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A Bedtime Story (Fiction)

“Surely, whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her I shall follow.” ~ Walt Whitman

January 1989 – Initial Contact

I assumed it was a prank caller or a bad connection at first. But before hanging up I heard someone breathing on the other end. I pressed the receiver closer to my ear and heard a woman clear her throat.

“A friend referred me, said you might help with my pain,” the woman whispered, her voice cracking in and out.

“What’s causing the discomfort,” I asked?

“It’s my throat,” she said. “I’m losing my voice, my livelihood. But doctors haven’t been able to help me. They can’t isolate a cause.”

“You know I’m not a throat doctor,” I clarified.

“I know who you are,” the woman shot back.

I opened my planner and scanned the upcoming month. “Are you available next Thursday at 3:00 PM, or the following Tuesday…”

“I’ll be at your office 8:00 AM tomorrow, before you open,” the woman insisted.

I tossed my planner on the desk, then asked, “Whose name should I pencil in?”

Before hanging up, the woman replied, “My name is Dita.”

1 month later – first hypnosis

“How will this work,” Dita asked nervously. “I’m trusting you, Sigmund.”

“My name is not Sigmund,” I reminded, yet again. “And you’re sounding much better, more playful than…”

“Don’t you want to know why I trust you,” Dita scolded? “Shouldn’t my trust mean something to you?”

“Of course, I want your trust.” I replied. “But for these sessions to work best, I need you to realize…”

“Then ask me,” Dita demanded. “Ask me why I trust you.”

I smiled at my inability to control my patient. I was learning, though, conversing with Dita was more fluid when I followed her lead and didn’t fight the current. Besides, I was curious. “Why do you trust me, Dita?”

“You have Spanish eyes,” she said. “I can tell a lot by a man’s gaze, yours tells me that you are safe to trust, that your heart is here with me.”

It was evident that I was putty in Dita’s hands, to be molded and played with at her pleasure. “Thank you,” I said, all but blushing and fiddling with my imaginary pearls.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t hire some goons to kick your ass, if I end up quacking like a duck on the set of my Pepsi commercial,” she warned. “So don’t get any ideas when I’m under, Sigmund the Spaniard.”

“Sigmund the Spaniard,” I repeated with a nod and a grin.

Dita stretched out on the couch and slowly exhaled, before facing me again. “I hate relinquishing control,” she confided.

“I understand,” I reassured. “Most of us do.”

“You never answered my question,” she reminded. “How will this work?”

I removed a pocket watch from my jacket and dangled it in front of Dita.

“I will ask you to focus on this watch while holding onto my voice,” I calmly explained. “Imagine that I’m telling you a bedtime story after a long and troubling day. As you listen to my sentences, understand that today is the last day that I’m using words. They’ve gone out, lost their meaning, don’t function anymore…”

Sigmund the Spaniard

The Coven of One (Fiction)

“I’ve had so many lives since I was a child, and I realize how many times I’ve died.”

I am an acclaimed psychotherapist, although few outside my field have heard of me. My services are exclusive, reserved for a coven of one, an influential witch named Dita.

In the mid 1980’s the woman who would become my only client began suffering from chronic soar throats that were affecting her voice, jeopardizing her livelihood. Doctors performed multiple tests, but results came back inconclusive or ideal for a healthy young woman in her twenties. Worst of all, despite the countless treatments, nothing soothed her pain… Dita’s symptoms appeared to be psychosomatic, her imagination.

By the time I began treating Dita in 1989, her life was unraveling. She was hounded relentlessly by paparazzi and fans alike, attempting to balance fame and a very public divorce. Amid the chaos, her throat was getting worse. Speaking, let alone singing, had become unbearable. She found it difficult to breath at times and began experiencing night terrors, where she’d wake up gasping for air and holding her throat.

Trauma can remain dormant in the subconscious for years yet manifest physically. From the onset of Dita’s treatment, I frequently used hypnosis. I’d hoped to isolate a forgotten memory or fear. Instead, I discovered what I initially thought were multiple personalities.

Over several sessions, I noticed that when hypnotized Dita’s accent was starting to change. She was sounding more Russian.

I questioned the change. When awake, Dita didn’t recall or understand why she’d spoken with a Russian accent. When hypnotized, she just ignored me all together.

But then one session, when the accent was thickest, instead of asking why Dita sounded Russian, I asked, “Who am I speaking to?”

Dita didn’t reply at first, but I noticed her smirk. A few seconds later, she revealed, “My name is Anastasia. I am twelve of thirteen.”

…

Over the two decades I treated her, twelve past lives surfaced in Dita, all members of an exclusive coven of one. Most were historically significant, famous women with polarizing reputations. All had secrets they wanted to tell, records they were eager to set straight.

The collective life span of the coven of one dates back to the origins of man… and witch.

Through Dita I discovered a place called Eden. I’d learn a woman named Eve was murdered in her garden, and a despondent God, mourning the loss, left Earth to Adam.

Sigmund the Spaniard

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by Damon Wallace on April 20, 2012 • Permalink

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged blog fiction, creative writing, fiction, madonna, witch, witchcraft

Posted by Damon Wallace on April 20, 2012

https://guypenn.com/2012/04/20/the-coven-of-one/

What the f@#! is a “Blog Opera”?

“Boy, you got a reputation, but you’re gonna have to prove it. I see a little hesitation. Am I gonna have to show you that if it feels right get on your marks. Step to the beat boy, that’s what it’s for.”

~ Madonna

A blog by definition, a compound of the words web log, is a personal journal published online consisting of discrete entries. While similar in format, a “blog opera” differs because entries are sometimes fictional and inspired by featured music.

In the case of “Chronicling the Moon” the blog opera is inspired by, and features the music of – Madonna. And, unlike a traditional blog, entries are not chronological. The storyline explores polarizing women throughout history, and why men, like me, are drawn to them. Posts span centuries and rotate between the past and present.

Close up, each entry is intended to stand on its own merit. Readers can join in at any time. But, like a mosaic, the more details you take in, the more “Chronicling the Moon / Confessions of a Madonna Fan” comes into perspective.

An opera is nothing if not raw emotion, so complimenting my fictitious life is my nonfiction. These “confessionals” are more introspective, told by me at various stages in my life.

I am an only child, born in the early 1970′s and raised to be Catholic in the Midwestern United States. I was part of the first generation of gay men to sexually awaken to a post-AIDS world. Many have forgotten, or simply don’t comprehend, how much more scary times were for gay men not so very long ago. Here one day – cough, cough – gone the next. Thankfully, through it all, I had a fairy God-diva at my side. She encouraged me to dance and love unconditionally, to live and one day tell.

That day is today.

Like my icon, the goal of this project is ambitious, but I am dedicated to providing the best experience for those following. If Madonna has taught me anything it’s to be both truthful and daring, to never give up, and to always respect my audience. I intend to honor these principles.

For project discussions and Madonna updates, I’ve created a facebook page, and for quotes and articles relating to the story you can follow me on twitter.

Thank you for supporting “Chronicling the Moon / Confessions of a Madonna Fan” and giving me the chance to share my stories, for letting me whisper in your ear an invitation to the dance of life…

Guy Penn

Confessions of a Madonna Fan