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    Counseling Anarchists: We All Marry Our Mirrors—Someone Who Reflects How We Feel About Ourselves.<Br>Folding Inside Ourselves<Br>A Novel of Mystery
    Counseling Anarchists: We All Marry Our Mirrors—Someone Who Reflects How We Feel About Ourselves.<Br>Folding Inside Ourselves<Br>A Novel of Mystery
    Counseling Anarchists: We All Marry Our Mirrors—Someone Who Reflects How We Feel About Ourselves.<Br>Folding Inside Ourselves<Br>A Novel of Mystery
    Ebook247 pages3 hours

    Counseling Anarchists: We All Marry Our Mirrors—Someone Who Reflects How We Feel About Ourselves.
    Folding Inside Ourselves
    A Novel of Mystery

    By Anne Hart

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    About this ebook

    The men who came to strangle me were shrinking my world like the most delicately tinted of bubbles, shrinking in ever narrowing circles from the upward gush of my own infancy. You've got to be crazy to see a psychiatrist. Don't call me if you're gnawing on a bad day, and all you want to do is have a discussion.

    We all marry our mirrors, someone who reflects how we feel about ourselves at the moment. Every wife is a mirror of her own husband's failures, and every husband a reflection of his wife's successes.

    If you want to make money, you find a void in society and fill it. With more than 60 percent of women being snuffed, it's no wonder a sharp promoter saturated the market with anarchists feeling their inadequacies.

    Their words fall like an embroidered saddle on a jackass. Remember when only female failures married when career success eluded them? Anarchists' dolls don't expand into motherhood. They're squeezed into silver plated girdles where the only private space is a purse.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateMar 6, 2002
    ISBN9781532000713
    Counseling Anarchists: We All Marry Our Mirrors—Someone Who Reflects How We Feel About Ourselves.<Br>Folding Inside Ourselves<Br>A Novel of Mystery
    Author

    Anne Hart

    Popular author, writing educator, creativity enhancement specialist, and journalist, Anne Hart has written 82 published books (22 of them novels) including short stories, plays, and lyrics. She holds a graduate degree and is a member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors and Mensa.

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      Book preview

      Counseling Anarchists - Anne Hart

      9781532000713_epubcover.jpg

      Counseling Anarchists

      Image302.PNG

      We All Marry Our Mirrors—Someone

      Who Reflects How We Feel About

      Ourselves.

      Folding Inside Ourselves

      A Novel of Mystery

      Featuring: Anne Joan Levine, Private Eye

      Anne Hart

      Mystery and Suspense Press

      San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

      Counseling Anarchists

      We All Marry Our Mirrors—Someone Who Reflects How We Feel About

      Ourselves.

      Folding Inside Ourselves

      A Novel of Mystery

      All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Anne Hart

      No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

      Mystery and Suspense Press

      an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

      iUniverse, Inc.

      5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

      Lincoln, NE 68512

      www.iuniverse.com

      Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

      ISBN: 0-595-22054-1

      ISBN: 978-1-5320-0071-3 (ebook)

      Contents

      Introduction

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      About the Author

      To all readers of powerful and humorous mystery and suspense.

      Introduction

      Image302.PNG

      Counseling Anarchists has to be a mystery or suspense novel. How do you begin to find out what makes them grow that way and why and how they operate? Why do they hate us? What have we done to make them angry, and what happens when they can’t always have their way because, maybe their way doesn’t come from love of all humanity, if we define love as cheering every person on to be all that she or he can be?

      How do private investigators counsel neo-anarchists? By folding inside ourselves...

      Chapter 1

      Image302.PNG

      The men who came to strangle me were shrinking my world like the most delicately tinted of bubbles, shrinking in ever narrowing circles from the upward gush of my own infancy. You’ve got to be crazy to see a psychiatrist. Don’t call me if you’re gnawing on a bad day, and all you want to do is have a discussion.

      We all marry our mirrors—someone who reflects how we feel about ourselves. Every wife is a mirror of her own husband’s failures, and every husband a reflection of his wife’s successes.

      If you want to make money, you find a void in society and fill it. With more than 60 percent of women being slammed, jammed, sticked and stuffed by wife beaters, it’s no wonder a sharp promoter saturated the market with robots meant to be used and abused by wife-beaters whenever they felt their inadequacies.

      They can call us the epithet they feel they are at the moment—loser, idiot, stupid. Their words fall like an embroidered saddle on a jackass. Remember when only female failures married when career success eluded them?

      Robots, like inflatable dolls don’t expand into motherhood. They’re crushed into silver-plated girdles. Tell me I’m staying with my batterer because I seek to punish myself. Blame the victim like society does. Tell me my self-esteem is too low, that, no I shouldn’t be avoidant or dependent, but I’m not really bad. I was positioned

      first that way. Actually, nobody hires bots over fifty because their mother-hen, protective attitudes make employers feel a little less independent.

