Polski Rhumba

Ok, I guess it's time to go into the 'woim' thing.

Is there a psychiatrist in the house?

You see, I have this problem, actually it's the tip of the iceberg part of the problem... in that I can't say the word, 'w, o, r, m'. I suppose I could but I'd RATHER NOT. I've found it's just better to substitute the word 'woim'. I do that sometimes like, I type this guy's novels. He writes male erotica. And obviously he uses the word 'cock' constantly. So while I'm typing, because you hear what you are typing, instead of hearing the word 'cock' 100 times a day I substitute the word 'cork' as I type. "He plunged his cork into the open screaming mouth. I bound their corks together with wet leather thongs."

But...back to this...woim thing. I met this guy, a father who told me he always encouraged his children to 'go ahead, pick one up, look at it...isn't it funny, isn't it yucky?' It must be nice to have a father like that. This is not what I had.

This has all come into clearer focus shall we say, because I recently was lucky enough to acquire a small farm. But as they say, every silver lining has its cloud. With the farm, I also acquired thousands of woims. I dreamed about owning a farm, a country place for years. Gardening. Roses. Fresh vegetables. But with all of those come, the woims.

In the springtime, when it's woim heaven, I lie down to sleep at night, close my eyes, and suddenly... there is a woim moving through the black...a perfect picture of a woim... This happens over and over until I have to open my eyes, stare at the ceiling or out the window at the stars...and I think, ok, why can't I get images of those stars when I close my eyes? Stare at the stars...try to burn the stars into my brain, close my eyes, get the image of the stars going, and BAM, there's a woim moving through the stars.

My mind, or a part of my mind that isn't friends with the rest of me, seems to really quite enjoy showing me these images... woims exposed, woims slithering yeah there's that word slithering down into the earth, doing that particular earth-dive they do when you turn over a shovel of dirt.

I've seen red woims, purple woims, beige woims, brown woims, big, little, more than one woim amassed together. Did you KNOW there are purple woims that are the exact purple shade of the roots of a dandelion? And they..they...when you stick a weeder down into the dandelion roots...guess what comes flying out? I stopped weeding dandelions in July.


So. How did this happen. This aversion as it were. I grew up in a subdivision in the midwest. My mother had the best lawn in the subdivision. My father laid the sod himself. People drove by to see my mum's grass, the best you could buy... Kentucky Blue. Kentucky Blue was the most expensive, the greenest...a thick rich carpet of grass and with it came, at no extra cost, a rich abundance of ENORMOUS woims.

The subdivision had about 60 houses and 3 trees being that the developer, Mr. Buckley, cut down all the trees to make room for more houses. He then named the subdivision 'Shady Lane Subdivision'. What Shady Lane Subdivision had was a lot of newly planted lawns and newly paved streets. When it rained on the newly paved streets, out came hundreds and hundreds of woims. There were so many, it was absolutely impossible to walk down the street...to walk the two blocks to the bus stop.

Here is where my mother came in. My mum rescued me.

My mum drove me, in her new white Buick convertible, the two blocks to the bus stop. But as she did so, she'd see all the woims, hit the brakes over and over, and as we lurched down the street, she'd close her eyes, turn her head to the side, (towards me) and...SCREAM: aaaaaeeeeeeeehhhhhhhh, aaaaaeeeeeeehhhhhhh!!! They're under the wheels NOOOOOOOOOO!

When I got to the age of about ten, two things happened.

I was totally embarrassed to have my mother still driving me two blocks AND they moved the bus stop so it was only one block from my house. I decided to try it on my own.

The first rainy day... I set off across the neighbor's lawn to the front of their house where the bus stop was. I tried not to look down. I sort of skipped over the grass. All the woims were out dancing in the street anyhow. When I got to the bus stop...there is this group of kids giggling and looking over at me. I used to have long blonde hair, very straight hair down to the middle of my back...and...as the bus pulls up I see this boy running at me and as I step up into the bus I look back and there's this very big, very long woim in his hand and as I reach the top step he thrusts it deep into my hair down in the middle of my back. I didn't tell my mother.


My mother's screams of terror were not limited to woims.

She also did this with snakes. There weren't any snakes in the subdivision...except the developer, Mr. Buckley. The snakes were on TV, the snakes were with Tarzan. Those huge anacondas and boas, that hung from trees and stalked Tarzan underwater. I used to watch Tarzan every Saturday morning...what simple joy hm? Life is like a Tarzan movie when you think about it. You've got your daily jungle to deal with and all its inhabitants. You deal with it either as

a) Tarzan, b) Jane or c) Cheetah

I am not like Jane when it comes to woims and snakes.

I do not look round for my Tarzan to come rescue me.

I am Cheetah. Screaming, screeching and running away.

So, when the snakes came on, for some reason my mother wasn't cleaning for the moment...maybe it had something to do with Johnny Weissmuller's body...she was there on the floor next to me, and when a snake appeared she would bury her head on her knees, and while hunched over in a primal prenatal bundle, scream as though her life depended on it. Noooooooooooo, nooooooooooo, ahhhhhhhh I can't stand them!

When I tell people about this...PROBLEM...I get things like 'Oh come on, get over it. They're just woims..' Or, 'they're essential, they're good for the soil, they're Very Important.' Very...important.

WHAT would a psychiatrist have me do that's what I want to know? Would I finally then, have to make friends with the woims and snakes? Would I have to invite them into my life, my psyche, my palm?

I had this dream one day after I'd been working out in the garden. A man came walking across the meadow. I thought, 'that looks like Edward Woodward' and, it WAS Edward Woodward, in his Breaker Morant outfit. His hands were behind his back like at the end of the movie when he gets shot. He comes up to me and says in his lovely English accent "If you will hold out your hand and let me put a worm in your palm, I will give you one hundred dollars." I told him... "FORGET IT!" Then he said "Ok, I'll make it..one thousand dollars." Um. I said no, I can't. Then, in slow motion, he brings out from behind his back first a briefcase, and then, a big jar. He sets the jar down and I see it is full of.... enormous... He opens the briefcase, inside are stacks of $1000 bills. He starts counting out the money and he says, "Okaaaaaay, last chaaaance my dear. If you will take one worm out of that jar and hold it in your palm for one minute, I will give you $100,000. ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS." I stood there looking back and forth from the money, to the woims... a complete coward. Then I finally looked up at Mr. Woodward and I said "You know, it was easier for you to die in that chair than for me to do what you ask."

Who is it, that's what I want to know....

WHO IS this torturer, this black side that says maybe I should GET TO KNOW THEM, feel them, KISS them, EAT ONE!

Images come before thought-out thoughts. The image of having to put a woim in my mouth. Why should a part of my mind think that? WHO IS THAT? Is that the part of the mind that drives some people into mental homes, like Johnny Weismuller for instance... never to come out, unable to deal with reality?

But woims...woims are a reality. Especially if you are a gardener.

The most beautiful thing in the world must be NO FEAR.

To have no fear. To not have that buzz run through your body causing you to jump back, feel sick, pretend it's cute...

No fear. Like Tarzan.