PSYCHOANALITICAL: Mortal Souls on the Bat Ladder

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Saying what we see, listening to what we hear, knowing what we know.
“We are no longer in sync.”
First, the loss of the lover. Then, the loss of the self that loved.

Batman and Robin are men but they don’t have to be, not anymore, or ever. Once they have loved, and lost at it, they are split selves: the self concealed behind the self. The pain is too big to stay whole through it. And how the hell did the Boy Wonder screw up that mission so badly? Batman is obviously angry and on top of that, he’s disappointed. He still loves Robin, but he has lost a leg at the very least. The shock of loss causes a split and a running away inside.

Don’t look, don’t turn on the light, don’t see, and don’t say.
If he does . . . that will be the turning point in the relationship.

Then it will be time to seek reparations. But the water is black and cold, and the ladder swings wild. Psyche tries to drown herself, but the river spits her back to the bank. Not her time yet. She turns to other goddesses for help, but they refuse her. Psyche is pregnant, cursed, a runaway slave. If the goddesses help her, they are crossing Venus’s will . . .. and Venus’s will . . . you just don’t. Venus sets the standard for envy and discord among women.

Adolescent girls are fresh kill in the sense that they have this giant affinity for love, this open hearted, powerful longing to be in sync with their friends. And then, in the early moments of this miraculous power surge, they turn around and hurt each other. And when I say hurt each other: they tear each other to bits. Then the sexual love objects come along to pick up the pieces.

Oedipus blinds himself because he can’t stand the truth. We won’t go into the truth. Instead, check out Cupid’s giant, feathered wings, and all the creamy skin, the pink nipples, the cascading body parts, armpits, hips, and knees. Cupid takes Psyche up to heaven, and she delivers her baby. This is The Birth of Pleasure. Soccer star David Beckham has it tattooed on his arm.

The idea arises that passionate love can only thrive at the fringes of our orderly lives.
Let us rethink the structure of our orderly lives.

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About Author

Elizabeth Trundle is a novelist and short story writer, a blogger, and a recording artist (as Boo Trundle). Also a seeker of solace through high art, low art, and Eastern philosophy. Gullible, random, exposed, and weighty, as needed. The other option, which is not an option, is to remain numb and unexplored. Website: itchybanquet.com

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