The Asylum of the Grotesque

 

THEASYLUMOF THEGROTESQUE

“Why don’t you try to love me the way that I love you?” – Paula

“Perhaps if you just tried you could find a better way to something deeper and more substantial.” – Kate

“I know it is within you, it has to be, all you need is to embrace it and place your trust in me.” – Alex

“I know you flirt with all kinds of dirt, but beneath the sin, I know you want to love me like I love you.” – Karen

“If you let me I will show you how to love without condition or cruelty, it can be done by all of us. Just let me try.” – Caroline

I still hear these words from these women (and more besides) as I sit late at night in the large living room to the rear of my house. It is on the first floor and provides me with a commanding view of the fields to the rear of the property, the occasional copse breaking up the undulating countryside. I had two bedrooms knocked together and created this living room where I like to sit and look out across the view as the sun vanishes and the cool, calmness of the night arrives. The sky shifts from the medley of flaming oranges, reds and yellows to a soothing azure and then the darkness descends. Karen and I enjoyed sitting in the large elbow chairs that faced the window. Often we would say nothing as around us the lamps would switch on, a gentle click signifying their creation of a pool of light as the timer activated them one by one.

I will often leave the city behind and come out here so I can sit in this house which I regard as my castle and with a glass of Chablis in hand, watch the sky change colour. The occasional noise of a distant animal might be heard but largely there is silence. The enveloping stillness of a calm world until I hear their words. All of them meant what they said and did so with the best of their intentions. I know that because I could see it in their eyes. Whether it was the earnest green, the heart-felt hazel, the beseeching blue or the inspiring grey, I still see them as they tried to make me see a different way. They wanted me to change. They wanted to make me something else.

Now Karen no longer sits beside me, I rarely bring the girlfriends that I acquire out here. I prefer the solitude, only for a few days. I will periodically check my electronic devices and the winking displays, lists of messages and e-mails sustains me as so many seek my attention. Without Karen, I decide against having the lamps gently bloom and instead prefer the gathering darkness. It is here that I can sit and plan. It is in this quiet that I can marshal my resources, mark my targets and organise my machinations. It is also when I resist those pleas to become that which I regard as impossible to achieve. I prefer to walk amongst my trophies. I stride amidst the frozen tributes to my brilliance as I picture each and every of my conquests as if they are beautifully crafted statues each in a pose denoting my victory over them. There is Siobhan, on her knees looking up at me as she begs me not to go, her pretty features contorted by the pain she is experiencing. Paula sits at a table, her hands clamped over he mouth, her eyes wide with fear as she fights to say nothing, terrified that a word might slip from her lips. Becky dangles limps, the strings rising upwards attached to her hands, her feet, her head, her hips and other places. The broken puppet. Kate stands on tip toe, her face a mask of anguish as with one hand raised above her eyes she peers into the distance as if searching for something, an empty dog lead in her hand. I let my hands glide over the smooth stone that has captured their defeat and embodied it in an eternal stance. My fingers drift over open mouths, curled lips, tear-filled eyes and flared nostrils. I savour the misery, anger and dejection that has been injected into these statues. I regularly walk amongst them and it reminds me of my power, the hold that I have over these people who sought to change me but could only ever disappoint me. Why would I ever want to do what they would have me do? Why would I embrace their suggestions when I can create these monuments to my omnipotence? These masterpieces of misery always reinforce that I am destined to do this for this is what I do best. I am reassured, validated and comforted that my way is the right way when I take a stroll  in my asylum of the grotesque.

 

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12 thoughts on “The Asylum of the Grotesque”

  1. Are you calling yourself grotesque then, Mr Tudor – because if it’s not intended for the Empaths, there’s no elephant in the room?

    Your previous girlfriends in statue-form remind me of the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who. When you close your eyes, they creep closer to you.

  2. HG, when I read this article it strikes me how your former partners all interpret your manipulative behaviour as a request for love, support and validation. In short, they treat you as one would treat a child. I imagine you are aware of this? Do you not find it patronising?
    Your intelligence is an obvious calling card. As a Greater my understanding is you do not rely on playing the victim which may invoke the parent/child treatment. HG, do you think that deep down inside your victims know that your behaviour yields purpose and they are giving you what you want rather than authentically giving you what they believe you need?
    Much appreciated.
    Sarah

      1. Many thanks HG – they are truly blind in that case and not just closing their eyes….in the words of Olivia Newton John “hopelessly devoted to you”.

  3. I don’t think my quick read found Karens fate. I’ll have to give it another go when I have some more time.

    Do you ever get fuel from your male counterparts like the above or is it reserved for the IP? My interpretation is your relationship with your mother playing out hence the females…

  4. Are you calling those women grotesque and why don’t you update your story to include your current muse?

  5. Dearest HG: Are they all still alive? Do you not look at them as past mistakes? Do you feel that you made a mistake in dealing with any of them? I just never thought about how anyone else viewed their past entanglements. Personally, I wish to forget. I see it as mistakes, that I do not need to revisit since I know where the mistake lay within myself for ever dealing with any of them. I am not concerned about whether or not they feel they made a mistake regarding me. I feel they did not. The mistake part was all mine. Even this mid ranger. I will forget him in due time. I will force it. I see the mistakes I made to be where I am regarding him. So, nothing there to dwell on, once I reach a certain level of fracture and emotional distance from him. I have no “misty water colored memories.“ I want no mementos. My power lies in forgetting.

      1. Dearest HG: Also, I have been studying to understand what are some of the differences in the way narcissists think and the “rest of us.“ One, is the way narcissists engage in negative fuel with those that they are close to. Whereas most of us obtain and utilize negative fuel more from outside opponents, not intimates and family and friends, narcissists obtain and utilize negative fuel from all people, indiscriminately of where they fall in line in closeness of family and friendship. Also, it seems that narcissists have naturally, and/or have developed amazing and well-practiced memories. Whereas we often forget and want to forget and actively choose to forget many people, places and things, narcissists do not choose to forget. Narcissists are master file keepers of their memories. Too much memory will bog us down, but not narcissists. The ability to forget is how we stay in relationships, as long as we do. We forgive more and definitely forget more, and this forgetting is often intentional, in its own way. It is our survival mechanism. If we all kept a well-documented and never ending list or score sheet, so to speak, of every injury we feel, most of us would never stay with anyone, willingly. We feel injury too. We too feel wounded by others. What is Love? So what most people call love, is a recipe that is also chock full of a lot of forgiving and especially, intentional forgetting. I do not think forgetting about certain scenarios is mostly instinctive. We consciously know that it is best for us in order to continue having a life, and we act accordingly. `What’s too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget.“ However, Narcissists choose to remember. What is Love? Love is forgetting.

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