Chapter Six: Freud

Genesis of Another American God

My psychology, I think, is very Freudian. It is my observation, as well, that those who rail heaviest against the old Austrian are most easily understood in his terms. I found this while taking a class in psychology at high school, which spent most of the time discussing Freud. (What else would you do in an introductory class? Certainly not talk about theories with empirical data to back them up.) One of the football players stated her hated Freud. He believed the theories bullshit. But then I saw him hugging his mother in a rather Hamlet style as she picked him up from the school parking lot for some reason or another. I imagine his car met a tree after celebrating some stupid sports victory a little too hard.

            In Spain, I realized my own impure psychology. It started innocently enough: I always felt the forces of nature or god or whatever made a grave mistake and placed me in a body of the wrong gender. Believing in magic, at least in the possibility, I came to a rather idiotic conclusion.

Since there is God, he will hear my prayer.

But prayer alone is not all to affect the change I want.

I need to help to receive the blessing of a change into the correct gender.

I must breathe in the air trailing women, around the famous paintings of Paris, and so forth. I also must breathe in the air of my mother, as every girl looks quite similar to their parents. I kept at this for a year and a half, only thinking my faith not enough. I gave up eventually, but not the hope I could change. I still dream of growing feminine breasts, my dick disintegrating inwards, becoming a tight virgin pussy. I want more pronounced hips, lending to graceful curves.

Oh, let locks of long hair fall over my naked femme form. Let me wear boy cut panties. Slender red dresses that accentuated my physique. I want to seduce other girls. Stare at them naked in showers, and then press them against the glass, licking and fingering them. One of the girls that fall victim is annoyed:

“See how you like it!” and we tumble down with her on top. Moans, sighs, and little cries heard into space so satisfying.

And yes, I have dreamt oedipal odes. But it resolved the whole affair to my satisfaction, wile disgusting me with its complete grotesque nature. I morphed, in my dreams, into a clone of my mother. The original mother and I shared my father in a mostly perverted ménage-a-trois. Sure, it disgusted me. But I would lie to say it did not also intrigue me. I realized the completely Freudian nature of my psychology.

Thinking about this, afterwards, I noticed a history of anal retentive action. I mean this in the literal sense. Once, at Legoland, Denmark, I needed to use the facilities. I could feel the brownness creeping outwards. I did not use the restroom. We marched around the theme park, enjoying it for two or three hours, and I just couldn’t stop. I needed to see it all, to experience, and to enjoy. Then my father caught wind—literally smelled the rancid crap in my pants—and denounced me loudly.

“How dare you? The bathrooms are all over? Why didn’t you just go into the goddamn bathroom? Now we’re gonna have to clean up all this shit in your pants. Damn it!” He sounds the same when I tell him his religion is worthless. Puffing up defensively, he lashes out as a dying animal might.

Most of my dreams and skewed psychologies happened in hotels.

 

*     *     *

 

            And soon the dreams would call themselves up again. My parents began planning a trip back east, for “probably the last time” in the summer. Still, I felt happy. Life went smoothly, and Makayla love me. We would, I thought, stay together forever. I even went as far as to yell at my psychiatrist to stop asking about the relationship. I just didn’t really want to talk about it. If I thought about it, I probably knew even then the doom of the relationship. Very few first relationships succeed, after all. What snotty little high schooler would believe that he and his sweetheart wouldn’t stay together for all eternity? Who in love doesn’t go more than stupid?

            I played in my role-playing group, though diminished by half at this point: down to Firth, Jake, Matthew (with Careen) and myself (with Makayla), Pheobe, and of course Amos running the show. The focus of the game shifted from fantasy to sci-fi, but it remained a similar system. I played a variation on the insane character, all I’m good at anyways. There is no patience in me for long, drawn out stories. I would rather play the atmospheric skull sodomizing a grand piano.

            So my parents decided, and mapped out a vacation route. Not only would we spend time at a small cottage lake-house owned by my (rather attractive) aunt on my mother’s side, but we would also make excursus into Pennsylvania. There we would, according to the plan, enjoy Hershey Park and visit Gettysburg. I looked foreword to the battlefields, as I read the North and South trilogy by John Jakes on a short spring break trip to Cozumel, Mexico.

