't Albert Eugene. Horse-With-No-Name! And what a heaven for a woman of all seasons! A woman called Caroline!'
I stretched my arms as if being on holiday on a balcony at the Cootie Azure. A green trying Muse's balcony. I even almost felt sun on my agile body and something nice like goose pimples ran over my shoulders and breasts. I felt my breasts standing firm. My nipples were hard.
'Man I feel good!' I said out loud '… tonight I will sleep like the woman I am!' and then I laughed at the script. The three faces of Eve … Adam? Four? Five? Dorothy and Doctor Mädel, Caroline and t'Albert Eugene and me.
'Sure thing, Mädle-Man really has cured me with his Dorothy line!'
And then as a last thought I thought about the word Wednesday. Wednesdays were fine by me, Dorothy! Clocks and benches facing ponds too!'
Ah! Si vous voulez ... Mercredi?

Ixx!

[epilogue]

His response was quick and sharp and taking controle of Caroline with the undeniable touch professionality of a patriach he assumed Dorothy character and play her template with the greatest ease. Like a flash of lightning he switched from his weekly session role of Doctor Mädle to the tender sweetness of a Muse.

I woke up very early the next morning. It was Wednesday and D-day! My husband was coming to fetch me and I was leaving on a jet plane! Cucan! Berlin! The Outside! 'What time is it?' I asked Sister Fattier as I was standing in front of the mirror doing the final touch up to my appearance.
I was very excited.
'How do I look?'
'Oh Caroline love, you look lovely! Nice as ever but aren't you putting on make up?'
'Nooooo! I can't do that! Would you want me to frighten my children? Ever seen make-up run when you cry?'
It was a gorgeous morning, refreshing and new and The Story of Caroline had completed itself. When I was done with dressing up Sister Fattier took me downstairs. We passed a broken window on the third floor. On the benison I saw a half-drunk cup of Milo standing there nonchalantly. I smiled. It wasn't mine.
When we got to Doctor Mädle's consulting room I thought of the Men-love-with-their-eyes cards, Muses and the gordeous feeling of love. Caroline was still fresh in my memory. A desire to be naughty flush in me when I saw Dr. Mädle.
'Oh I love him!'
But yes, he was no fool. His response was quick and sharp. Whoosh and he was in the role of Dorothy. He did the switch so perfectly that Sister Fattier didn't even noticed it. He was Dorothy for just a second and then he let himself out of it again. A butler inviting himself to be what he is supposed to be.
'You are charming today, Caroline' he said I will miss you!'
His voice had the recognisable sexy hale tone in it and his eyes were serene and steel blues, like mine, and they were twinkling. We exchange some more cordial niceties and I was on my way.
In the foyer Professor Linde, Laplasse, Mona Lisa, Small Cissy, Patricia, the Secretary, the Scandinavian quick character, Maret the e-mail address and a new comer, Sdutty and his editor Racy Pear, were waiting to say goodbye to me. I noticed how neatly Professor Linde's nails were manicured and that she too wore a blue dress. Mona Lisa was neatly shaven and wore a tie. Patricia had his leather hunting pants on. He too was shaven and the strong vagrancy of Lord Byron lotion dispersed from him. And Laplasse … was taking notes on his own … for his book he said. He would put this in his book too he told me and asked me what I thought of a title such as The Story of Caroline. I smiled but didn't answer him as I saw the tears in Small Cissy's eyes. He was so happy for me and it showed in his crying. Not a word came from him however. He was playing mute again. And the new comer, Sdutty…! He had already secretly dressed himself up in the now vacant persona of t'Albert, Eugene and was playing the role elegantly. He too should start on a book I thought. He looked so capable. And there were Kalliope and Kleio and Euterpe and Thaleia and Melpomene and Terpiscore and Erato and Polymnia and Ourania hiding in the passage to the kitchen giggling like cleaning staff. Their voluptuous Mamma Mnemosnye was the Matron. She too came over to me to wish me well. She took my head in her hands and kissed me on the cheek. I felt her fingers curling into my ears. Then she kissed me full on the mouth slitting in her tongue between my half-open lips. Wet saliva. Titillation! Then she took my hands and licked on my fingers like on candy and squeezed them in and out through her lips one by one. Only then she let me go.
When I was outside on the entrance portal I saw the bright sunlight as it shone from over the wall. It welcomed me. There was the Outside. Down the steps my husband was waiting for me. On one arm he had a bunch of flowers and on the other our little daughter was sitting. Behind his pants our six-year-old boy was coyly hiding and clinging. The oldest stood firm next to him, proud and firm. Their mommy was coming home.
I rushed down the steps while tears of joy welled in my eyes. I ran up to them and flung my arms around them all.
'Oh my god, I am so happy to come home!' I sobbed.
'Mommy is coming home…!'
Streams of tears flowed down my cheeks. And the air that I breathed was sweet. It was good solid outside air. I was cured. I had completed The Story of Caroline. And as we went off, arms hooked, I with my children and husband, I knew that behind me the gates of Bonheim were closing. Soon only the closed off high security walls will be all that's visible … of the inside.

