The Analyst
Page 1
The Analyst
Peter Stickland & Marc Melchert
First published in the UK March 2015
77books
69 Osbaldeston Rd
London N16 7DL
www.77books.co.uk
Copyright © 2015 Peter Stickland & Marc Melchert
The authors have asserted their right under the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
to be identified as the makers of this work.
ISBN 978-0-9570997-4-6
The painting on the cover is Femme à la dentelle
by Jean Metzinger; 1916 oil on canvas.
For those who continue searching
Love tells us we are somebody
Knowledge tells us we are nobody
Tara Brach
Go to the desert
Search for the one grain of sand that is you
If you find the right one try to get rid of it
Marc Melchert
“...in spite of the deep-seated craving for love, almost everything else is considered to be more important than love: success, prestige, money, power - almost all our energy is used for the learning of how to achieve these aims and almost none to learn
the art of loving.”
Erich Fromm
Our Thanks
Our thanks to Glenda Hydler whose comments on an early draft of the story were the inspiration for the chapter - The therapist’s report. Her thoughts helped us to expand and define the book.
We also thank Caroline Funk who translated an early version of the book into German. Her generous support gave Marc the opportunity to consider the text in his own language.
Many thanks also to Georg Sütterlin for proof reading the final text and for his enthusiastic feedback.
The Rain of the Dancers in the chapter of that name was inspired by the writing of Léon Lehuraux.
Thanks to Trish Lyons who posted Spiritual Ecology in Rwanda on Facebook. This is used in Accepting incomprehensibility.
The Zen Story about the monk who escapes the monastery is from “The Empty Mirror” by Janwillem van de Wetering.
The references to metaphor were inspired by the extraordinary book, “Metaphor” by Denis Donoghue.
The chapter -A particular invitation was adapted from a story of in the book - Loving by Peter Stickland.
Thanks to Ulla Schoch. Her speech, “Principles of Awareness, Yesterday and Today,” inspired the talk about mindfulness in Admissions and revelations.
Thanks to Madi Solomon for the link to Maria Popova’s website, Brain Pickings. The text by Dan Savage was quoted in Admissions and revelations.
Tara Brach inspired many thoughts in the latter part of the book. In particular, the chapter, Dancing and poetry and the views expressed by Kathy in the chapter, Mythical thought.
Contents
The Rain of the Dancers
Mr A’s statement
How we belong to each other
Inventing Mrs X
Accepting incomprehensibility
Party with a comedian
Enchanted interpretation
The therapist’s report
Making preparations
A particular invitation
Between the polarities
The first meeting
The virtual client
Dancing and poetry
Admissions and revelations
Mythical thought
Outside the walls
The Rain of the Dancers
The Rain of the Dancers, a short story in a book by Alexander Franklin, alerted Stefan to the probability that he was not who he thought he was. It was as if this simple tale rapped at a smoky pain of glass hidden deep inside him and when he opened the window to see who or what was knocking, a dark realisation came flooding in.
Stefan was horrified. He had not yet got out of bed. The day’s work had yet to be started. Staring vacantly ahead, he wondered why he identified so strongly with the ill-fated protagonist. Unfortunate as this young man was, he had luck on his side. Stefan doubted that he would be miraculously saved at the last minute as this fellow had been. He knew it was time he made radical changes in his life.
Recently, Stefan had been thrown off course. The ragged state he was heading towards was not the kind of place he had imagined for himself. Certain aspects of his thinking were beginning to undermine his position and he had already vowed to intensify his practice of writing and organising his thoughts. Recently he had dedicated himself more intensely to his search for those words and phrases that might throw a little light on the dilemmas that haunted him. This, he imagined, optimised his chance of keeping on an even keel. Here is the story that had horrified Stefan.
The Rain of the Dancers
A stranger, a young man with a broken nose, arrived in an oasis town and was overwhelmed by the impression that he was travelling through time. First he blamed the delusion on the heat and clamour of the busy town, then he blamed it on his endless wandering across desert lands and mountains. Now, resting in a doorway, he imagined he was an insect. He was hiding in the shadows of stones. A local man, an old singer, noticed the stranger with some concern and sat down beside him.
“Something concerns you, friend,” the singer declared.
“No,” the young stranger replied. “I’m new in town and I can’t stop watching these women who walk along in pairs.”
“Oh, these women come and go all hours of the day and night, smoking all the while. They frequent the dance hall and live over there in the guest-houses.”
Then, in a calm but jubilant voice, the singer talked of the long line of women in his family who had danced and performed as courtesans since biblical times.
“Kheira, Nachida, Zahira and Nouna, they were the first. When they made their glittering entrance covered in gold and silver, all eyes were directed on them. These kind of women have never shown expression on their faces; they let their brightly coloured dresses flowing from their dancing bodies do that for them.
