GHOSTS IN THE BEDROOM

Last post I mentioned ghosts in the bedroom or dungeon. This is a fairly direct rip from Selma Fraiberg's metaphor 'ghosts in the nursery'. Selma talked about how early childhood experiences affect parenting styles, especially if they were harsh or traumatic. 

This post contains an extra trigger warning of sorts. Although there is no mention of violence the content may disturb you as it did me. This is a true story.  

CONFESSIONAL

Clio is asked to the home of a regular client, for what he calls a ‘breakfast fantasy’.  The house is old and was once beautiful. It is the family seat, and strongly Catholic. A small shrine marks the entrance. Inside, the hallway walls are crowded darkly with pictures of saints and family members who have taken the cloth. This is a family Clio thinks of as Socialist Catholic – unions, justice, cradle to grave welfare, good works, socially liberal, morally conservative.

He installs her in the guest bedroom. The bed is large, old and soft. The sheets are winter weight. Breakfast is on the table. There are croissants, strawberries, yoghurt, and wine. He gives her to wear a full length long sleeved brushed cotton nightie, white, buttoned to the neck. As she puts it on, she notices a photo frame turned face downwards on the dresser.  Who is that, she wonders, who must be present, but is not allowed to see what is about to happen here?

He is wracked by her. He has been planning this for days. He feeds her and gets her to feed him. A patina of yoghurt and strawberry coats them both. Passion fruit pips nest in his pubic hairs. Chocolate streaks her leg. He is intense. He sounds desperate. Talk dirty to me, he begs. You filthy fucking whore, he says. I love you, you’re beautiful, tell me you love me.

Clio has treated with some dark powers and whoring is not the strangest of her practices. But this is the darkest and strangest place she has been for a while. She is unusually silent. 

At the end her leaves her briefly, and she wants to know. Whose face is it that is turned downwards, powerfully here but blind, pressed down onto the wooden dresser? She expects a woman. She turns it over. It is his grandfather. It is the old patriarch who must be present but must not see.  

In some Australian Aboriginal nations, women must never know what men do. During male initiation rites, the women are present but hooded or required to turn their backs. This sacred ceremony is a reminder that women once held the power - and if the men let them see, they will take it back. And the women need to be present to be reminded too, of their present lesser state. What point is power if no one knows you have it? Show it, but do not allow the ones who once had the power to see it. Flaunt it, deny it, hint at it, hide it. It’s a threat, it’s a fearful thing. It’s power.  In that very traditional society such power threatens to be destabilising and destructive, but the way it is handled keeps it bound, keeps the status quo.

Clio thinks of the importance of being present, but not allowed to see. Her client had the photo in the guest bedroom, unusually for a precious memento. He could have removed it. Did he want her to see it? The grandfather had to be present, had to be shown but not actually bear witness to activities Clio’s client considers shameful.

What is flowing here in the psychic ancestral stream? Layers of desperation and pain, and more than a hint of abuse. Unslaked lust is only the top layer. Grandfather, what have I become? Whatever it is, you know why. Tell the story here, to someone long passed, who could never listen, who is now not allowed to listen. Redefining shame and pleasure, actualising it, and then denying it.

Later in the day, the sheets are washed and the wife comes home from work. Does he meet her eyes at dinner? Later in the week he goes to Mass. Clio wonders if he will brave the confessional. 

As always, blessings on you, gentle reader.