FRI FEB 8
Nat has returned to a prevailing mood of darkness following his mild elation in the wake of the first regression session. He even muttered some garbled nonsense about jumping into the path of an underground train. I said, callously, “don’t do that Nat it’s not very nice for the driver”. I told him about a driver I know who has had precisely this ghastly experience. Surprisingly enough, this perverse conversation elicited a sympathetic response. I recalled his high regard for other living things, and saw in it an exteriorisation of the will to live, which in most people counter balances any desire for death. Early in childhood, Nat sought to protect life, for instance through his veganism. It is not totally illogical, I extemporised, that this expansion of life-enhancing energy into the world must also provide an equal compensation: that is, growth of the desire for death in the individual concerned.
Death is not something I care to discuss with Nat, for if I am willing to play the devil’s advocate, I find Nat is invariably only too “happy” to play the devil. Nevertheless, I thought it would be useful to construct an accurate picture of his idea of death.
Does he know anyone who has died? No, two of his grandparents died before he was born, and the other two are still alive.
Has he ever seen a corpse? No, only the skeletons he keeps in that strange stubby gable, and what he has seen in museums. Oh yes, and as he passes the butcher’s shop. It must be sad to see what the majority regard as food, as corpses.
What did he think happened to one after physical death of the body? A long silence. The only clue as to his thoughts was his erubescent face, for he blushes quite often. “How do you feel now?” I asked.
“Terrible”, came the reply. Once negative thoughts and emotions assail him he seems hopelessly lost in a downward spiral of depression. Eventually he asked for my concept of death. I reeled off some Zen spiel but, in truth, my cultural, contractual, genetic and emotional inheritance conditioned me to feel little different to him in this respect.
WED FEB 13
The second primal therapy session with Nat. He arrived at my house at 8 p.m. sharp. After the initial relaxation stages he again went straight into the foetal position. Simulating wombic conditions, I umbilically prodded his belly button. He writhed around on the floor whilst I continued to worry at his stomach. Then came the screaming: unlike any noise I have ever heard. I was forcibly reminded of Isis who uttered cries that killed. What that poor boy has repressed for these last twenty years is inconceivable. Sangfroid deserted him completely and he kept losing control, succumbing entirely to the “primal world” time and time again. Only with great effort was I able to bring him back to the present. This manic encounter culminated in Nat wrapping his entire body round my favourite coffee table, a robust plastic affair, and crushing it to a mangled pulp. This display of raw, passionate emotion seemed to satisfy him and he came back to 1980 with a jolt.