The Monkey's Paw

This is a very long, drawn-out excuse for having writer’s block. I blame the Monkey’s Paw. And our stupid, Puritanical society that teaches us it’s evil to wish for anything you want. ....

You know what I’m talking about. That horrid short story by W.W. Jacobs, circa 1902, about a family who receive a magical monkey’s paw from India that is supposed to grant the bearer 3 wishes. The first thing they wish for is money. And guess what? They get it- in the form of a death payment from their son’s company because he’s just been killed in an industrial accident. Second wish: They want their son back alive. Guess what? Sonny-boy crawls up out of the grave, still horribly mutilated and yes, a zombie , and comes a’knockin at the door. They use the third wish to make him go away. ....

Pretty horrific stuff. Perfectly illustrates our Puritanical society’s neuroses about positivity, wishing, wanting, desire, dreams, etc. I seriously don’t fucking get it. And yet I am ensnared by it, like the rest of us. My Mohawk ancestors have virtually the polar opposite views on dreams and desires. They knew that dreams have a lot to do with wish fulfillment, and if your wishes or desires aren’t fulfilled during your waking life, your normally innocuous dreams and desires would fester into something ugly. So to counteract this potential social disruption of unhappy, unfulfilled people charging around the longhouse wreaking passive-aggressive havoc everywhere, they instilled the tradition of speaking their dreams aloud to the people who might be able to grant their unconscious desires. For example, if I dreamt that I was wearing that beautiful shell necklace that my best friend had, I might tell her about this and by social “law” or custom, she’d have to give the necklace to me. At least for awhile, until she dreams that she has it back. Same goes for when you dream about sleeping with someone else’s spouse.

I’m not kidding. To keep social harmony, you’d have to grant your tribe-mate’s wishes if you possibly could. There’s even a few stories involving the granting of non-tribe mate’s wishes, such as the British dude who figured this custom out rather quickly, for a white guy, and told one of the chiefs that he’d dreamed the Mohawk gave all their land to the British. D’oh! I think we had to have a council about that one, but you know what happened in the long run.

Anyhoo. We all know that repressed desires turn into ugly horrible monsters if they’re not expressed in a healthy way, so why the overlay of Puritanical bullshit, here in 2010? Just confirms my belief that my ancestors should have filled those pasty-faced bastards full of arrows before they even got off that damn boat. This is how the bullshit manifests in my poor heed, and perhaps in yours: I have a deep-seated fear of horrible things happening to the people I love if I get what I wish for, so better not even wish for them. And really, better not even think positive, because that could get me into trouble. In a nutshell, I still believe on some level that if I do finish this script, win an Oscar, become rich and famous- or really, achieve my potential in any other way- my husband will die a horrific death. And maybe other people too.

Sick, enit?

That’s what holds me back from going ballz-out. ....

But then, there’s this quote from the BIBLE of all places. Thomas (the former doubter, I believe) was talking to Jesus, and Jesus said to him, “If you bring out what is within you, what you bring out will set you free. If you do not bring out what is within you, what you do not bring out will destroy you.”

Other parts of our culture have different ways of saying this. One I especially like is that your wound, whatever it is, is also the source of your gift- whatever that is. All of your hurts and suffering – they are also the fount of freedom for you. However if you continue in the victim posture, and nurture the festering of that wound rather than the healing of it- or rather, think of it always in a negative fashion rather than a positive one, aka “what could I learn from this?” – then the wound will rot you out from the inside. You know people who’ve chosen that path. Lord knows I do.

What with all this Secret stuff going around and the Law of Attraction entering into the common parlance of our daily lives, these beliefs fly in the face of our unconscious, pasty-faced Puritans who’ve taught us from day one that Providence decides who deserves to get good things and who should be burned at the stake- not us humans. It’s predestination and there’s nothing we can do about it.

We grow up and we all know that’s hogwash, and horribly outdated, and yet unconsciously we all still deeply believe it, and follow it’s unspoken law.

Well, I’ve said this before but it bears repeating. Fuck that noise.

My non-Puritanical, Earth-centered Mohawk/Basque/Black Irish/Stubborn German/Stalwart Scandinavian soul says otherwise. Lately I’ve had a mini-epiphany on how to bring forth this script, or opus or whatever it is so that it doesn’t destroy me: since it feels like I’ve been pregnant with this thing for over 12 years, if I want to give birth to it, nurture it, coax it out of the womb- I have to prepare a nest. A very nice, cozy nest. Something the polar opposite, almost, of what I have now for a workspace. It needs to be organized, but not sterile. Useful, and comfortable. Plenty of space for stretching out my imagination so I don’t feel hemmed in and distracted by clutter. Lots of delicious, inspiring images and quotes up on the walls. Maybe even a tapestry hung up to demarcate the space as a SPECIAL, SACRED, BIRTHING ZONE.

Right now I share this space with a clothes dryer, so this could be complicated. However in the summer we rarely use the thing (clotheslines rock) so….. I’m thinking, candle and incense stand.

If a certain someone {{squeeeak}} comes to nanny for us, we have to rearrange stuff down here and make it livable anyway soooooo…. Perfect excuse.

Aaahhhh, I feel better already, thinking these thoughts instead of dreadful, limiting ones. If I had a monkey’s paw, I’d bend the middle finger so it sticks straight up, and I’d bend all the other fingers down. Then I’d stick that fucker right on top of my computer.

Andale!

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