'I cannot role-play Laios!' I mused '…Or can I?' and forced a smile.
The smile was made of a firm indicative kind.

Caroline! De gustibus et de coloribus non disputandum est.


Other storytelling poetic sequences by Argo Spier

Bogy Road - A multi-levelled search into the essence of Wallpaper poetry and glimpses of the power and darker sub-conscious side of Necro poetica.
Sampel Four -Wallpaper poetry and Necro poetic seances, moving into the absurd with the printing out of wini.ini files as poetry.
Mucus Gravel - A compilation of sea and farmer poems, hilarious Wallpaper poetry and beautiful songs.
Raam - The only work in his mother tongue, the Afrikaans language; a Kubrickian space narration with translations of poems into various languages.
Municipal Paint Opera Lodge Café - Containing The Blackwater Stories, Wallpaper poetry and Doctoreams.
Santa Christiana D'Aro - Wallpaper poetry and a brilliant and homely story.
Belim Tower Road - Wallpaper poetry, containing perfect illustrations of Necro Poetica, the resurrection of words already said and cold and the creation of fragile Vestalian sound poetry.
On the beach of Ville St. Gillis Croix de Vie - Miscellaneous and uncompleted.
Mister Page on Page International Airport - Miscellaneous.
A Lover's Sundae Sarum - Anniversary love poems.
Douche and Addition - Poetry and columns.
Zinzli came home Albi - Summer Poems from Chur.
Seasons of Sarum - Storytelling poetic sequences and a deep drive into Sarum.
Green Muse Trying - Columns and Storytelling Wallpaper poetry

Blurbs

Green Water Pain -
[When Night grew with the Dew]

'… with fingers that pat into the core of feeling'

'Green Water Pain contains the right mix of art-historical issues, love verses, vague sadness and frivolous ditty-like rhyme. It is a sensitive journey and to the pointe poetry. The intermingled references throughout the story to the poetry Paul Celan gives it its eary palpate'.

Was it Mucha's?
No it wasn't Mucha's, it
was Jan Zrzavy's Cleopatra 1 and the Still-Life-
with-Lillies-of-the-Valley, it
wasn't Mucha's, it was
Frantisek Bilek's How-Time-Models-Its-Poet, it
wasn't Mucha's, it was Maximilian Pirer's
Medusa washing her wriggling hair
no it wasn't Mucha's, it

From Medusa's wait
Nights grow with the dew and slowly
night after night they swell like love puffed virgins
hungry women
night after night at night they wink their eyes
and wriggle their snakes
oh you vile guilty ones laughing sweet
when spawning your basilisk egg
screaming loud when breeding your feral foul
when hauling your little snakiest babes
from Medusa's wait

Mr. Changs! from Ching-Ching
[Summer Love from Chur]

'... hilarious, sad and yet lovely. Soft tender insider poetry'

'The story of Mister-Chang!s-Lue-from-Ching-Ching refreshes and will bring a tear to the eye ... but it is also a story of a very compassionate and understanding smile!'