“After the first generation of dancers came women like Nour and Loula and their daughters, Safia and Hisryam. These ancient desert dwellers inherited an extraordinary destiny. Their faces were disturbing, sensual to the point of being animalistic, but they were full of fierce charm. The sight of their faces, whitened and rouged, shocked many a man when first they encountered them. Even those men who saw them every day could not resist the promise of their carmined lips, their intoxicating blackened eyebrows and their rosy cheeks adorned with spangles.”
Since childhood, the stranger with the broken nose had only caught fragmentary snatches of the place some referred to as paradise. He never imagined it had anything to do with him, but as the singer talked of these dancers, his youthful spirit suddenly blossomed. Now he sensed that these women might be the prize for those who entered the Promised Land. Suddenly he imagined intense flashes of promising delights like he had never imagined them before. Until this moment the combustion of his early years had ravaged many similar invitations to dream, but now something had startled him out of failure; something had washed over him and the possibility of redemption was now in his sights.
When the old singer described exquisite jewellery, the stranger imagined he could touch the gold earrings and run bands of gold coins through his fingers. He told the old man that he longed to kiss those necks adorned with large ornaments. The singer smiled and handed him a massive bracelet, several inches in diameter and six inches broad. It was studded with coloured stones.
The singer, sensing his guest’s delight, continued to talk about his ancient family. He eulogized Imen and Kamilla, describing the scent of the aromatic herbs they exuded. He eulogized Hadil and Anissa, recounting the superstitious amulets an
d jewellery that had covered their bodies. He talked of women as voluptuous goddesses and described their wet, slick skin and their young panther’s musculature. He spoke of their elegant bare feet stained with henna.
The stranger was enraptured, but when the singer described the eyes of these women as thoughtless and their laughter as a mixture of tenderness and cruelty, fear returned to the young visitor. He could so easily return to the world he had inhabited in his youth. Having grown accustomed to the countless shocks that had battered his feelings, he imagined he had become hardened to the old repressive regime, but the shock that was now upon him was like a bomb. The heavens still held a threat over him. It was still ready to punish him for clandestine joys. It would always be ready to reduce him to the frailest child. He reacted as always, taking refuge in the sub-strata of his being.
“Fear not,” the singer entreated him. “Keep yourself open, trust your feelings and make yourself available. Listen as I tell you about Yamina and Dounia, of Ryma and Narciss. No words of mine can do justice to their countenance or the beautiful costumes they made, but listen intently and use your imagination. Imagine a head swathed in a lovely rainbow-hued, long fringed, silk shawl. Imagine it streaming down a slender and powerful back. In a corner of the shawl you catch a glimpse of hair. A shawl falls from a woman’s head and you see plaits tied with coloured ribbons hanging down her cheeks. A woman stands before you; passive and crafty, arrayed like an idol in copper and stones. You know there is something timeless about her. Surely you know that she carries the symbolism of cults that vanished centuries before this. Just surrender to it, my dear traveller. In this town these women still reign supreme.”
The stranger smiled the smile of a child who is curious about the day’s brilliance. He was not relieved of his suspicions that shadows would soon envelop him. He knew he would always be the world’s prisoner. The singer, smelling the fear upon him yet, pressed on with the litany of his family of dancers.
“You must know that the world has been entertained in this manner forever. I will talk to you of Lamia and Amina, of Yasmine and Amira, for then you will learn how to trust your dreams. Think of these young women, their hair floating gently in the air as they dance. It’s like the mane of a mountain beast. If the henna on their hands, red as flames, captivates their worshippers, then it is as it should be. The male audience must become locked in silent contemplation of them, for it is right that they feel all the attraction, all the madness of their desperate instincts.”
By this time, the stranger with the broken nose had fallen fast asleep. He was dreaming of himself as a child. He was climbing out of an old wooden cradle. He could see little windows high above him. They allowed him to breathe. Then he saw himself as a toddler taking his first steps in the rain. The rain was cleansing him. He was receiving a gift. He was inheriting a new life.
Stefan was horrified, but he was also enchanted. He was the young man with the broken nose, the desert traveller full of fears and reluctance. The years had also been hard on him. He too had shut himself down, had spent numerous years trying to escape. He too had denied himself respite and pleasure. Like the stranger in the story Stefan was proficient at denial, but unlike him, he was still waiting for fortune to smile. He yearned for a benevolent singer to magically arrive and release the blockage that was undermining him. Where was Stefan’s singer? He too needed to be nourished by the rain and connected with his inner child. He too wanted his innocence and optimism for life renewed. He wished it were possible to meet the story’s author, Alexander Franklin. Maybe he had saved himself from drowning in a sea similar to the kind of sea he was drowning in.
Stefan had worked hard at his redemption. For years he had made his dreams the subject of careful consideration and taken meticulous care to describe them with precision. With his increasing need to deepen his understanding he had become ever more preoccupied with the craft of writing. Clarity and elegant description were now his companions. Each night, before sleep, he encouraged his unconscious to yield up its elusive spirit and when the courting of his nocturnal reveries produced a dream, he knew better than most how to entice it to part with its precious cargo. If he was going to win his fight against ‘not knowing,’ this delicate material was an essential component of his armoury.