           

*    *     *

 

            So the springtime of happiness turned into a summer. I guess one might call it a political summer, as I knew the consequences of my actions but refused to believe them. I could go very far in right-wing politics. I could write a torture memo. And I bet more people would like me: after all, I’m not a Hispanic coming in over the border to “take jobs away from hardworking people” (bullshit!). I’m Aryan. Prussian pure fucking nazi blue and gas chambers all the way.

            On my birthday, for instance, I took Godfrey and Makyla up to Portland to see the Grateful Dead cover band The Darkstar Orchestra. They play covers of whole Grateful Dead shows—copying the exact set list of some specific date. I’m not sure how they pick what they are going to play, but whatever they play is completely relevant in context to the events of the world at large.

            I bragged to Firth about going up to see them, and he gave me a little glass mushroom as a present. This was the result of his studies in glassblowing, a new direction for him; a new dream. He began talking ad nauseum about going off to glassblowing school.

            So Godfrey, Makayla, and I all piled into my fathers car. He drove us up, as he bought the tickets. We ate Greek food, all baklavas and souvlaki. Then we made our way up into the Crystal Ballroom, where legend hold Jimi Hendrix got himself kicked off some famed old black rock and rollers tour for showing of way too much. They place bounces around, and each bass note sends the floor shaking up and down five or six times in raucous rhythm. On my birthday, though, they played an original setlist:

 

First:

Promised Land, They Love Each Other, El Paso, Deal, Looks Like Rain, Row Jimmy, It's All Over Now, Loser, Lazy Lightning > Supplication, Brown Eyed Women, Music Never Stopped

Then:

Might As Well, Samson & Delilah, Help On The Way > Slipknot > Drums > The Other One > Wharf Rat > Slipknot > Franklin's Tower > Around and Around, E: U.S. Blues, Filler: Mr. Fantasy > China Cat > I Know You Rider

 

Everyone danced around and the music shook my ears. I could barely hear. Makayla pretended to have fun, and joined me in dancing around without any conscious rhythm after an old hippie, probably homeless, scared her. I guess some people just don’t understand the abandonment of any mental state or social order. I’m starting to agree. The last concert I went to, this rather tall man in a white polo shirt started shouting over me, trying to talk to the person in front. Instead of saying anything important, or nice, he suggested the vocalist, Donna Jean Godchaux, should shut up.

            Many Dead Heads and affiliates don’t like her. This stems from her backing vocal position in the Grateful Dead. But her voice is much matured now, like a rather aging semi-blues singer. She is no Janis, after all.

            This guy kept breathing down my neck, as well, and I really wanted to punch him, or take out some kind of razor blade. I imagined handing the guy a brownie.

            “It’s special, I made it out of the good stuff.”

            “Hey, cool, thanks dude. This music is awesome! Man that boy can play guitar or what.” (He sounds like one of those stereotypes fat idiots from so many cartoons.) I grin. He bites down into the brownies and starts to bleed, falls to the floor.

            “Now shut the fuck up, asshole,” I say and get back to watching Melvin Seals pounding away at the keys, tapping his foot on the organ, and sending up the swells of religion we call blues. (Because we call stiff, piss-your-pants-because-its-way-way-way-way-too-long shit religious.)

            I like Donna though, and the music filled me with delight. I got good food, good friends, a good woman, and the best possible music. If anyone took a picture of me, the smile on my face must look like I’m autistic. The way I dance sure does.

            We got out of there after it finished, and I snuggled in the back of the car with Makayla. I always enjoyed hugging, touching, kissing, petting, smelling, holding her. And as always, I enjoyed the reverse much more. Amazing as it seems, I am the much less dominant of any partnership. If it’s romantic, I mean. I am ever strong headed and outspoken in public, only because everyone else is a total and complete moron. I am almost always right. Maybe it is because, unlike the rest of humanity, I still read the old stuff, and mix that understanding with synthesis of news.

            Take the Iraq war for instance. When it started to show up in common discourse, I researched the area. And I cam to the obvious conclusion: no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. They are in Israel, which is never mentioned of course. I even bet that half the people I have decried Israel to now agree with me because of the way they attacked Lebanon. Now if they just listen to the truth, which is “they’ve always done this.” In a pop reference metaphor, I am Dr. Gregory House. When I am right, no one ever listens to me. Then I am proven correct.

