by Lily Hoang
“On the day when I know all the emblems,” he asked Andreas, “shall I at least possess all knowledge of the human mind?”
And the Russian answered, “My friend, do not believe it. On that day, you will be an emblem among emblems.”
~
Lou Andreas was no ordinary woman. She was simultaneously a woman, a wife, a friend, a daughter, a writer, a psychoanalyst, an observer, etc. She is the writer of over a dozen books, and yet what is remembered of her is her role as lover, student, and devastator. She is measured by the yardsticks of the men she slept with, the ones she loved, her closest friends. She is known as the woman who renamed Rilke from Rene to Rainer because Rene was simply too feminine. She is woman who left Friedrich Nietzsche, and although not quite the cause of his insanity, something close. She is the woman who at fifty, redefined herself as a psychoanalyst and began a lifelong friendship with Sigmund Freud, who studied with him, but she is more than all this. She is an explorer, a renovator, an artist, but her legacy is that this one unimaginable woman was paramour to these three incredible men. Lou Andreas-Salome should be in our memory so much more, but what are all these women — all these women living right down the hall — if not mere extensions of the men they sleep with?
Women & Memory 5
The woman down the hall is writing her memoir. She has been ever since she was a child. Every evening, beginning age five, Christmas Day, she has written a roughly one page, first person account of her day. She includes snaps of conversations, the minutia of day-to-day life, the arguments and resolutions. She writes down as much as she can remember because even then, even when she was still a child, she had notions of greatness and the acceptance that one day, she would not be able to remember things so clearly.
Women & Desire 4
The woman down the hall eats. She eats and eats and it is repulsive how she forklifts food into that cave of her mouth. She is a monster, never fulfilled.
Women & Signs 3
The woman down the hall reads: A rough patch of road may have left you feeling as though nothing good is going to happen to you again, Aries. You got used to setbacks, disappointments, and maybe even betrayals that made you feel like the powers that be weren’t particularly interested in your happiness. And all of this was probably happening despite your diligent efforts to make things better. But there is no connection to recent events and what you can expect in the future. In fact, good things are coming in abundance. You are capable of great things now, and many blessings are on their way to you.
“Yes,” the woman down the hall says, pumping her fist to a raised knee.
Thin Women 2
The woman down the hall used to be beautiful, but now when she looks at herself, she is repulsed, and when she sees some young trick of a girl walk down the street, she catcalls warnings, hurls dirty names at them. Sometimes she is ashamed of herself for doing this, but mostly, she sees it as an act of altruism, as if she were imparting some kind of knowledge on them that might save them from becoming — her.
Trading Women 1
The woman down the hall used to be homeless, but that was long before she moved in here with us. She is so mystical to us, this one particular woman down the hall. We want to ask her a zillion questions about her life, about how she came to us, but each time we begin to ask, we become lost because there are so many new questions that emerge and demand immediate attention. We are exhausted before she has exchanged one word.
~
Sigmund Freud and Lou Andreas-Salome did not see each other often. It was something similar to the great kings of the past demanding their minions to travel to the far edges of their lands to report the wealth and beauty of their kingdoms. After years of exploration, these men would return and tell the great kings stories filled with mountains and adventure, but despite what these men saw during their travels, their stories would remain the same. Even if they had seen nothing but burnt deserts so desolate that even cacti hid below the surface of sand or prairies with blank fields of fading grass, they would return to their kings and narrate tales of the fabulous technological advances or the fantastic riches — seen in the form of emerald or ruby statues of the king — of the land. The great kings would sit back, and in their old age and inability to discern truth from fiction, they would be sufficiently satisfied. But what Freud and Andreas lacked in physical interaction, they supplemented with tender but simultaneously cutting letters. And so the Great Freud was able to remain consistently close to his sometimes friend and sometimes student.
There was a kindness in their letters, a familiarity where familiarity did not exist. Such was the nature of their relationship, with Lou Andreas asking about Freud’s family and Freud relating the distant friendship between his son and her lover, perhaps hoping that Andreas would relay an offer to bond the two men. But there was something distinctive about their relationship, one that seemed to exceed that of friends or colleagues. There was a knowledge there. There was an understanding.
“The other psychoanalysts warn me of hysterics and obsessions, dreams and desires, or else they inform me of their newly discovered theories of this or that, asking for suggestions or solutions. And you?” the Great Freud asked Lou Andreas, “you have equally difficult patients and ideas and yet you can tell me only the thoughts that come to an old man who sits on his doorstep at evening to enjoy the cool air. What is the use, then, of all your work?”
“It is evening. I imagine that we are both seated on the steps in front of our homes — you in front of yours, me in front of mine — sitting simultaneously together and apart. There is a slight breeze,” Lou Andreas answered. “Whatever the distance my words may evoke around you, you will see it from such a vantage point, even if instead of this one place I envision the war your sons will survive, the trenches and mud, the rain and the desire to drown instead of fight and that slight breeze carries with it the stench of death from this muddy estuary.”
“My gaze is that of a man meditating, lost in thought — I admit it. But yours?”
