Once upon a time there was a great white light, a lot of clinking and clanking and harsh voices speaking urgently; then there was a soft, female voice saying something like:
“Abah Babbledy Bah!”
After that things returned to a normal state of slumber.
Little Francie was born.
It gradually emerged that I was now in Outer Space.
Just because I am a baby in a pram, you should not suppose
that I am unaware of the politics that surround me. I am quite aware of the bribery and
corruption that is going on. The Two are
constantly being rewarded with substantial, if unfathomable, favours and
allowed into unknown realms of joy, while I am constrained.
There are two places in the world, a living space and an
outer place of abandonment.
Although I strive to remain in the living space, I wake up
all alone and totally deserted in the Outer Place.
When I cry out, the great wall opens up from the centre out
with the sound of thunder and the One Who Sustains appears through the opening
and reunites me to the Bosom. (At other
times, it is the minor door that opens and a less dramatic, but equally
consoling reunification takes place).
It is not that reality is divided into events. It appears as
a continuum.
The comings and goings around me reveal the Physical Trinity
of living forms. First there is the One,
whom you might call “the One Who Sustains.”
Then there is the Two, whom I have also mentioned already, who
constantly seduce the One away from me and who will only desist from this
appalling behaviour if lavishly bribed (or, sometimes, horribly punished).
There is also the Remote and Incredible Hulk who
occasionally looms into Real Space, although there is often some doubt as to
this being’s actual existence. He is
certainly not as constant as the One and the Two. When I am reasonably satisfied, by reason of
his sustained absence, that he does not, in fact, exist, he suddenly manifests
himself, proving his sure and certain existence. This one could, therefore, be called the One
Who Manifests Himself.
When the Hulk manifests himself, it is a surprise, - in the
sense that what is expected is the One (i.e. the One who Sustains). When this happens, there is nothing that can
be done but to be quiet and wait. In
time, the Hulk will eventually remove himself from space and allow the One to
return.
It becomes apparent that the One Who Manifests Himself is
also the One Who Makes the Laws, for you can often hear his booming voice
declaiming laws from near and afar. His voice is authoritative and insistent.
One day, I am on my hands and knees at the feet of the One,
when, suddenly, Raw-Raw, one of the Two, drops onto his hands and knees beside
me. He says “Wow-Wow,” and starts pushing against me.
Soon the second of the Two (Yaw-Yaw) drops on his hand and
knees also, and, so, the game of “Doggies” is born.
This is wonderful. It is the greatest experience in the
whole of life.
Every day now, I demand the game of Doggies, and every day
the Two drop on their knees and all three of us cavort around the floor barking
and tussling. “Doggies” becomes part of the continuum.
All is not plain sailing, however. Mama (the One who
Sustains) and Dada (the Lawmaker) both interfere. They constantly shout at Raw
Raw not to be so rough.
I grab Raw-Raw’s hair and push his face to the ground. I
climb up on his back and he careers around the room. Then he tosses me onto the
floor and attacks me with his snout. This is very great fun, but Mama and/ or
Dada intervene with their strictures. Then Raw-Raw gets up in a huff and stomps
off.
He is not Raw-Raw, he is Raw-Jar. The other is not Yaw-Yaw,
he is Jar-Ray, otherwise Rodge and Jerr.
The outer place, strangely called the Sitting Room, becomes
the site of fun. That is where the Doggie games take place, because the Living
Space is taken up by a large table and lots of wooden chairs.
There is a long couch in front of the window of the Sitting
Room, and this becomes my Great Focus.
A cushion is taken down off the couch, and I can climb up on
it and fall down off it. If the cushion is in front of the couch, I can climb
up on it and then onto the couch. Then I can climb onto the other cushion that
remains on the couch, and, from that, I reckon I can climb onto the arm of the
couch. From the arm, no doubt I could climb onto the back of the couch, and
from there right up onto the window-sill, and look out into the front garden.
When I go to bed at night, I contemplate the conquest of my
Great Focus. In daytime, I have a go at putting my plan into action, but every
time I am frustrated.
I heard mama telling Mrs Breen, one day, that I climbed
right up onto the window-sill, but that was a lie. I tried and tried, but every
time I failed or was stopped.
I know what a lie is, because Daddy often pronounces on the
evil of lying. He says that a lie is always sinful and nothing can excuse it.
This doctrine was usually directed at Rodge.
There is a magic time at the end of each day when you are
put in your cot to sleep. As you wait for the sleep to come, your mind drifts
over the events of the day and you plan the events of tomorrow, i.e., climbing
the couch to the window-sill.
And hey, here’s an idea! When you are climbing, you raise
your leg on top of something, don't you, and then you lever yourself up. Now, supposing you
could put your right foot on top of your left knee, then you could push
yourself up using your left knee as a base. Now, lift your left foot and put it
on your right knee, and, see, you have climbed up into the air.
