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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #754557 added June 10, 2012 at 5:43pm
Restrictions: None
Rails - Phobia
Liza Thompson, the hypnotist, glanced at the papers in front of her then looked straight at the patient fidgeting on the sofa. Irene was a financial advisor and estate planner, and her outward appearance reflected her standing. Her dark hair was streaked with blonde and pulled back with a navy chiffon bow at the nape of her neck. Liza wondered how the bow didn’t tangle with the oversized gold earrings and the clasp of Irene’s showy pendant. The glitz, however, was toned down by her grey wool suit and the white silk blouse.
“In this report, Dr. Allen says you suffer from Siderodromophobia, that is train phobia, related to Hodophobia, the fear of travel. To get to the bottom of this fear, he is suggesting we regress you back to a time when your fears might have set in so deeply.”
Obviously restless and uncomfortable, Irene rubbed her hands together. “I understand. I have to drive by the railroad tracks on the way to work every day. Just seeing the tracks gives me the jitters. Once or twice, I thought I was having a full-blown panic attack. I know this is not normal.”
Liza smiled. “Let’s see what we can do. I’ll tape our session so we can review it later.”
Liza put Irene under quite easily but found nothing in her childhood that could initiate such a phobia. She decided to take it a step further, to a time when Irene was in the womb or maybe beyond.
“Irene,” she said, using her low, husky voice, “You are not inside your mother, yet. Where are you?”
“In the darkness.”
“What can you see, even though it is dark?”
“A tunnel. I just came through it.”
“Turn back and walk through the tunnel and come out on the other side. It will be a different time.” She waited a minute or so, then asked. “Where are you now?”
“Inside a boxcar and my boots are hurting me. My feet are hot and itchy.” Irene's voice rose high like that of a child.
“Who is near you?”
“Mutti.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you with your mother?”
“Inside a train. Sonderzuge they call it. Inside the same kind of a wagon that brought cattle near where Oma and Opa’s farm used to be.”
“Describe what you are seeing.”
“There is a half light from the ceiling. So crowded in here. I can hardly turn around to Mutti.”
“How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“What’s your name? What does your mother call you?”
“Ruth. Mutti calls me liebchen.”
“What else do you see, Ruth?”
“Wood slats all around. Lotsa people. Thick, black muck in the gaps between the planks on the floor Where Mutti and I are standing a plank is missing. I can see the outside.”
“What do you see from that opening?”
“Just tracks. Railroad tracks. With dead leaves on them.”
“Look around you now. Is there a door in there somewhere?”
“Yes, there is one. It slides. It closed behind us with a clang when they pushed us in.”
“Okay, what can you hear from where you are?”
“People. They gasp, moan, cry. I hear the screech of the train. Metal scraping on metal. A loud repetitive hissing sound the train makes when it slows down or starts up.”
“What do you feel?”
“Angry. Mutti made me wear too much. Now I am stinking like the rest of the people here.”
“Stinking?’
“The stench is awful. Also the smoke comes in, from everywhere through the slats, making us cough. Everyone’s so smelly here. Also the shit-pail at the corner sloshed over, and now the entire place reeks. And our house was so clean.” Irene sighed.
“Where was your house, Ruth?” Liza continued, keeping her tone even.
“Munchen. Im Deutschland.”
“Do you know which year it is?”
“I’m not sure. 1941 maybe.”
“Where is the train taking you?”
“Auschwitz.”
“How do you know? Who told you that?”
“Officers. Two officers came to our house one morning, yelling “Raus! Raus! Schnell!” I asked where we were going. They said to a very nice place called Auschwitz where there are rides and movie-houses for children. But we didn’t go there directly. First we went to some place else in a bus. The bus was fun. I got to sit by the window.”
“Come back to the train now, Ruth. What happened when you arrived at Auschwitz.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t arrive.”
“What happened?”
“Mutti asked for water for me and made the guard mad. The guard pushed me out on the tracks. Ouuuu!” Irene started crying and screaming. Shocked, Liza dropped her pen and rose, twisting the hem of her skirt,
“Calm down, calm down. Those tracks don’t exist anymore. No one can hurt you. Irene, Irene. You are Irene now. You are feeling no pain. You are very calm. You are very healthy. You are not afraid of tracks or trains. On the count of three, you’ll wake up, and everything will be better than ever.”
Irene opened her eyes. She searched the room with an empty look. Then, she reached to the Kleenex box next to her and wiped her face with a tissue.. “Wow!” she said. “It’s not dark anymore.”
Liza nodded, feeling almost as drained as Irene was. “Yes, you did great, Irene. We’ll go over the tape during the next session, but this one was for the books, for sure.”
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Prompt: June 10 - Rails |
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