            To anyone reading this: listen to me, and shut up for once in your goddamn asshole lives. I don’t give a fuck you are mad that pappa didn’t rape you. I am right and you are wrong. So don’t even try: I win. Fuck you.

            But I am much less headstrong in private. The heart, or whatever chemical connection, longs for a more smothering touch. The whole maternal thing: held and hugged and kissed and loved. Watched out for. I join the ranks of my artistic guru, the great writer and sometime painted Salvador Dali. For he held writing more esteemed than painting, though paid devotion to both. I need a Gala as he gained, as he needed. Like your messiah, certain type of religious assholes, I call out Gala. I need no water, but I ask, cry, die with this on my lips—

            “Gala, Gala, Gala. Where is my Gala?”

            The answer is secret yet to me. I have not given up the search though. I walk through valleys of books; hide in the shade of tall library stacks. Surely my Gnostic-style separate half lives there, or in art galleries, or in the middle of experiment on order or society. It means I’m the one who suffers/enjoys rape fantasies.

            Right then I thought I found that need. Too bad it’s never as good as it appears. Too damn bad that the happiness always breaks like an unfixed or explosive laden levee.

 

*     *     *

 

Looking for a lover

Another kind of mother

To take me in

Smother me

Mother me

Love water cover me

Drain me

Bite me

Take away my sin

 

Are you the one

Seen in my dreams

I’m going far

And through forever it seems

Looking for love

Looking for life

The other half

Gnosticly speaking

The mother and the wife

 

Who is my

Who is my

Who is my Galucha now?

 

I could look through dreams

The old mythic streams

And I drank from Delphi

Learned the knowledge of the ages

Turned all the pages

All bow down to me

And what my mind can see

I can show you how to get free

If you let me

 

Find the mother or a lover

One is the other

They are the same in my mind

Comfort and clawed

Oedipus gnawed out his eyes

My foot is like his bind

To perpetual search

Love is my church

And music the salvation

Comes like a wave

Sweeping to save

All across the nation

As I search on

 

Looking for a lover

Another kind of mother

To take me in

Smother me

Mother me

Love water cover me

Drain me

Bite me

Take away my sin

 

Galucha come to me

In my mind a dream

The vision that I see

Stem from Delphi stream

And I know I am better

I know I am the best

But I need some compassion

Arms in which to rest

A smile and I’m undressed

The touch to show I’m blessed

 

Galucha by you

Galucha by you

This maze I’m moving through

To find

Galucha you

You Galucha you

 

Are you the one

Seen in my dreams

I’m going far

And through forever it seems

Looking for love

Looking for life

The other half

Gnosticly speaking

The mother and the wife

 

Where are you

Mother mother mother mother

I need you

Mother mother mother mother

I want you

Mother mother mother mother

My love

Mother mother mother yeah

 

Mother lover

My other

Lover mother

Other other

My lover other

Yeah yeah

 

Who is my

Who is my

Who is my Galucha now?

Who is my other

Who is my mother now?

 

Looking for a lover

Another kind of mother

To take me in

Smother me

Mother me

Love water cover me

Drain me

Bite me

Take away my sin

 

Bite me

Dig it in

I want to feel

Your teeth against my neck

I want to feel

Your breath against my skin

I want you to tell me

What’s wrong

What’s right

Mother lover

Every night

Determine my sin

 

Bite me

Love me

Cover me with kiss

I am looking for

A woman

A mother

A lover

My dream is this:

Love me

Cover me

Bite me and kiss

 

My Galucha

Woman of my dream

Going out of my mind

Galucha to find

You wherever on the ends

Of the earth you are

I must find you

It seems

 

Looking for a lover

Another kind of mother

To take me in

Smother me

Mother me

Love water cover me

Drain me

Bite me

Take away my sin

 

Who is my

Who is my

Who is my Galucha now?

Who is my other

Who is my mother now?

