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MY LONG WEEKEND WITH WILFY BION

Or the Story of ‘O’

By Frau Freudenschwester

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Don’t believe that schmaltz about Wilfy’s time in India and his snivelling days at boarding school in England. He wasn’t descended from French Huguenots, he came from the old country like the rest of us and his real name is Bionstein. I personally remember him running from his Barmitzvah swotting the air around his head screaming that he was being chased by elements from Beta. I believe he went on to turn this mishegoss into a whole theory.

Anyway my bubbalas, believe me, the little pisher spent this long weekend with me. I said to him: Wilfy, I hope you are going to make a pass at me this weekend. To this he said, “It is not a pass you want Zelda (yes, now you know my name), what you really want is to be passed over. I know that you and Ziggy are lapsed Israelites and will find any reason not to celebrate the high holy days.” Always ready with an interpretation rather than face some real human contact, was our little Wilfy. I said: “You are really afraid that if you enter my container all your Alpha elements will turn back into Beta elements and you will be forever wandering in the desert of your own mental space.” Psychoanalytic foreplay. Oy.

“The problem with you Zel, is that you are an unthought twin”, he said, turning moody. “Unthought!”, I exclaimed. “What on earth do you mean?”. “You are unthought until someone thinks you,” he spat out vindictively. God I thought, no wonder the Bionsteins didn’t report him missing. He continued triumphantly: ‘We both know that Ziggy was your Mother’s golden boy and that she never even thought of you. You are, I am afraid, one of the worst cases – you are virtually unknown!”

At this point I wrestled him down and forced him to have knowledge of me. After he stopped crying I agreed to help him with his theory. But I have to tell you bubbalas, after an hour of listening to him I needed a shot of adrenalin to bring me out of my coma. “Who is this O?” I asked him. “ ‘O’ cannot really be known”, he said. “Then why mention him at all!”, I challenged. Its not a ‘him’ he said sulkily, it’s the entity of the unknowably known. It’s the ineffable.” At this point, I don’t want to be a gossip bubbalas, but I am one of the few people who know of Wilfy’s dyslexia. This is what gives his theory it’s mystique. “ Ineffable, you say, are you sure you don’t mean ‘inedible’, like your whole theory.” At this point a beam of intense darkness shot out of his eyes. I knew I had to act quickly. I had deep concerns about the implications of the reverie on the practice of psychoanalysis. ‘Wilfy, I said, you have dropped a consonant here. Surely you must mean revelry? - God knows psychoanalysis could do with a bit of fun. You know I would be the first to concede that. We can’t have analysts falling asleep behind the couch - well at least not for noticeable periods of time. The psychoanalyst’s ‘reverie’ will be a poor excuse! Malpractice insurance will sky rocket!” At his point he got up and moved around the room in mysterious ways. I heard he had been practicing this for some time and could even disappear into thin air. I ran after him with my net…..

I understand that he surfaced in the UK and was given asylum by the British Psychoanalytic Society.

 

Without Memory or Desire,

Frau Freudenschwester.

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