Stefan wasn’t entirely certain what he was fighting against; he knew it only as a perfidious malady that left him feeling undernourished. He had banked on the notion that success would be a long-term ambition, but recently he sensed that time was running out. The survival instinct in him was strong, but there were days when his malaise got the better of him. On these days he felt that nothing he’d done had helped to prevent the rot from spreading. On these days he had not the confidence he needed to move forward. In the past, any kind of game had helped him to stay afloat, but now, if he was not to lose the fight, he had to look for new ways to re-energise himself. He had pledged to remain clued-up and alert and he had directed himself to be constantly in search of new possibilities and fresh intelligence.
On those days when he feared he would be lost forever, when inspiration of any kind was lacking, Stefan retreated to the quiet of his study. It was here that he could contemplate and tune his meticulously systematic procedures. He collected anything and everything that might prove useful; even the odd phrase a colleague or friend had used gave him some relief. He had an impressive collection of these conversational snippets and had recently re-organised them into new folders to make access easier. Yesterday he filed this statement from his friend Madi.
“I want the kind of therapy where someone gives me a piece of music to listen to, a poem to read or a painting to meditate upon.”
Stefan wanted this too and now he had it on file. It lived in his ‘snippets’ folder next to the previous entry from Caroline.
“I’ve been re-decorating the house with my sister. She sees things differently to me. With her I get to discover and then see how to love my blind spots.”
These kind of poetic insight danced nicely in Stefan; they helped to keep him buoyant now that the prospect of sinking had become such a distinct possibility. Stories too had a beneficent effect on Stefan’s spirit and it was rare for a story to overwhelm him as The Rain of the Dancers had done. The weight of insight he discovered in this tale truly unbalanced his equilibrium and it was some considerable time before he could settle his nerves and regain his wits.
Mr A’s statement
On the momentous morning Stefan read The Rain of the Dancers, he had to take himself in hand. He allowed himself a little time to refocus and then he directed himself downstairs to proceed with the day’s work. He was not one to wallow in dilemmas or throw in the towel.
Reading through his many emails, Stefan found a communication from his association of psychotherapists. It was a new referral and he had no option other than to attend to it. Stefan had treated a wide variety of cases, including depression, impulse control disorders, eating disorders and anxiety disorders. It was problems of this kind that he was generally asked to take up. If he received a new client it was because he had space in his diary; there was no question that he wouldn’t accept it. Only once did he feel he could not consent to taking up a case and then he agreed with his supervisor to refer it to him rather than to another therapist. They both concurred that the reason he didn’t want to accept a case provided his supervisor with a lens through which he could focus on Stefan’s concerns.
It is unusual that a client is seen as problematic before therapy has begun and Stefan had no reason to suspect this case was anything out of the ordinary. Uncharacteristically though, the new client had refused to give his name, asking if he could be referred to as Mr A. There was also an informative and coherent statement from the man, which wasn’t common. This statement didn’t advertise Mr A as a distressing case, but obsessional love was at the core of it; an issue Stefan had not dealt with before this. Being alerted by The Rain of the Dancers to his own concerns about sensuality, Stefan quickly decided to
move Mr A’s application out of his orbit.
The dilemma for Stefan was that he didn’t want to send this referral to his therapist. He didn’t want to discuss the issues it raised. There and then he knew that trouble was already on the horizon. He read and re-read Mr A’s statement and decided he was fascinated by the man. What seriously set off his alarm signals was the realisation that he didn’t want to offer anyone else the opportunity of sweeping through Mr A’s engaging little mine field. Realising that he was already envious of the man’s future therapist, he addressed himself sternly, vowing not to be waylaid. All he could do though was to direct himself to sleep on it and hope that the morning would bring new strength and insight.
After a difficult night Stefan decided to proceed in the way that was expected of him. He sent Mr A’s statement to his therapist and included a studiedly nonchalant note, blaming his vast workload for the referral.
The decision did not give Stefan the sense of relief he was counting on. His therapist replied to his email with the suggestion that they discuss Mr A’s case at their next session. Stefan thought about possible strategies for warding off panic. For a seasoned mental health professional, expert in helping individuals overcome their fears, his place in this dilemma was already pitiably short of insights and packed to the rim with fear. He read and re-read Mr A’s statement.
Mr A’s statement.
I am forty-four next birthday. I’ve been over pre-occupied with a married woman, Mrs X, for too long. I’m enchanted by her flirting and by her voluptuous body. When we met I took up her enticing hints, enjoyed a brief period of intimacy and was then informed that our relationship was over. I am now longing for the return of this woman who liberated my sexual fears and helped me to feel confident in myself.