      The more a woman acts protective, the more the male in her presence feels like a child and loses his independence. To be mothered is to lose it for a guy. So he lashes out with a mean swing. By Saturday night, they have us all in stitches.

      Botbeaters, ‘no’ thyself with a hey, no, don’t do this and no, don’t do that. No, you got to be robot-like. Bots don’t take up so much space on a seat that their knees are in different time zones. Guys do. Bots keep their legs together so the guys can expand and spread out all over the bus seats.

      We’re space-pinchers. We ‘no’ ourselves into corners, while the guys expand into what they’re about—joy, duty, science, or ‘religion’ (self-growth through their faith.) Bots are about creative expression and a search for self-identity. Bots are avoidant and dependent because they’ve been built to be housebound by fear in order to be easily controlled by aggressive adventurers.

      We teach them by tolerance and shrinking inwardly. Why and how did I teach him to batter me? Why did my body shrink inwardly instead of shoot out? Why did the tender blossoms of hope become vented in vain wishes? Why did I relinquish power over myself to him?

      Thought...I was thinking...batter me, hammer me, for only in pain can I find the punishment which I deserve. And only when I am punished will the release bring me pleasure. Come strangle me my stranger. In flocks of moving, lighted drops, like globules of ambergris which Christens my face on my honeymoon.

      What bridal bouquet shall I toss to celebrate my divorce? I wrote in my diary Today I died, the day I wed the living dead. For a woman, freedom equals poverty after sixty and marriage means bondage when I can no longer care for you.

      Beat me, brutalize me, like my father battered me, and for all the better. Somewhere in a former life I have sinned. Take my money. Take my children which I have born from you. DNA meshes well with microchips to extend life and brutality. Only a robot can know real love, devoid of anger. Break me. Brake me.

      In this spotty spin of fusion like a web whose every strand is linked and vibrates with my every transgression and every other, beat me my husband. For this is a house of angry strangers.

      Neither of us ever were allowed to be what we dreamed, to live our passion, to do the kind of work we wanted so eagerly to embrace. We are about creative expression, but what we expressed was devalued and disvalued all our lives. Society didn’t have room to pay all the writers and artists, but we refused to stop expressing and creating and rejected reality for a fantasy too good to be true. We created our own reality and lived our unpaid and invisible dreams and folded inside ourselves.

      Chase me through dark cellars as a child. Catch me as a wife with an ax coming down on my head. Withing this body, within the wrinkling tissues tht rock gently in my sea of misery is the source of a vig-intillion lives. Our socialization concentrates on our dependence.

      Rock me quietly and hold me in your arms. I am the last born of an old cycle and the first-born of the new. Beat me: metal shall become flesh, human become machine. Batter me and let us exchange modes as you drink more power from my body.

      Female robots made for battering, ads blare. Unexpectedly, one never hears about anyone ever battered by robot, unless the robots are structured to look big, strong, male, or ugly. Anything pretty is constructed weak.

      A bot, fembot, toon, doodle, or female robot is an inflatable doll to be used, abused, and refused. We get robo-cops and universal soldiers, silver-plated lovers, and two-ton machines whose arms have a mean swing. Gals are cartoons. If a paper centerfold could see her viewer from inside the magazine looking out, what would she witness?

      Bots are hidden in closets and under mattresses so mother coming in to clean the room won’t see what we do to them in the anger of stress, rejection, and failure.

      ESTP spiraled toward me. Blanch me! His mighty arm came down across my mouth. The pattern oscillascope sine and cosine ripples tore through me from the alpha and omega axes. The first and the last thickened together in to a slugishness in its moving. There was a taint of decay in him. He pulsated in four dimensions and hit me with the machine that was himself as he stimulated himself with the vernier knobs. The hammer rang closer to my head.

      Slap...

      Don’t hit me again.

      Slap.

      Why do you treat me like your mother?

      Slap.

      He opened his moth-wing textured ego. ESTP trembled, spat at

      me testosterone, estrogen, and progesterone. His fists came swinging.

      Beat me brutally, as Brutus was brutish with his Carthage Cutie, his belladonnas. Strangle me, the boot in my face, the fist in my stomach. Shout Auslanders Rauch, (outlanders out) because I’m a bot, and you can’t beat a fem without going to jail. Punch me when I’m pregnant. The man can’t tolerate responsibility, so he needs the machine.

      Stress. Kick me, kill me, kiss me, clean me. His patterns grew. Blood fired from his fingertips in a half-crazed arc.

      ESTP throbbed, thrust out at every pulse in a higher octave of kill, overkill, crash. He sang, Black leather, black leather, kill, kill, kill. Black leather, black leather, crash, crash, crash, from that old English movie. ESTP drank more of my power, like sheets of light, like a subtle electric fire.