'In the morning, in front of the Mirror on the Day of the Story of One Day in the Life of Mr. Chang!s Lue from Ching-Ching, Mister Chang!s Lue from Ching-Ching saw the impartiality of his Teeth. He saw how Independent they were. Each Tooth went its own Way and refused to conciliate with any other Individual Tooth. They all travelled away from each other with ever increasing inflated Speed, and those that had left first faded into the distance like Fleeting Days in the Lives of Poets. Mr. Chang!s Lue from Ching-Ching looked at his own Eyes watching him from the Mirror. To his surprise he saw that his Eyes were also showing a similar Pattern of Behaviour. They were fading. Travelling towards unknown Destinies'.

Castle and Flower
[Winter love story in verse and exercises in the Art of Imitation of Haiku]

I dedicate this short draft and exercise in the art of imitating Haiku, to the three “Witches of Eve”, Maya Nuda, Maya Vestita and there bigger sister, known since the beginning of time as the cruellest and most incisive, Nancy Muse, who, in the slow months of the year of 1997, castigated my cringing soul and making me run, beg crawl and return to the feeding dens of their love for me.

All of what is written down here on paper happened in actual life. It happened with me in the same year. The Year I refused to be what I am not: a Poet!

A Winter Love Story in Verse and Exercises in the Art of Imitation of Haiku - When leaning she laughs - When shines a Moon - Humanoid your Face.

THE MOVING MYRIAD

A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
Laggard winds and clarion breezes … colour, laïs and a circle.

The Moving Myriad was written in the weeks before the author was to appear in court on a charge of refusal of payment for a misprint of one his mayor publication, Green Muse Trying. The Moving Myriad gives a good insight into how the author's mind functions in catastrophic events and how he battles to come to terms with his persecution by the KOLV VZW printing house. The association he makes with the prosecuted medieval chanson composer and poet JEHANNOT DE LESCUREL who was hung in 1304 for promiscuity and immoral love is transparent. DE LESCURAL was author and composer of one of the first three-voiced laïs in the history of polyphonic mediaeval music. His song and composition, Gracieusette Gillette, of which the original text is given in the footnotes along side the English translation of it, is theme grande in The Story of a Myriad and its recurring echo's throughout the book tells the story of a tender and indestructible love.

… thought provoking and tender with the delicate honesty of a fearful heart… Just a lovely sequence and completely worthwhile to read.
LWCFSD Poetic Society.

Recognition Song for Madam Gillette

A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
clarion breezes and the colour of life

Recognition Song for Madam Gillette and its recurring echo's of the licentiousness of carnal love tell a fragile story of a tender and indestructible love, the love of words.
The author uses the sad history of the prosecuted medieval chanson composer and poet JEHANNOT DE LESCUREL who was hung in 1304 for promiscuity and inmoral love. DE LESCURAL was author and composer of one of the first three-voiced laïs in the history of polyphonic mediaeval music, Gracieusette Gillette. At the time writing the author too was prosecuted and fined, but not for immoral love, but for the refusal to pay for a misprint by the Kolv Vzw publishing house in Ghent, Belgium of his book called Green Muse Trying.

Thought provoking and well structured. A story of the delicate honesty of a fearful heart but a lovely sequence and serious alchemy. … The poet is a charm and his seduction power is great.
LWCFSD POETIC SOCIETY.

Sym-
metry breaks. Russet sound
and brass replaces guise; pewter and alloy, tin.
And into the foreground a dark myriad slowly
motions. It breaks from the clinging archetype;
while in the widening space of the rearing
no man's land, the ABEL man runs.

And there is a call. It calls as if calling
from a hinterland. It calls you.

Legally a Muse

Aspirations and motivations, the theme of love-and-war and small worlds are the ingredients that make Legally a Muse a story of light complexity and lovely predictable suspense. Its about the forbidden zone of makeshift communication and the overkill of innocence in the face of instinctive rivalry.