The Russian knew that when Freud became vexed with her, the doctor wanted to follow more clearly a private train of thought, so Lou’s answers and objections took their place in a discourse already proceeding on its own, in the Great Freud’s head. That is to say, between the two of them it did not matter whether questions and solutions were uttered aloud or whether each of two went on pondering in silence. In fact, they were silent, reclining on their respective couches, eyes half-closed, breathing.
It was times like these that Lou Andreas believed most strongly in narcissism, not Freud’s understanding of the word, which varied from her own definition, but it was times like these that proved Andreas the superior psychoanalyst for her comprehension and understanding of self and others.
~
“There is a girl,” Lou Andreas tells Freud, “who I cannot seem to understand because she was so exceedingly normal, without fault or flaw, until she became sick with scarlet fever two years ago. Before then, she was a happy child, without care or concern for the world around her, except that she put constant attention to ensuring that her parents were satisfied. Then, she became sick, and since then, she has not slept. She will remain awake for weeks because she knows that once she sleeps for longer than one hour, the nightmares will begin and shortly thereafter, she will scream herself awake.”
Freud responds, or imagines responding, something relating to masturbation.
“She has told me,” the Russian tells, or imagines telling, the doctor, “that there is a strong correlation between beauty and death. This is, perhaps, the most perplexing facet of her case, and it is not what she says but that she must think this. Indeed, she is a beautiful girl, even without sleep, and people often praise her for her beauty.”
Freud responds in long soliloquies, offering her advice, but she does not hear. Lou Andreas tells the great doctor about her patient but she does not wait to hear his response. She does not need to hear his response.
Women & Desire
5
An Introduction
There’s a woman sleeping down the hall. Her hair isn’t golden or flaxen or any of those perfectly descriptive words. Her nose isn’t slight or bold. Her lips aren’t full, but they are also not lacking. Her cheekbones are not defined or flat, but her eyes. Her eyes are full of gray.
She isn’t particularly striking in any way. Which is why she doesn’t threaten me. She doesn’t frighten me. I am not scared.
This woman sleeping down the hall from me, from us, she has slept for days and days and still will not emerge. She has snored and ground her teeth, and this disrupts our nights. They even manage to disrupt our days, and it is for this reason that I need to kill her.
Now.
While she is sleeping.
Because lord only knows how long this woman can sleep.
She must have little more than blistered gums by now. It’s that sound of bone scraping against bone. It’s not just a sound, but it’s really happening. This woman sleeping, she must have a burden that nestles like a bird, and hungry, it scrapes and scrapes and she must have nothing left in her mouth but the bloody remnants of that secret, whatever that secret may be.
I have never killed a woman, but I have often wondered how I would do it. Now, I wonder if her neck, which is not slender or thick, would be easy to grasp or if my large hands would simply slip from smooth skin. But of course I imagine that her skin would not be particularly smooth or rough. It is simply her way.
But I am not sympathetic. She disturbs me, and this is something I do not allow.
The Cold Outside
Once, when I was old, I knocked on a door because it was snowing. Because it was cold, I was wearing nothing but tatters and fragments, and when the door opened, I asked to enter. I was very old back then and could barely walk and yet somehow, I managed to travel quite a far distance simply to knock on this door. When the door opened and a maliciously smiling girl appeared, I found myself suddenly energized. Her eyes were fire, and looking at me, I was warm.
To the small girl I said, “It’s cold out here, outside.”
The child looked just beyond me. She barely bothered to notice that my lips were once again beginning to chatter, and although I wanted nothing more than to push her down and run towards the flickering fire behind her, I smiled the kindest smile I could.
She said nothing.
To the small girl, I repeated, “It’s cold out here, outside.” I said, “Dear child, won’t you let me into your house? It’s quite warm in there I can tell. From your eyes, I can tell that there is warmth tucked directly behind you, if only you’d let me come in.”
The child continued to look beyond me. I was certain that she did not flinch when I began to speak. This, I am quite sure, is no small feat because it has been a great while since I have had the pleasure to engage in oral hygiene. It is nothing personal. There is, in fact, little more that I would like than to be able to wrap some floss around my fingers.
I looked at this small girl with her vacant face, her eyes passionate about something entirely not me. I wanted to kill her. I wanted her to let me into her home so that I could do so without the neighbors noticing.
Once again, I tried, “I am an old lady, dear child. Can you not see that I am shaking, even now as I speak I cannot stop my teeth from banging violently together?” I extended my hand towards her.
I reached and I reached, and I was certain that eventually, either my limbs would extend no further or I would be able to touch her, but my hand kept moving forward and we never did intersect. Nor did she move. It was the strangest thing, how this child avoided my touch, a touch that we both knew would be lethal.
And my arm, by this point of acknowledgement, must have been nearly four feet long. It was a piece of salt-water taffy, only not so sweet or edible.
Finally, when my arm had reached its limit, the girl looked to me and said, “Old lady, you may enter my home, but only if you take out all of your teeth and both of your eyes. Then, you must peel away the nails from your fingers. When all of this is done, knock once again on my door, and I will come outside and strip you of your impure rags and bring you into a warm stew of bath, and there, I will clean you with my own small hands. After you are clean, I will set you by the warmest fire, and there, we will feast.”
