Allison's Archives

I dream often about taking a meat cleaver down my left shoulder. The left, so I can still write with my right arm. The cut won’t be clean because this is a one-woman act, and half of my body will refuse to yield. Half of everything always refuses to yield. The amputation will leave some exposed flesh that will probably get infected. The likes of ‘gruesome’ and ‘nasty’ will insufficiently capture the aftermath of this violence. No word will suffice. If I chance upon the appropriate word, I will write it with my right. 

And can you call this ‘violence’? Is all bloodshed violent? Is it more violent to be violent to yourself or for someone else to be violent to you? ‘Violence’ is such a lithe-looking word. How can a lithe-looking word cause so much damage? How can a lithe-looking person cause so much damage? Does the sympathy change if the violence means to bring about peace? Is irony a violent thing? I should wish to retire this discussion of violence now. Let me now think instead about violins and violets… I think of violins being broken over knees and violets being plucked from their homes. 

About now is when you begin to wonder the reason for which I dream about committing such treason to flesh of my own. About now is when I satisfy your curiosity. I need a shoulder to cry on. One that understands my actions and words and behaviors without much justification. One that won’t run when I reach for the faucets behind my eyes. One that was born devoted to me, my morals, and my logic. I should think this a convenient arrangement, where no one else has to suffer by surrendering their shoulder for me to cry on. A one-woman fountain show must be accompanied by a one-woman cleaving act. 

What brought on this dream is my postulation that I have never had any real witnesses to the life I have lived. I have had passersby, to whom I have been a peripheral matter, but there haven’t been any real witnesses, I don’t think. Even passersby with whom I brush orbital points have to hear about some parts of my life in retrospect. There has been no singular, permanent, honest witness, which means there has been no one who has followed me through every decision in all my five and twenty years. And, increasingly, I hunger for someone like this. I ache to be understood and witnessed and held. Are those the same thing? 

There is sadness in me that festers from not being understood. The enormity of this sadness, the illegality of it all—comprehensible to none. I don’t want to be a convenience for someone to check in on when they have a spare minute any more than I want to inhale second-hand smoke. I don’t want somebody transient to witness this sadness; if you offer your shoulder, I want you to be ready to drown. My body might not be made of the stuff of forever but I crave permanence. I don’t want flesh that was built to leave.  

About now is when you remain unconvinced that I dream of this. An intolerable purge is always depicted before the catharsis. Or perhaps the purge itself is the catharsis. Or maybe what makes it cathartic is the intolerance. This I do not yet know. If I chance upon the answer, I will write it with my right. I shall no longer try to convince you why this dream is urgent. The explanation is innate to me and un-owed to you. 

I wonder if I should forgive the cleaver (myself) before or after the swing. I have learned (against wishes) that the more you are willing to forgive someone, the easier they find it to hurt you. The flesh gives way (forgivingly) and the knife sinks itself deeper (sans guilt). You cannot place blame if forgiveness was a prerequisite to the violence. I should think this an easy arrangement, where the courage is only needed for the swing, not the pain that comes after.

I watch the cleaver fall and marvel at the aftermath. How honest. How permanent. I dress my left shoulder in lace before I apply any sort of tourniquet. I smile before I cry. There is finally a shoulder for me to cry on. One that understands. One that will not leave. There is so much blood pooling. Is the blood a witness too? There is so much permanence inside of me to give. Where do I put it? 

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_{The accompanying image (Joven Decadente by Ramón Casas, 1899) serves only as a visual complement to the essay and carries no interpretive or illustrative claim beyond that.}