'We were in a movie. And she couldn't help it. But she took her script serious and did at that moment something that she had never done before. She bent over and kissed me full on the lips. The teeny-whiny little margin of what had become of the write and the wrong disappeared. And she kissed me again. And this time she ventured deeper into the forbidden zone of makeshift communication. Plain adulatory. Her heart pounded fresh and I was a writer. Some flesh. She stuck the tip of her tongue into the small slit between my lips. I felt lithe and ordered another round coffee'.

Oliver and the Art of Sharing

Boundless self-centricity verses its counterpart, the perilous desire to share inner feelings, and the challenge between these two rivals as well as the deadly pursuit of cause-and-effect throughout 'Oliver', mould the story as it slips from happiness to a quest for happiness into an unpretentiousness and very recognisable readable piece of writing.

'An unbounded compassion washed over me. From then on every single motion I made in the Old City became a journey of joy into Wonderland. The Wheel of my karma had started to turn and I was caught in its positive tolling. My soul and I were reincarnated in the body that was with us and we both were excited like children going on an errant with their mother'.

Machines of Art
[From the Argo Spier Prague Interview]
'The material used in the Praha Interview, originated on a walk in Prague…'

'The Praha Interview, originated on a walk in the mountains surrounding the little town of Tsciertschen in the Swiss Canton of Graubunden. Argo Spier, a pupil of the South African poet, N.P. van Wyk-Louw claims to be the Master-of-the-art-of-recombination of words. The interview collects and recombines parole, creating a meta language and poetry ... the scrolling kind. As are his poems, it is picturesque and interlinked. It is a story, Argo Spier is a storyteller ... and his stories are his work, Wallpaper poetry and Necro Poetica, the ghastly rituals of writing poetry, his kind'.

'Poetry! You want to know what poetry is! You want to know what makes a poem a poem! A poet does not know answers to fit questions like these and the last person to ask what the essence of poetry is, is a poet! I have not discovered this so called essence yet and probably never will! I am still searching for the it of it like every other natural born writer under the sun. I just don’t know the answer to it and I am not the write person to be interviewed about it!'

BOGY ROAD
[POEMS OF INNOCENCE AND JOY]

A Wilgcoffee stand-alone publication
'... utterances and everyday dialogue shaped into shocking rhyme'

'... working with flat characters and a simple plot, SMUTTY creates a racy story with a constant night marsh and chilly touch as it reaches its tentacles into the subconscious. Bogy Road has a newness and a fresh vagrancy. It contains séance-like poetry which excites'.
LWCFSD Poetic Society

Then she opened her mouth and showed me her tongue. JUVANTE JEZU,
it was split! It was split like DI THE LEVIATHAN'S. She spoke with a voice.
'I am not dead. I am alive and I am a woman not a feman!
Honestly I can also be a man!
I am the poem you are writing!' she said and then she opened her mouth again and hissed into my face.
I saw her skin color.
It changed from amethyst turf to moist mud.
I smelled the vagrancy of revitalized life seeping through the air like a cool drug, breezing, promising, inviting, sweetening, growing, ripening and segmenting.

Blue Sweet -
[Mr. Page on Page International Airport]

'... desolate spaces of feeling, accumulated debris of used words.'

'Blue Sweet is a neat but strange step in the spoor of Wallpaper poetry storytelling. It contains sediment of gall, its unscrupulously honest and there is a typical touch of classy hilarity. The right mix of ordinary utterances, irrelevant dialogue, stark expression and the inevitable dramatic drive, makes it the perfect setting for a true Sduttian story of a Mr. Page

on a Page International Airport.

And you’re lonely.
And you. Don’t know which. Way.
And your words. Are juxtaposed with images.
Of long Bien Temps. Ago.

Blue Space. Up the slopes. The Hex.

And you’re lonely.
And you. Don’t know which. Way.
And your words. Are juxtaposed with images.
Of long Bien Temps. Ago.
And you are.

… daring wallpaper poetic storytelling and a sweet suck on…

With minimal strokes and well selected words the author works his way through the vast amount of accumulated encyclopaedic debris left behind on the road of literature and reshapes waste to beauty. With its 6 separate stories Blue Sweet, carries the reader over the threshold of hesitation into the surreal world of the process of creative writing. Vast spaces containing human feeling emerge as the pace is set and kept throughout the book … a decorous contribution to the debate re the essence of creative literature.