I looked at this girl. There was nothing left in her eyes, but she did not avoid my gaze. So I began, one tooth at a time.
The Little Bird That Could
It is true that the little bird had lost nearly half of its left wing after the dog had had her pleasure with it. The man did all that he could to salvage the small bits of cartilage, pressing chunks of loose flesh back into the bone, hoping it would stick like putty if only he applied enough pressure for a long enough period of time.
He drove. He drove knowing that it wasn’t safe for him to be driving while holding a dying bird in his lap, pellets of muscle staining his pants, but he was careful, and he knew that if he waited, the bird would not survive. For this, he was a kind man. It would be impossible to not think he was a kind man when he did, after all, leave his car running when he reached the animal hospital to ensure that the bird received prompt attention. Some would call this stupid, a man abandoning his vehicle like that, but those more foolish would call it kindness, but it matters little how he is judged because he did, after all, leave his car running and in doing so, it was stolen, but by then, the bird had been stabilized, and he cared more for the bird’s health than a money-eating car.
It’s true that the car was stolen, that he in fact had stolen it because it wasn’t but earlier that day that some louse left his car unlocked with the key still in the ignition. This man, this kind man who saved the poor bird, out of dumb luck stumbled across this car, this car that clearly belonged to someone else, but not caring much, perhaps because of intoxication, he got in and drove away.
We’re not going to call it karma or fate or any of these words, but it is impossible to deny that there is some kind of cycle involved because the moment he walked into his house, still intoxicated, although that may be too kind of a description, he saw blood drizzled in chaotic trails. Out of curiosity, he followed these movements, which he alone could see. We have seen the house and the blood and sure as shit there’s no way he could’ve seen any kind of pattern, and yet, somehow he did, and after he followed the trail to its end, he saw the dog and the bird. He’s certain that at some point there was a struggle, perhaps even a war, but by the time he saw it, there were bits of dull bone protruding from this mass of flab and dirty feathers. The dog tossed it up and caught it. She tossed it up again and caught it midair. The man puked in his hand. Then, he called the dog, “Here Killer. Here boy.” The dog’s name wasn’t Killer. The dog wasn’t his. This wasn’t his house. But the dog came anyways. The dog came and dropped the bird on his feet. The dog wasn’t even a boy.
This is when the miracle happened, when the inebriated man picked up the pulsating carcass and crammed his own fingers over the missing pockets of organs and skin. The bird, recognizing a strange kindness, continued to breathe. This was perhaps all the little bird could do.
So the man jumped into the car that was not his and drove with the little bird dissolving in his lap to the animal hospital where the second miracle happened and the bird survived.
It was certain that the bird had only one functional wing and that the dog that damaged many of the little bird’s nerve endings, although which ones in particular weren’t quite clear. The man, now quite sober, agreed to care for the bird, which he’d become certain was some type of savior.
After eight hours of surgery and after he waited for another two hours for news that the bird had survived the anesthetic and all else, the man finally went outside, and he didn’t even bother looking for the car, as he was sure that it had been stolen and if it wasn’t, he certainly didn’t have any respect left for a car that sat outside for ten hours with the keys still in the ignition that couldn’t be stolen. He walked the many, man
y miles necessary to reach his own home, his real home.
He was tired, but he didn’t rest. He went inside and immediately began building a birdhouse. It had once been a bonding father-son activity, although he could hardly remember if it was between him and his father or him and his son, but his hands knew where to hammer, where to hold without instruction. And so he built and he built with great vigor until the house was complete. A two-story mansion designed specifically for a bird missing a wing. Everything was slightly off, on this diagonal skewer, and the man, satisfied, slept. He slept for what must have been days and days and he never emerged, not even to go to the restroom, and it was not until the animal hospital called for him three days later that he finally woke, completely refreshed.
The man got into his own car and drove. He drove until he arrived and picked up his little bird, his own little bird. He was happy to see it standing, although the dog had almost lopped off a sizable portion of the bird’s left leg. The man reminded himself to account for this in the birdhouse.
Joyous, the man drove home, eager to show the little bird his new palace.
The Soundless, Bloody Whistle
So I began one tooth at a time, and without anesthetic, it was difficult and bloody. My fingers became pliers, and they twisted and pulled with strength even I did not know I possessed. Perhaps it was out of desperation or out of coldness, but my fingers were chisels and pick-axes, and I performed the most skilled operations until all of my teeth were gone. Even my wisdom teeth which had been so firmly nestled in the nerves running along my throat that dentists and surgeons alike were too frightened to remove them.
I took out all of my teeth, even the ones that had not yet formed, and I put them in a small pail for the little girl to inspect. They jingled a pretty melody, which I wanted to whistle but could scarcely manage a piddle of a sound without my teeth.
I took a swig of something that burned my throat, and it stung the corridors of my gums, but I didn’t mind because there was some sort of numbing agent contained in it so I took a few more swigs until swigs became gulps and I was firmly intoxicated.