 

Where are you

Mother mother mother mother

I need you

Mother mother mother mother

I want you

Mother mother mother mother

My love

Mother mother mother yeah

 

Galucha I need you

Galucha

Galucha I need you now

Galucha I need you

Galucha

Looking for you

Needing you

Gotta find you now

 

Come with me Russian dream

Girl who seems

To taunt me out of reach

I will find you I think

Like a Cadaques trip

Laughing crazy

Laughing at me

Frolic on the beach

 

Bite me

Bite me

Bite me now

 

I look through dreams

The old mythic streams

Once I drank from Delphi

Learned the knowledge of the ages

Turned all the pages

All bow down to me

And what my mind can see

I can show you how to get free

If you let me

 

I could find you in the music

I could find in the waves

The same sea is you and me

As we are all depraved

 

I could find you in the waves

I could find you in the music

The sea is you and me

The sound we could use it

 

Galucha mine

Galucha mine

You act so tough

You walk so fine

Galucha mine

Oh Galucha mine

 

Find a mother or a lover

One is the other for me

They are the same in my mind

Comfort and clawed

Oedipus gnawed out his eyes

My foot is like his bind

To perpetual search

Love is my church

And music the salvation

Comes like a wave

Sweeping to save

All across the nation

As I search on

 

Come on music

Come on dream girl

Mother and lover

Let’s shake the world

 

Please won’t you

Bite me

Love me

Cover me with kiss

I am looking for

A woman

A mother

A lover

My dream is this:

Love me

Cover me

Bite me and kiss

 

Looking for a lover

Another kind of mother

To take me in

Smother me

Mother me

Love water cover me

Drain me

Bite me

Take away my sin

 

Are you the one

Seen in my dreams

I’m going far

And through forever it seems

Looking for love

Looking for life

The other half

Gnosticly speaking

The mother and the wife

 

Who is my

Who is my

Who is my Galucha now?

 

Mother lover

My other

Lover mother

Other other

My lover other

Yeah yeah

Where are you

 

Mother mother mother mother

I need you

Mother mother mother mother

I want you

Mother mother mother mother

My love

Mother mother mother yeah

 

Mother lover

My other

Lover mother

Other other

My lover other

Yeah yeah

 

Who is my

Who is my

Who is my Galucha now?

 

Are you the one

Seen in my dreams

I’m going far

And through forever it seems

Looking for love

Looking for life

The other half

Gnosticly speaking

The mother and the wife

 

Please won’t you

Bite me

Love me

Cover me with kiss

I am looking for

A woman

A mother

A lover

My dream is this:

Love me

Cover me

Bite me and kiss

 

Bite me and kiss

Bite me and kiss

Galucha wont you

Become my Miss

 

*    *     *

 

I spent a rather idyllic summer. It seemed like the golden childhood everyone dreams for. One summer before felt like that, with trips to zoos, museums, animal shelters (an aunt owning one), and a pond. I guess the pond is burned into my memory rather harshly. An impressionist piece of remembrance, the lily pads are deep strokes of passion green. The sun melts through thee trees, casting that religiously golden light as if at the top of Everest looking to the dawn.

The summer I spent with my cousins, with Hershey Park and Gettysburg on the itinerary granted me a well-deserved happiness. Plus, the prospect of Makayla to greet me on my return heartened me. Order, peace, happiness.

I made some short films with my cousins, rather ridiculous little things. One detailed a quest to locate the invisible man. The other two I termed horror movies, though rather childish. We used a shaken up bottle of dishwashing fluid mixed with red food coloring for blood, and in the east coast summer light hot and beautiful rain told a story of a person who is chased by an invisible force. He, like everyone else, dies. I considered it a high point in my filmographic career. Sadly, its lost I think to the great film of time.

We swam in the water of the lake, rowed boats, and generally lived the fun life in the sun. We went to rural fairs: I used the distance to flirt with girls at these little benefits for firefighters or locals in the small towns. I would raise an eyebrow, and smile slightly at the girls of around the right age. Never talk to them or even get very close, but I felt somewhere down in me I shouldn’t. And I felt I needed to, compelled. Drawn into the web of fate, and who am I to try and go against the ordained outcome? So I flirted amidst the pouring showers and overheated summer flowers.

