P
Pia
Guest
Hélene Cixous has always kept a dream diary. She writes in the middle of the night on large paper which she keeps beside her bed. Sometimes the dreams make sense, sometimes they are just, well, dreamy. They circle back, entwining themselves, repeating, jumping. Dreams are strange things. Have you ever kept a dream diary?
Last night I had a dream. I was in a square in a town. It could have been in Germany or in Alsace. The buildings were half-timbered. I was standing on a wooden platform that rose six feet or more over the cobbles. A crowd, a large crowd, was gathered and I could hear the sound of chatter. I could distinguish no words, just a murmuring. My feet were bare, my ankles chained. At one side of the platform a brazier glowed red, sending smoke into the clear, cloudless sky.
Hands took hold of me. A man, or two men, in leather jackets, tabards perhaps. Black leather masks covering their eyes, just slits for eyes. Eyes like crows. They took my arms. They took my arms. And took me to the block of smooth, worn wood, wood that glowed in the sunlight, shimmered as though it had been washed clean and a skein of water clung to the surface. They laid me down. They laid me down. A hammer-blow broke the shackles from my ankles and I felt my toes move free. I lifted my body on my elbows and saw the rawness that the irons had cut into me.
Hands pushed me back. Not hard, not a shove, just moving me so that I was lying on my back. I felt my lips open. I felt the freshness of the air in my mouth, on the inside of my lips. I saw my open lips and my eyes looking at the two men. They took my wrists and bound them with rope to iron rings on the corners of the block. They took my ankles and bound them with rope to iron rings on the corner of the block. They pulled on each rope, each rope in turn, stretching me out on the block. I whimpered as they pulled. I felt my body strain and my skin on my ribs and my breasts against the rough grey shift they had dressed me in.
The man, the first man, took a knife. He held the knife over me. He cut the grey cloth below my collar bones, the knife cutting up, shimmering in the sun. He cut down, then pulled at the shift and tore it in two. He tore it from my neck to my sex. He tore it and made me naked. My sex, smooth and shaved by the old woman in the cells. Naked. My belly naked. My breasts naked. My chest straining. I raised my head. My belly rising and falling. He pulled the torn shift from beneath me. I felt my naked back cold on the smooth, damp block. I felt my body naked. My arms and my breasts and my belly and my legs. I looked at the men. They threw the torn shift into the brazier and I watched as it burned.
I heard the crowd murmur. I heard the crowd murmur. I saw him raise his knife to the crowd. He came to me and bent over me. He pushed my hair away from my eyes. He ran the back of his finger over my cheek. He took hold of my breast and squeezed it. He took my breast in his hand. In his hand he took it. I felt him move my breast. I felt him holding my breast. I felt my sex and my nipples and my mouth opened and I made no noise.
He held my breast and he held his knife and he pushed my breast back towards my face and he placed the knife beneath it and he pressed with his knife and I lifted my head and saw a thin stream of red run from my breast and down towards the V of my ribs and down my belly and he pushed the knife again and I watched him do it.
He pushed the knife into me, the big silver knife. He pushed into me and pushed down on my breast and I heard myself whimpering and he pushed it again and I felt the knife on my ribs and he pushed again and I felt my mouth becoming dry and I felt the sound of the knife on my ribs as he pushed. And the softness of my breast as he cut. I felt his hand still on my breast, my half-cut-away breast and he cut. I felt his fingers slide beneath the cut and over my ribs and I felt the knife cut again. I felt his other hand on the top of my breast, on my nipple. I felt his hand pushing beneath and his other hand, the hand on top, gripping my breast and pulling and I felt my breast tearing from my body and I saw my eyes fill with water and my mouth become wide and my ribs rising and falling and gasping for air. I felt him tear and my eyes opened and became clear and I saw him holding my breast.
