Helga’s Heartlines: A Journal

Thursday, October 10, 2002.

Toronto, Ontario


“Grab the Penis!” How do you like that for a dictum?

No, it’s not what you think! Well---not exactly---
Not a call to arms!
Not a rallying cry to bashful, eager, or militant members of my sex to launch a frontal assault on a man’s deadliest weapon.
There’s a true story here, a little bit embarrassing, but a ‘secret’ I feel might be useful to reveal. Perhaps I’ll help neutralize some familiar fears through my unabashed soliloquy? If, after all, in this Politically Correct climate, one can discuss 'Vagina Monologues', it ought to be perfectly acceptable to give honorable mention to that source of pride and joy, the Penis.

You see, I had a dream the other night...
As is typical, I woke up too soon – too bad – to promptly pull it all together, but I made mental notes.
So real it seemed, in fact, the first thing I did was perform a cursory check. Everything was the same. I looked around, top and bottom, and beneath my cozy duvet covers. Would you believe? Definitely empty - the bed, I mean - except for me. And I, still empty-handed, more importantly.

I don’t often recall my dreams, but when I do the impression sticks. The last time something like this happened – 3 or 4 years ago - I was about to embark in the Garden of Eden, when, thank goodness for me, I noticed the Snake! I’m serious. The devilish creature was coiled around a tree trunk, insidiously camouflaged in the Jungle’s lush canopy.

Dared I go forward, or, best retreat? Everything in front of me was tantalizingly inviting and overwhelmingly frightening, a kaleidoscope of flora-and-fauna exotica, which, while colorful and curious, gave me thrills and goose bumps as well as creeps. A tender trap of towering vegetation and twining vines, exquisitely orchid-laced, knotted with transparent threads of visually tempting Venus-fly-trap and full-blown amorphophallus. A resplendent screen which offered intriguing glimpses of glint-eyed jet-black jaguar, ludicrous-looking aardvark, rainbow-hued toucans and cockatiels, silly sloths and spider monkeys, sun-spotted smooth-as-silk ocelots. A pungent warm and balmy atmosphere heavily-laden with sticky-sweet aroma and moisture-drenched steam, and a path so overgrown you couldn’t see where you were going or where it would lead. As I tentatively stepped forward an emerald-embossed serpent slithered cunningly through dense foliage near my feet.

Well, I couldn’t go back – could I? Rejoin the well-worn barren path behind me, so familiar and contemptibly trodden, as previous? One thing I can tell you – today I’m off the treadmill. Since then I’ve steered away from the beaten path. My life changed, definitely and dramatically – Much more interesting and exciting, if uncertain. I still don’t know where I’m going but I have a kind of plan... Perhaps, right now, I am lost? Do I appear, to you, to digress...?

Let me take us back to the boudoir. As I was saying, in my suggestive dream sequel I woke up empty-handed. Only moments before, my hand had been clasping a reluctant child’s. But suddenly, on the brink of consciousness, when I took a second look, there it was, large as life, a phallic replica, a synthetic tubular thingy, a disembodied penis facsimile, and my hand clutching it in a tight-fisted banana-type grip. How trite. I laughed out loud in disbelief.

Curious as to his response, I later raised the topic with Richard, my philospher-guru-friend, but admonished him strenuously and only half in jest, “Don’t you dare try to imply I suffer from ‘Penis Envy’! As far as I’m concerned that notion of Freud’s is absurd and passe.”

Well, he came back with one better, you could say.

“Every aspect of your dream is you,” he said calmly, the way a chess expert tells you "checkmate in three".

"What does ‘your’ Penis tell you?"

I chuckled.

"Your hand? Your child? Your adult leading the child? You, the observer?"

He had a point.

Hmmmm. In the days leading up to this latest indellible dream-imagery, I’d been grappling with a general sense of anxiety and fear of inadequacy, brought on by worries about my impending driver’s test – Me, motorist afraid of the freeway. Also, I’d brooded over other concurrent challenges I’d thus far successfully avoided or put off indefinitely.

My Hand. My power is in my own hands?
In truth, this is obvious. First thing I thought of.
But is it really true?
There's a lot of things my hands have trouble with - chop sticks, screw-drivers, typing, driving a stick shift.

Maybe I can write..?

On the other hand...I don't mean to suggest I’m entirely lacking in skill-sets. My hands have certain select capabilities.
Yes, I can write - I think - when I let creative expression flow, with me as the vehicle.
I can knit, crochet, needlepoint, sketch, garden, touch, tickle, stroke, embrace, heal.

Me, the Child. Dragged determinedly where I don’t want to go. I can still picture mean-eyed mommy grasping me firmly in hand, leading reluctant me to kindergarten, her stubbornness overruling my trepidation. And when I looked around, I was not alone. Tots in primary rebellion.

Me, The Adult. Why must I do that which I must? Drag my darling daughter to that damnable school? And, if I have to do something useful, why not that for which I’m well suited? I swear to god, I’m a misfit, born in the wrong time and place. The more things I try to master, the more technical things get. I’d be much more comfortable in the nineteenth century, that is, provided I can see myself as 'Little Women' heroine, Jo March.

The Penis. Okay, I get the message. There’s a man inside me! But I have no access to him, what the heck. He refuses to help me with my math. He won’t fix my hard drive for me, or figure out what’s wrong with my furnace. He won’t take control of the stick shift or drive frightened me on the freeway. Hmmm. Perhaps I really do have 'Penis Envy'? Perhaps I should have it?

Well, Richard? What do you have to say?

Herewith I quote my guru:

“My guess is that your dream goddess was telling you that instead of being a helpless observer, you should “look for the penis” and then “grab control of [pleasing yourself] and giving pleasure to others” so you can influence people and events in positive ways. My guess is it will continue to be a great source of pleasure and self-esteem for you to use your special talent and get things done.”

After I laughed, I said to him:

Thanks, Richard! Honestly, I never thought of that. I can always count on you to come up with a novel twist. In fact, you’ve thrown me off-stride. I almost forgot what I originally thought. Okay then. I shall carry on like that Wee One with the ‘Height of Ego’. You see, there was this male flea, with an erection...’ “Raise the Drawbridge!” he shouted.

In all modesty, let me repeat the alert, “Look out! I’m coming through!”


***


Post Script:

Somehow, since then, it’s been easier to face my fears. I got out there on the freeway the other day, survived it, and will be heading back soon. Don’t bother looking for me, though - You probably wouldn’t recognize me - You won’t see me for dust.


~ Helga Marion Ross ~

Copyright 2002