After about three days at the pond, we headed to Gettysburg. At the time, I was very interested in the Civil War. As I said before, I read John Jakes’ North and South trilogy, and it flushed my head with romantic visions of the antebellum, bellum, and postbellum periods of American history. I could imagine the marching liens up and down, and all the soldiers dying for nothing—or something as stupid as a Lost Cause. What an honor to know the generals don’t care about you and mean only for your death to help achieve glory for The Union or Confederacy.

We spent about a day there. Walking around the town, I spotted a ghost tour. This intrigued me. I pleaded, begged, cajoled, whined well below my age, until my family secured the promise. We walked around some more, looked through museums and stores. Met a man who made cannon reproductions-. He said they used his model in a movie about the Alamo.

After the ghost walk, and a show documenting dramatically all the deaths and terrible stories of the town, we went to sleep. The next day, after all, we drove onwards to Hershey Park. Dreams of chocolate danced like Christmas crap in our heads.

My mother found a deal to get a preview night at the park. We used this to go around and check out all the rides, trying a few. Mainly, though, we looked through all the cool themes of the place. Midway America, Pioneer Frontier, Music Box Way, Minetown, Comet Hollow, Rhineland, Founders Circle, and Tudor Square.

            I mainly rode the carousel. I love carousels. Something about my hometown, the Rod Serling connection, makes me love the spinning wheels. Hooray for painted ponies! And the way a Wurlitzer organ can crash bang with Calliope whirling sonic around like a lapping seaside.

            The next day we went to the park. I continued my flirting with girls. At one ride, all water splashed, I saw this incredibly awesome looking girl, with brunette girls and a smile like a Cheshire cat. Other than these, the trip seemed mundane. Fun, but mundane, the type of trip a functional family (which I am told over and over that I do, in fact, live with) might take.

            I did use some time alone to dress. I shut the family out of the room, and pulled on a bra and panties. Looking in the mirror I saw an ideal self. Female, of course. Flopping down on the bed I fantasize men raping me. But they disgust me so… I decide against men in my fantasy. I let a gaggle of gorgeous shemales, large curves, round breasts, and thick cocks push into me. Use me. Abuse me. Slam my imagined pussy raw. And my asshole. And my mouth. And my ears. I imagine them cutting open new slits to fuck. Like something out of a J.G. Ballard novel, I guess.

            “Yes, fuck me,” I scream, “fuck my holes!” I realize I sound like a bad romance novel heroine. Cum rushes out of me, and sticks to the inside of the panties. I ligner for a moment, then quickly strip down to nothing. Normal clothes manage to reappear just before the family returns from their pool trip.

            I do this sexual fantasy thing anytime I can. Especially on long family trips. Hotels are one of the best places, when I am in bed. My hand holds hard onto my dick and I imagine myself and all my adventures as a women or whatever I feel like that night. My favorite part, I think, is morals don’t apply. Why should they in fantasy?

 

*     *     *

 

            Is a rollercoaster sexually thrilling as flying

            Is a fantasy just as fulfilling as dying?

 

            I see you on the high rise

            I smile at your dark eyes

            Water splashed everywhere

            You blew a kiss

            You shook your hair

 

            And you drove me nearly mad

            What a time in my mind

            What a time we had

            As you drove me mad

 

            You drove me wild

            You drove me crazy crazy

            Drove me crazy child

 

            Are you trilling at me little women

Are you thrilling with me man

            You got a shilling or a pound

            To lay the money down

            Lay back and spread yon damned

 

            I could wink at you

            I am going to

            But I have a feeling

            The forces I’m dealing

            With say this is what

            I’m not supposed to do

            And you drove me nearly mad

            What a time in my mind

            What a time we had

            As you drove me mad

 

            You drove me wild

            You drove me crazy crazy

            Drove me crazy child

 

            We could go to the theme park

            We could steal another ride

            We could go into the funhouse

Kiss and fuck and hide

 

We could go to carousel

Watch those ponies move

Listen to the Calliope

Religious music groove

 

And we could be you and me

Happy if we just talk

You send your smile, beguile

Send tingles to my cock

 

My minds made up

Even though I know

I really shouldn’t do

I imagine a love and another smile

Sex and freedom

Blown from you

It’s true

Freedom blown

A kiss from you

 

            Drove me crazy child

            You drove me crazy crazy

            You drove me wild

 