He held my breast in his hand. He held it high in his hand. He threw my breast into the brazier. I saw my breast burn and sputter and I saw him move around to the other side of the block and I felt his hand again. His hand on my breast. On my other breast. I felt his hand and I looked at my breast and my head fell back and I looked at the sky and I felt the wetness of the inside of my lips.
I felt his hand and I felt him cut into my breast with his knife. I felt his hand inside my breast. I felt his fingers spreading between my breast and my ribs and I felt him cutting into me and tearing my breast and holding it high and I felt his hands on my body, wiping the blood over my chest and over my belly and I looked at my body and the blood over my body and over my arms.
I looked at myself and I rolled my head and looked at the crowd and I felt the tears come back into my eyes.
I watched him and the other man. They took a new knife. A longer knife with an end that was curved like a hook. He came to me with the hooked knife and I felt him press the hooked end onto my bocy, onto my body beneath my ribs. He pushed it into me. I saw my blood ooze upwards and slide over me. He pushed it into me then he pulled the knife down through me, not deep into me. He pulled it through me. The hook of the knife. He pulled it through me. He pulled it down over my belly, through me . Through my navel. Down through me. Down to my sex. Down through me. A cut through me. A deep cut through me. I felt his hands in me. I raised my head and saw his hands in me. Pushing my belly open. Pushing with his hands. I saw a crimson cut through me. Through my belly. I felt his hands in my belly. I felt his hands inside me. I looked at his eyes under his mask. He wasn't looking at my eyes. I felt my mouth open. I felt the wetness of the inside of my open lips. I felt my blood beneath me. My blood running beneath me over the wooden block. My own blood running beneath me. Running between my legs. I felt his hands inside me. I felt him lifting the inside of me. I felt the hook of his knife inside me. I felt him cutting inside me. I felt my bowels lifting from me. I felt my bowels, warm and wet, being placed over me. Over my torn belly. I lifted my head and looked at my purple bowels and my blood and my torn body.
I loved my dream. Maybe tomorrow I will dream of the arena and four horses, each tied to one of my limbs. Maybe I will dream of a dark cell and my naked body stretched on a rack. Maybe I will dream of my breasts and my back under the lash. Maybe. I love dreaming.
Last night I had a dream. I was in a square in a town. It could have been in Germany or in Alsace. The buildings were half-timbered. I was standing on a wooden platform that rose six feet or more over the cobbles. A crowd, a large crowd, was gathered and I could hear the sound of chatter. I could distinguish no words, just a murmuring. My feet were bare, my ankles chained. At one side of the platform a brazier glowed red, sending smoke into the clear, cloudless sky.
Hands took hold of me. A man, or two men, in leather jackets, tabards perhaps. Black leather masks covering their eyes, just slits for eyes. Eyes like crows. They took my arms. They took my arms. And took me to the block of smooth, worn wood, wood that glowed in the sunlight, shimmered as though it had been washed clean and a skein of water clung to the surface. They laid me down. They laid me down. A hammer-blow broke the shackles from my ankles and I felt my toes move free. I lifted my body on my elbows and saw the rawness that the irons had cut into me.
Hands pushed me back. Not hard, not a shove, just moving me so that I was lying on my back. I felt my lips open. I felt the freshness of the air in my mouth, on the inside of my lips. I saw my open lips and my eyes looking at the two men. They took my wrists and bound them with rope to iron rings on the corners of the block. They took my ankles and bound them with rope to iron rings on the corner of the block. They pulled on each rope, each rope in turn, stretching me out on the block. I whimpered as they pulled. I felt my body strain and my skin on my ribs and my breasts against the rough grey shift they had dressed me in.
The man, the first man, took a knife. He held the knife over me. He cut the grey cloth below my collar bones, the knife cutting up, shimmering in the sun. He cut down, then pulled at the shift and tore it in two. He tore it from my neck to my sex. He tore it and made me naked. My sex, smooth and shaved by the old woman in the cells. Naked. My belly naked. My breasts naked. My chest straining. I raised my head. My belly rising and falling. He pulled the torn shift from beneath me. I felt my naked back cold on the smooth, damp block. I felt my body naked. My arms and my breasts and my belly and my legs. I looked at the men. They threw the torn shift into the brazier and I watched as it burned.