The master poet is here, once again, at his best and he uses his seduction power with great ease, skill and unscrupulous honesty. Blue Sweet with its irony, pathetic mien and off-beat bravura … a daring statement, lovely and an experience in depth to read.
LWCFSD POETIC SOCIETY
Cocked Poise
[When I castled your Eye in my Loess]
' ... bracing and garrulous ... yet a gentle read and a tender story'

'… intricate and to the bone, a referral to Seasons of Sarum. Cocked Poise has several deconstructive doors offering contemporary art-historical rumpus. It has fingers touching in deep water, the ritual of writing tout court'.

'No musician', I said, 'there’s no musician
on the beach, other than me! There’s nobody
other than me, to stain your sky. There’s no mountain,
no valley so high,
no sea so high,
as the day, the almighty day, I castled
your eye in my loess.'

A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
... refreshing and loquacious...

Taken up in this publication are the sequences Zinsli came home Albi, which contains the so-called Chur poems and originated in Switzerland, A lover's sundae sarum, love poetry written in Austria, a third sequence written on the beach of Ville St. Gillis Croix de Vie, France and the in 1997 well received Canterbury Carillon which was written in England as a contribution to the defamed child abduction and murders in Belgian in 1995-1996 and presented in schools across Europe

'… intricate … core material from the author's Seasons of Sarum. The sequence has its fingers touching into the sub planes of the great poetic undercurrent unconsciousness. The ritual of writing tout court'.
LWCFSD Poetic Society

[THE POET IS A NOMAD]

The diurnal alternation of light,
and poacher night, its weight,
and the weight of day,
and earth in its dreary sleep,
and sea, and earth, in the wake
and depth of douse,
and the stabbing stone, its height,
and the moon,
the immortal moon,
its silver dish, and your sun,
its flame,
and the flare of shining flaxen
gold.
- Your re-enactment of IT, of the Primal Scene,
that is what makes the poet a Nomad. -

The naked star, its meandered scatter
outside of the ring of the sky,
the rambled maze
in which the poet's frail reward

is solitude and sand,
and in which, wolf and coyote,
jackal and fox,
and howl, carouse,
celebrating death, resur-
rection,
and birth and birth,
and stirring dying days,
and surviving twilight.
- The dawning of your re-enactment of IT,
of the Primal Scene, that is what makes the poet

Sample Four
[The Masked Man of Sainte Margarita]

' ... the endless generation of words, images, themes and stories'

'Sample Four employs Wallpaper poetry (the endless generation of words, images, themes and stories) and results in Necro Poetica (the ritual of writing). It is a Sduttian and Argo Spier pushes his own genre to the limit by incorporating a transcript of a TV Soap Opera and the so-called Computer poems, the latter which are print-outs of the wini.ini file of his own computer. The dark and cult-like undertone throughout the book hint towards what edge Argo Spier wants to drive language and poetic storytelling. Sample Four is also an encyclopaedia of sound, pictures and non-sensible sense and an intriguing story of four poets in a bar in the middle of the Karoian desert discussing meta aspects of writing tout court'.

next day ... static life
they gathered on the beach of Miramar
(they knew about the nightly raid)
Phaedo Phaerus Timaeus
and
the Masked Knight of Sainte Marguerite
sat on a rock feet in the water
don't be metaphysically naïve
the soul belongs to the world of fluid forms
that's why it rains so much it's easier to fight
that way when all is wet
the earth dogged
're you sure?
absolutely poems are written

MUNICIPAL PAINT OPERA LODGE CAFÉ
A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION

The Story of Helena and the Secret Pleasures in the Palace of Joy.