I can’t do it now, I’m too sleepy. I will do it tomorrow. I
will find out if one can climb up into the air.
Outside the house, in the garden, there is a wonderful City
of Sticks – a magic land of adventure – full of climbable objects (actually a
felled and chopped tree, bought for firewood, it being the war years and coal
scarce). I am forcefully pulled back
from entry to this magic space, and the Hulk is heard exploding in anger at
Rodge for allowing me to approach it.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep Francie out of the Sticks? Didn’t I tell you to keep him away from the sticks?”
So, my existence is one of restraint and denial; liberty is
only attainable through struggle and subterfuge.
At night, there are other forms of potential movement. I
imagine I am in some marshy place, full of rushes and reeds. I have two short hands,
sticking out from my shoulders, parallel to my face, and with them I can push
the reeds back and edge myself forward. These are not the hands on the ends of
my arms, but two hands directly emanating from the shoulder-tops.
When I emerge from the reeds into the freedom of the clear
water, using my short hands and my legs, I can paddle and kick my way through the
water. But I must dart across the water quickly and get into the safety of the
reeds on the other side, since, otherwise, I will be gobbled up by the monster.
What monster? I don’t know. I have never seen the monster. All I know is that
when I enter the clear water (in my reverie) I feel a great panic and have to
rush again into the safety of the reeds.
Maybe the marsh images come from the comics. There are two
regular comics, the Beano and the Dandy. The Killeens get the Beano and the
Breens get the Dandy. Then they swap.
There are other comics, also, that the Killeens borrow from Shauny
across the road. While the Beano and the Dandy contain simple cartoon drawings,
shaded in pale colours, Shauny’s comics often come from America and sometimes
contain full-colour pictures.
Another thing is flying. I have (in my reverie) these two
wings attached to my shoulder blades. When I wave them briskly, I can rise up
into the air and go flying away. Once up in the air, there is no need to wave
them so briskly, a nice gentle fanning of the wings keeps me flying through the
sky, wherever I want to go. And I float off to sleep.
One morning, when we were having breakfast, Jerry said,
“Pass the Mickel, please.”
Mammy responded, “Say ‘Milk,’” but Jerry said, “I can’t say
‘Milk,’ I can only say ‘Mickel.’” This was very funny and everybody laughed.
Daddy liked reading the paper to the family at tea-time. He
thought the paper had important messages. It was full of a babble of words.
I liked words.
Some words that were often repeated in the newspapers daddy
read were the names Hitler, Stalin and Churchill.
On Mondays, after hanging out the clothes, Mammy told Mrs
Breen about the words I was speaking. This was embarrassing.
The game of Doggies continued, but Rodge was getting fed up
with it. In time, Rodge got totally tired of playing Doggies, but Jer always
obliged when requested.
Rodge was better fun, because he was rougher. He doesn’t
mind knocking you over and pushing you round the place. Jerry is obedient to
the parents and does it gently, which is less fun. Doggies is supposed to be a
rough game. Gentle is boring.
Roger’s Doggie Name was Brownie, so, when he wasn’t playing,
I would say to Jer, “Where’s Brownie.” Jer would answer, “Brownie can’t play;
he’s sick.” Jer was an intermediary and peace-maker. Soon, as my ability with
words improved, I wanted more information. I would ask, “What’s he sick of,”
and Jer would answer, “Brownie has the mange.” I thought this was a wonderful
expression, so I would often say, “Brownie has the mange.” When Rodge heard
this, he went off his head in a total temper. It was fun, but dangerous.
But, now, “Doggies” has transformed into a new dimension. We
are not allowed to play in the Sitting Room. We are not allowed into the
Sitting Room at all, except on special occasions. The Sitting Room must be kept
tidy, with everything in its place.
Now, Daddy sits in his chair to the right of the fireplace,
in the Living Space, which, by the way, is called the “Dining Room.” He puts
his feet up on the table. His legs form a bridge, for there is a space beneath
his legs, between the chair and the table. The other chairs are pushed back to
the wall, and the three Doggies career around the table on their hands and
knees. As they pass under the Bridge, the Hulk tries to wallop them with his
rolled-up newspaper. The Doggies learn to accelerate as they approach the
Bridge, in an attempt to avoid the blow of the paper, and then slow down after
they have emerged again.
What fun!
The table is also a tent, and the three boys sit under it
pretending they are camping. It is, also, at different times, a boat, a
stage-coach, a bank and a school.
One day, I was sitting under the table, reading the Beano,
when the Breens called at the door. Roger came in and grabbed the Beano off me.
“Hey! Give that back!” I said, “I haven’t finished reading
it.”
“You can’t read,” Roger snapped.
“Yes, I can,” I said; “I can read the pictures.”
Unreasonable constraints are continued against me,
notwithstanding my expanding ability to mobilise myself. The two are constantly being allowed, - even
encouraged, - to displace themselves to the Outside Universe, while I am held
back in the house and garden.
END
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