I heard the crowd murmur. I heard the crowd murmur. I saw him raise his knife to the crowd. He came to me and bent over me. He pushed my hair away from my eyes. He ran the back of his finger over my cheek. He took hold of my breast and squeezed it. He took my breast in his hand. In his hand he took it. I felt him move my breast. I felt him holding my breast. I felt my sex and my nipples and my mouth opened and I made no noise.
He held my breast and he held his knife and he pushed my breast back towards my face and he placed the knife beneath it and he pressed with his knife and I lifted my head and saw a thin stream of red run from my breast and down towards the V of my ribs and down my belly and he pushed the knife again and I watched him do it.
He pushed the knife into me, the big silver knife. He pushed into me and pushed down on my breast and I heard myself whimpering and he pushed it again and I felt the knife on my ribs and he pushed again and I felt my mouth becoming dry and I felt the sound of the knife on my ribs as he pushed. And the softness of my breast as he cut. I felt his hand still on my breast, my half-cut-away breast and he cut. I felt his fingers slide beneath the cut and over my ribs and I felt the knife cut again. I felt his other hand on the top of my breast, on my nipple. I felt his hand pushing beneath and his other hand, the hand on top, gripping my breast and pulling and I felt my breast tearing from my body and I saw my eyes fill with water and my mouth become wide and my ribs rising and falling and gasping for air. I felt him tear and my eyes opened and became clear and I saw him holding my breast.
He held my breast in his hand. He held it high in his hand. He threw my breast into the brazier. I saw my breast burn and sputter and I saw him move around to the other side of the block and I felt his hand again. His hand on my breast. On my other breast. I felt his hand and I looked at my breast and my head fell back and I looked at the sky and I felt the wetness of the inside of my lips.
I felt his hand and I felt him cut into my breast with his knife. I felt his hand inside my breast. I felt his fingers spreading between my breast and my ribs and I felt him cutting into me and tearing my breast and holding it high and I felt his hands on my body, wiping the blood over my chest and over my belly and I looked at my body and the blood over my body and over my arms.
I looked at myself and I rolled my head and looked at the crowd and I felt the tears come back into my eyes.
I watched him and the other man. They took a new knife. A longer knife with an end that was curved like a hook. He came to me with the hooked knife and I felt him press the hooked end onto my bocy, onto my body beneath my ribs. He pushed it into me. I saw my blood ooze upwards and slide over me. He pushed it into me then he pulled the knife down through me, not deep into me. He pulled it through me. The hook of the knife. He pulled it through me. He pulled it down over my belly, through me . Through my navel. Down through me. Down to my sex. Down through me. A cut through me. A deep cut through me. I felt his hands in me. I raised my head and saw his hands in me. Pushing my belly open. Pushing with his hands. I saw a crimson cut through me. Through my belly. I felt his hands in my belly. I felt his hands inside me. I looked at his eyes under his mask. He wasn't looking at my eyes. I felt my mouth open. I felt the wetness of the inside of my open lips. I felt my blood beneath me. My blood running beneath me over the wooden block. My own blood running beneath me. Running between my legs. I felt his hands inside me. I felt him lifting the inside of me. I felt the hook of his knife inside me. I felt him cutting inside me. I felt my bowels lifting from me. I felt my bowels, warm and wet, being placed over me. Over my torn belly. I lifted my head and looked at my purple bowels and my blood and my torn body.
I loved my dream. Maybe tomorrow I will dream of the arena and four horses, each tied to one of my limbs. Maybe I will dream of a dark cell and my naked body stretched on a rack. Maybe I will dream of my breasts and my back under the lash. Maybe. I love dreaming.