Another History of Nothing
I read a thief tried to steal the urn of Sigmund and Martha Freud’s ashes. The Greek urn portrayed Dionysius and one of his maenads, literally ‘raving ones.’ Bits broke when the urn fell but the newspaper didn’t say if the ashes scattered.
I was a white sheet Martha cut holes in to let my soul out. I never had a soul. I was always a white sheet. Into a body shape. Greek. He was a callous thief. I read soldiers twisted his silver intestines around his neck and they hung him to die, to die, to die. I resented Freud for I loved him. Was this strange? I was dead.
Scholars loved him. His radical ideas they so easily applied to the mundane attributes of life. I tasted melancholy even after brushing my teeth. They tended to fall back on his early theories whereby the soul became a person: the I, ego, in his own self-generated matrix of wife and child.
He wrote that the Oedipus Complex came out of his own self-analysis: to love and possess his mother but his father took control, ‘I’ll castrate you, my son.’ Freud felt his life in his thinking: those rubies of the unconscious: crystalline blood.
His father indicated but like Oedipus plucking out his eyes, he killed his own desire. Suicide or murder. Yukio Yamaji raped and stabbed two sisters. He said, ‘I could not forget the feeling when I killed my mother, and wanted to see human blood.’ I killed my mother. I couldn’t think outside of her circumference.
Before the sisters – how beautiful they must have been – Yamaji swung a baseball bat and his mother dropped dead. I envied his reality. I killed her in a dream. Martha cut holes in me. I took my own eyes out.
Tom Bland, 2014