The master poet is here, once again, lover and at most, in control. His seduction power is great and he is just the Master Lover. The speed, versatility in matter choice, use of words and themes and skill makes it the most beautiful and boldest story written at the change of millennium. Municipal Paint Opera Lodge Café with its irony, pathetic mien and on-beat bravura is a most pleasant experience to encounter. The reader will just love it. It is wallpaper poetic storytelling sec.
LWCFSD POETIC SOCIETY

somewhere
backstage Vienna another life VALENTINE
winter spring summer autumn
rain
subversive thoughts authentic Passions JOYCE
JAMES sure waiting behind the doors shoes
dreams writing poems landslides roofs
shoes numbers room numbers upstairs
sky
don't read what you don't write
slippery mud slices slippery slices
slipping under feet Macintoshes more
rain more steep rain poems
my many poems
wait! wait! wait! open the door
who's behind that door door door
do you hear hear hear the echo echo?
people notice poems everyday when
I write
poems everyday deconstructing poems
writing
people write about poems filamentary writings
signs of the Zodiac SAGITTARIUS VIRGO
WASSERMANN fire earth water breath and men
people many people Northerners
Southerners United East Indian
Companies
they write about poems my many
poems
they read about poems my many
poems
they read naughty things in poems very naughty
things in my poems naughty things with married
women children Muses of Dark Pools death
poisonous life lies lies lies lies lies

Santa Christiana D'Aro

WALLPAPER POETRY SEC THAT FAST SCROLLS THE PERILOUS 'HOLIDAY' ADVENTURES AT SANTA CHRISTIANA D'ARO.

Look ... you put flowers on the table you make it nice they knock it over when reaching for the milk and butter there is water in your plate water on your bread water all over you you don't like that you don't want to make it nice anymore you knock the bread on the floor it mushed up the floor you get up you slip on the smooch you hurt your back you don't like that you think why you had put flowers on the table why you had made it nice why look at you you are like an old idiot you don't like that nobody likes that nobody likes an old man they ask you hey why you walk like that like an old man all crooked and bent askew you put flowers on the table or something someone knocked it over when reaching for milk and butter or what all that water in your plate water on your bread water all over you you didn't like that you didn't want to make it nice anymore you knocked the bread on the floor it mashed up the floor you got up you slipped on the smooch you hurt your back you didn't like that you thought why you had put flowers on the table why you had made it nice why look at you you are like an old man you don't like that nobody likes that nobody likes an old man everybody's gone ask you hey ...
Municipal Paint Opera Lodge Café

…. seduction power, exuberance in cadence, speed, complaisance in matter-, word- and theme choice, appropriateness of thrust and the brilliancy of hidden rhyme make of 'Lodge' a push of one in a million. And with its irony, pathetic mien and on-beat bravura it is an experience to apperceive. The rendezvous of the poet and his beloved on the steps of the Opera lodge Café at Backwater Bridge is just too beautiful an experience … too beautiful to describe in words other than his own.

somewhere
backstage Vienna another life VALENTINE
winter spring summer autumn
rain
subversive thoughts authentic Passions JOYCE
JAMES sure waiting behind the doors shoes
dreams writing poems landslides roofs
shoes numbers room numbers upstairs
sky
don't read what you don't write
slippery mud slices slippery slices
slipping under feet Macintoshes more
rain more steep rain poems
my many poems
wait! wait! wait! open the door
who's behind that door door door
do you hear hear hear the echo echo?
people notice poems everyday when
I write
poems everyday deconstructing poems
writing
people write about poems filamentary writings

The Story of Caroline

A Wilgcoffee stand-alone publication
A quest for the sanity of love and a drive into the unconscious … stark and a never ending story…

The story of CAROLINE and her double diagnosed male persona with overt personality traits, T'ALBERT, EUGENE is one large encyclopedic peeping box in which emotion intermingles with about everything to tell the story of the creation of the story of CAROLINE.

… well structured and the multitude of theme lines are running a steady course throughout the book only to intertwined in the end into a tight knot.
… hilarious at times, chilly at others, with poetry and prose interlinked. There's the 'reality-at-home' and the 'reality-abroad' and there's the merge of these two with very recognizable patterns... An exciting story of a writer's love for the love of words. - LWCFSD Poetic Society

Then, and honestly, I couldn't helped it, I devilishly thought why not drop a pebble in as well? Just for the tease.
'If you think I am so kind, why don't you tell your wife that?', I said and added, 'Or do you have a husband?' and burst out in laughter. Victory! However it was short lived. She stung me immediately where it smites. Chapeau!
'I already have!', she touché-ed.
I repressed a frown. The tight elastic band around this cheap unbounded novelette was squeegee-ing tighter.
'Yes...? Everything...? Oh dumbfounded love!'
'Of course not! But if he is to ask me ... sure I will tell her!', she replied.

