[i]Repetition[/i]
… the impression they give is of being pursued by a malignant fate or possessed by some “daemonic” power; but psychoanalysis has always taken the view that their fate is for the most part arranged by themselves and determined by early infantile influences. The compulsion which is here in evidence differs in no way from the compulsion to repeat which we have found in neurotics, even though the people we are now considering have never shown any signs of dealing with a neurotic conflict by producing symptoms… This ‘perpetual recurrence of the same thing’ causes us no astonishment when it relates to active behaviour on the part of the person concerned and when we can discern in him an essential character-trait which always remains the same and which is compelled to find expression in a repetition of the same experiences. We are much more impressed by cases where the subject appears to have a passive experience, over which he has no influence, but in which he meets with a repetition of the same fatality…
- Sigmund Freud, Beyond The Pleasure Principle
[i]Ia.[/i]
First there are textures. Soft, like silk, and very, very warm - it feels red, if red were a thing to be felt. Then come colours, then light and air. And change.
Finally there are images and sounds. I am up, out from under the covers, and ready for the first day of work - up and out into the world.
[i]Ib.[/i]
First there are textures. Soft, like silk, and very, very warm - it feels red, if red were a thing to be felt. Then come colours, then light and air. And change.
Finally there are images and sounds. I am up, out of the womb, and ready for the first day of life - up and out into the world.
IIa.
The drive to work is uneventful. Filling the highway around me are cars, all blue and black and red and yellow and green: the highway is a rainbow collage at seven in the morning. I flip on the radio - “Cat’s In The Cradle”. I sing as I drive. Today is a good day.
[b]IIb.[/b]
The drive from the hospital is uneventful. My mother holds me to her breast, and as I suckle I can watch the cars drive by, zooming up and down the highway in a rainbow cascade of movement and light. My mother’s smiling face radiates above me - she seems to shine in the early morning light. My father flips on the radio - “Cat’s In The Cradle”. He hums as he drives. I am happy.
[b]IIIa[/b].
I arrive at work and cannot find a place to park. This angers me, until I remember that my aunt gave me an extra handicapped sticker. I park and make my way up the walk to the front doors.
The building is cold, grey concrete. A large florescent light flickers off and on at the top: ‘W. W. Williams’ Widgets.'. I open the door and step inside and am immediately assaulted by the gaudy workplace décor of white chipped walls and the smell of electronics and stale air and muzak.
[b]IIIb.[/b]
We arrive home and park in the garage. My father carries me inside. His hands are large and calloused from long hours of heavy labour, but still comforting nevertheless.
The inside of the house is covered in cheap pastel wallpaper with a floral print; it is too bright and bothers me. I start to cry. She coddles me, singing a lullaby in her best Babyesque. This only makes me more upset, though she doesn’t seem to notice.
[b]IVa.[/b]
I am met on the first floor by the foreman - a large, rouge-faced man who vaguely reminds me of my father, although I do not permit that particular comparison to filter up into my thoughts. So instead I think of him as a talking cherry. He speaks in a harsh voice barely above a whisper:
"You ready to get started today?
I nod and follow him into an elevator.
“You’ll be working down here. I’m to supervise you for today; after that, you’re on your own.”
Another nod: I am paying more attention to the whiff of cherry pipe tobacco lingering in the air with every opening of his mouth than anything else coming out of it. Far below I can hear the grinding of the gears.
[b]IVb[/b]
My father takes me from her arms and puts me in a crib somewhere upstairs. It is much more comfortable than those at the hospital. A carriage above captures my attention, diverting it from the stale-tobacco smell of his breath. He smiles down at me, but it’s harsh and not nearly as soothing as the motion of the carriage. Stars and horses and musical notes swirl and clash above my head, always circling, always going around and around and around…
I am pulled out of sleep by the repetious shriek of metal grating metal down below.
[b]Va.[/b]
“Well, here we are. Last stop.”
The foreman’s voice yanks me back into some sort of awareness.
We exit the elevator into a hell of rusted steel and machinery. Sparks fill the air like insects; in the far end of the room a conveyor belt propels widgets forwards and backwards, from side to side, in constant motion.
He leads the way out of the elevator car, but I falter and come close to collapse. On the surface, it’s harder to breathe there than in any other part of the factory; somewhere else, I’ve been here before. He catches me in midair - “What’s wrong, buddy?” - but I hear his words only from a distance. The world, now hostile, now threatening, seems to converge upon my senses, and in the foreman’s face I see…
[b]Vb.[/b]
… my father, casting his strange shadow against the wall. My mother is in his arms, gasping, pleading - "Not so soon, I'm so sore, I'm so sore," - but to no avail. He's pinned himself against her, and now her head lolls to her side, useless weight dangling in space.
I do not understand this, I do not like this. I hear his heavy, ruptured breathing coming in waves; the violence of it all fills me up like a vessel. His shadow moves, now up, now down, now up, now down, and all I can do is…
[b]VIa[/b].
Scream.
The sound of my own scream fills my head like air in a balloon; I feel myself lifted up on the motion of the air passing in and out of my throat - for a moment I feel as if though I am moving towards the ceiling.
“Hey, buddy! You alright?”
Arms around my chest. I am being lifted: by the hands of
(my father)
the foreman.
He hauls me to my feet.
“Look, man, I don’t know what just happened, but if you want to work here you need to get a grip… the boss ain’t… first day…”
Steel on steel - the widget machine. Pistons in: up and down. Movement - circular motion - my eyes follow their movement. My mind becomes a wheel, turning burning circles in my head, and I am now gone.
[b]VIb.[/b]
The heat of the darkness is suffocating, but I can see clearly. Their shadows dance in the dark now, licking the wall like flames; my head, so unwieldy on my undeveloped body, struggles to follow their movements.
I can hear my mother gasping, crying, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I do not understand what he is doing, this man who I will know as my father, and when I grow older I will not remember this night, but it will remain with me forever all the same.
He climaxes, finishes, and leaves - the door slams shut in the darkness. My body knows not to make a sound, not to break the silence of this moment, to let the door and her tears reverberate through time and come again and again…
She comes to me, sobbing, and lifts me from the crib. Pressed gently to her breast, I suckle.