As you drove me mad

            What a time we had

            What a time in my mind

            And you drove me ever mad

 

            I see you on the high rise

            I smile at your dark eyes

            Water splashed everywhere

            You blew a kiss

            You shook your hair

 

You’re far up

About to drop

From heaven to earth

I look at you

You look at me

Teasingly

For what its worth

 

I’m far up

About to drop

You start to shake your hair

Reminds me of rhymes

I’ve made many times

Yelling heaven’s there

 

Heaven’s there

In a kiss

Heaven’s there

In such bliss

Heaven’s there

We dare not miss

A chance like this

 

Now it’s after the party

After the ride

A secret fantasy

Something I’d like to hide

A dream of genders

Always denied

Though I play it straight

My source of pride

In panties and bra

Cumming I hide

 

Asking:

            Is a rollercoaster sexually thrilling as flying

Is a fantasy just as fulfilling as dying?

 

*     *     *

 

            Returning from vacation I felt emotionally spent. I always do. I don’t fear flying, but there is something about the whole concept that still scares me. Mainly gremlins like my little demons, sitting out on the wing, poised to pull the plane down. Fear stemming from the Twilight Zone.

            So I gladly returned into Makayla’s waiting arms. But something seemed amiss. Her eyes did not light up before, and I felt the connection between us slipping. I started to ask constantly about her state. Those most annoying relationship words—“are you okay?”

            She always gave a noncommittal answer. At least until the day the shit hit the wall and I became the beast—all demons I tried to suppress so long. Like the storm breaking through the barriers, flowing over and through the city pouring death and destruction down over the civilians with littler recourse (especially not from government agencies); like a volcano erupting I became brutish ugly bestial. No longer human. No longer sentient. No longer sane.

            Just pure power flowing raging, raging.  Elemental. Anger like a wave, which I said before. Even recalling it I can’t recall it well. It’s a blur, a drunkenness, a vile taste. Ever bitter, ever drowning, ever paining me. Like the other time I hurt. Like the other time life, in its many annoyances, caused me to lash out against someone deserving of something. Just not fists.

            Sixth grade. On the bus home from the American school in Barcelona. The regulars are all there, the rich kid whose step-father made millions managing a certain restaurant chain themed around Hollywood, the obnoxious twins who would become football players in High School, the computer-nerd-Jew, and the Bitch from a well off family. Then myself, middle class. And the Bitches kid brother right next to me. I felt rather depressed that day. An anonymous letter suggested that the girl I crushed on could meet the proposer to “do it” (as we called sex then, stupid little kids) during a Halloween event at the school. My friends singled me out for the blame. I suspect this is because I always answered rather bluntly who I liked when asked. Since then, I keep my crushes a secret for the most part. Disgusted with life, society, and myself, I started building paper airplanes out of the extra sheets in my binder. The kid grabbed them and balled them up. I made more. Asked him not to. But he continued. The rage grew and grew until I lashed out and slapped the bastard second grader. I only felt sorry people didn’t understand, never sorry the little brat got hurt.
            But with the girl I felt I loved, I did. It caused realignment. I felt sickened, dying inside. The demons pulling out my innards and devouring them. Jumping up and down and celebrating their control over me. Anger and Violence sashaying around the room with bloated gloating eyes. I think this is where I resolved to become as anti-violence as I humanly could: the darkness in me, the secrets beyond the smoke and mirrors projected extroverted crazy genius into the world, if uncontrolled would make me the kind of killer animal against all order that the military so delights in killing.

            It was in after sex.

            “You whore,” I just yelled, her face twisting pained. She stopped, and started to cry.

            “I am, I am a whore.”

            “What?”

            “I slept with someone else.”

            “What? Who?”

            “Promise you won’t hurt him.”

            “Who is it, who the fuck, who is it?”

            “Promise you won’t hurt him.”

            “Fine, I promise.”

            “It was with Jake.”
            “You bitch.” I raised my arm. With one quick motion I slapped her. Then the polarization began, and I slowly realized my action. I started to cry. She hugged me and I hugged her. Tears mingled. I kissed her and brushed her hair. She whispered apologies, as I did. We entwined in the sorry, sad, pathetic state.