Raam in 5 talen: Afrikaans, Nederlands, Frans, Duits, Engels

A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
'Een Kubrickiaanse reis doorheen de grenzen van taal'.

RAAM, een Kubrickiaans ruimte epos, beschrijft niet alleen een reis in de ruimte, maar is zelf een reis , een reis doorheen de ruimte van taal. De lezer wordt meegenomen doorheen een veelvoud van goed gestructureerde taallagen, lagen die in elkaar verstrengeld zijn en die in elkaar overvloeien, afzonderlijk en toch onafscheidelijk van elkaar. Met een bijzondere en suggestieve stijl en een zekere geladenheid, creëert de schrijver in dit prachtige en compacte werk de illusie van een geboorteproces van taal en van een taal die zich ontwikkelt vanaf het vroege archaïsche begin van klank, menselijke klank, tot volwassen geworden zingevende expressie. Naast de originele versie in Afro-Afrikaans van de dichtbundel RAAM, bevat deze publicatie ook Nederlandse, Franse, Duitse en Engelse vertalingen ervan en een inleidende artikel over RAAM.

[AFRIKAANS]

De tijd wordt zwaarder
in de verte verschijnt een speer
een vernauwende buis
vuur

een schijnende monoiliet

vreesaanjagend in de schaduwkring
die wachtende wildehond
canus lupus : roofdier of wolfshond

en het sterrebeeld het getal 58

[Français]

Le temps est saturé
dans le lointain un point est apparu
le tuyau se rétrécissant
ou le feu

le monolithe luisant

terrifiant
dans le cercle d'ombre
le loup qui attend
canus lupus : fauve ou chienet la constellation
avec le chiffre 58

[Deutsch]

Die Zeit wurde bleiern
In der Ferne tauchte ein Punkt auf

eine sich verengende Röhre
oder eine Flamme
ein gleißender Monolith
Kälte verströmend

Im Kreis der Schatten
wartete der wilde Hund
Canus Lupus:
Urhund oder Wolfshund
und die Sternenkonstellation Nummer 58

[English]

The time grew heavy
in the distance the point
the narrowing tube
or the flame

a shining monolith chilling

in the shadow-circle
the wild dog

awaiting
canus lupus: vulture or wolf dog
and the star constellation
with the number 58

Weekend Other storytelling poetic sequences by Argo Spier

Bogy Road - A multi-levelled search into the essence of Wallpaper poetry and glimpses of the power and darker sub-conscious side of Necro poetica.
Sampel Four -Wallpaper poetry and Necro poetic seances, moving into the absurd with the printing out of wini.ini files as poetry.
Mucus Gravel - A compilation of sea and farmer poems, hilarious Wallpaper poetry and beautiful songs.
Raam - The only work in his mother tongue, the Afrikaans language; a Kubrickian space narration with translations of poems into various languages.
Municipal Paint Opera Lodge Café - Containing The Blackwater Stories, Wallpaper poetry and dreams.
Santa Christiana D'Aro - Wallpaper poetry and a brilliant and homely story.
Belim Tower Road - Wallpaper poetry, containing perfect illustrations of Necro Poetica, the resurrection of words already said and cold and the creation of fragile Vestalian sound poetry.
On the beach of Ville St. Gillis Croix de Vie - Miscellaneous and uncompleted.
Mister Page on Page International Airport - Miscellaneous.
A Lover's Sundae Sarum - Anniversary love poems.
Douche and Addition - Poetry and columns.
Zinzli come home Albi - Summer Poems from Chur.
Seasons of Sarum - Storytelling poetic sequences and a deep drive into Sarum.
Green Muse Trying - Columns and Storytelling Wallpaper poetry.

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