ARCHETYPES
by Natasza Goerke
You cannot love a rock but
you may fall in love with your inability to love it.
Go to bed with a thistle
and make love to it.
Chogyam Trungpa
I met him in a gastronomic
establishment. He looked exactly as I expected: perfect. Through the thick
glasses a pair of searching eyes looked at me; he had a ladybird pinned to
the lapel of his jacket; he smelt of gun-powder and was reading Proust. He
was the refined intellectual of my dreams. Having recognised in him the
archetypal embodiment of perfect masculinity, I immediately decided to marry
him.
"Mr L." I said, "we are made for each other. The path to another human
being should not be stretched into infinity - would you like to be my
husband?"
"I beg your pardon?" Mr L. gasped and choked, dropping his Proust,
while the ladybird began to tremble, and with it the jacket.
I took the trembling for a good sign. "Tremble, tremble away," I thought
happily. And to make him tremble even more, I assured him:
"I am the perfect embodiment of archetypal femininity: humble, tolerant,
ready to inspire you until the end of your days. You needn't be afraid of
spiritual competition on my part: for my strength lies not in battle but
in keeping the fire in your masculine soul burning."
L. grasped the table with his trembling hands. This made the table tremble
as well, and with it the cups, and the teaspoon in the cup. After a while,
the floor began to tremble too, setting a-tremble the neighbouring tables.
Pleased with myself, sensing that my victory was near, I lowered my eyes
modestly and whispered:
"I may not be the ravishing vamp of your youthful dreams, Mr
L., but I can do a mean apple strudel. And a cheese cake: and doughnuts:
and plum jam. I can do everything: I can bake, I can cook and I can clean.
And when I wash a garment, Mr L. - it'll dazzle you; and when I wring it,
you will not recognise it."
The rest of my monologue was drowned by the noise of breaking glasses,
which, together with the whole shelf that hung on the trembling wall, came
crashing down on the barmaid's back. The barmaid, led by an irrational sense
of resentment, ran up to our table and in the cruel abandonment of a degenerated
femininity, started bashing L. on the head with the menu.
"Look at him, the idiot!" shouted the barmaid. "Found himself
a place to tremble! Cretin!"
Embarrassed, I stopped my ears and closed my eyes. Discreetly
manoeuvring my foot towards that of L's, I wanted to give a signal for retreat.
But I found no foot. Alarmed, I opened my eyes. Kneeling at the barmaid's
feet, L. was picking up pieces of broken glass. When he cleared the floor,
he took the menu out of the barmaid's hands and planting on them a solemn
kiss, he said:
"You are the woman of my life".
Translated by Wiesiek
Powaga |
Born in Poznan in
1960, Natasza studied Oriental languages in Poznan and Cracow and later travelled
extensively in the East. Although she knows several languages, including
Sanskrit and Tibetan, for many years she earned her living doing menial jobs.
She lives in Hamburg. 