      I peaked up—my martydom, dependence, avoidance, over his battering arm. Pisces divided by Aries. The fish seeking the water bearer of humanity. He tried to catch me.

      Corner me. I taunted him, stuck out my tongue.

      He extended. I extended on metal legs. Then he peaked out, unable to draw more power from me. Metal became flesh in a sea that was no longer the fresh, cold salty well of sanity it had been. I called to him, ESTP, come strangle me my stranger. Hit, husband hit, batter me with your battering ram. For only in pain can I know pleasure, stand naked as metal.

      Wholes function as wholes. Bend in closer in the web of understanding which is the nature of your enclosing bell of light so I can see your patterns of light.

      The textures, sounds, and pulses of strong light were ESTP’s indentity. I can only taste as a robot tastes. He glowed up in a burst of color. When an area of color moved and concentrated, flailing out on its own musical note, it was composed of utter silence in the thrashing, utter color. And every color was a nation unto itself.

      In my kitchen the pots and pans sparkled and glittered. The right to be your own boss? ESTP screamed and threw at me a book. If my own husband treats me like his mother, how will the impersonal world outside pummel me? I asked him for grocery money. He told me if I wanted money to go out and earn it.

      Better you should be crippled, then to be born a girl. Why weren’t you born a boy? I should have flushed you out into the bay with the condom before you were conceived, screamed ESTP’s grandfather while he battered my husband’s mother.

      Forty years of marriage to the same tightwad, and ESTP’s parents were still at each other’s throats. At her advanced age, she stayed because he paid off the mortgage and gave her only enough grocery money to keep her from leaving. This was the fourth generation of children hiding under tables watching their fathers punch out their mothers.

      In time, somebody invented bots to take the whipping so real women could put the bums in jail. Trouble was, nobody hired women over fifty. Bots over fifty were treated the same way.

      Never in a million years would you think that bots would be treated like people. We couldn’t be called slaves when we were assembled machines made by DNA-metal mesh chip firms with parts as interchangeable as computer peripherals.

      We were built house-bound and agoraphobic, so we could never leave. The more we were hit, the more we did our sit-down strike against powerlessness. We acted out the epitome of femininity. The extreme stereotype of the helpless woman at home is the agoraphobic. We acted it out to the hilt because sensing, thinking instead of intuitive, feeling people programmed us that way.

      They were all about counting and measuring because the ice age caused them to work hard and technical for survival in the three-month growing season. We were all about the rhythmic return of the seasons because we were created during a twelve-month growing season in our greenhouses where working hard but less technical for survival wasn’t necessary. All we had to do was reach up to the branch and grab the fruit from the tree of knowledge. Theirs was covered with know and they had to figure out how to dig it out. Thus came digital multimedia whipping bots.

      I planned a simple dinner, and after his kids were ready for bed, I began preparations for the next day’s meal. ESTP put down the hammer. Suck the marrow from my bones, he commanded, You gluey-sided leather bag of pus!

      Is that Baudelaire you’re quoting? I asked, stone-faced with the paralogic that only a bot could speak. Dependant, avoidant, and anti-logical are us. We are dominant feelers, introverted, intuitive, dominant feelers, INFPs. Matched with a restless, roving ESTP, the result is an explosion of the senses. Concrete, pragmatic people can’t resist beating us when we beg for harmony, rapport, and affection. We only represently one percent of the population.

      I’m programmed to please myself first as an INFP. This infuriates my batterer who wants me to please him, but pleasing him stops my autonomous, free spirit, my independence. So he beats me down to his size. Then he tries to program me avoidant-dependent. This causes my sit-down strike of powerlessness, my agoraphobia.

      I am now housebound with rhythmic panic. Now he can beat me, and I can’t leave. For I fear the outside world where I will have to perform to standards more than I fear his angry explosions where at least I have food, shelter, and clothing. My job is to be a sponge and absorb his stress, be the butt of his anger, failures, loss, and inadequacies. I fear failure in the world outside my home.

      My fear of incompetence is greater than my fear of violence. I know that there’s no way I can get inside your mind when you employ me, no way to please you, to give you the standards that you require. All I can give you is what’s inside myself.

      What I do create and express will be presented only my way. If you don’t pay me for it, then I will remain avoidant and dependent. After fify-five, nothing is more important than creating and expressing my way. I please myself first.

      Between twenty-one and fifty-one, I tried to please you. It wasn’t what you demanded of me. Your rejection and the fact that you never paid me to leave my home taught me that tolerating violence was easier than tolerating rejection of my creativity.

      Ask me what I want. I want you to pay me for what I do best, creative expression. You don’t like what I create and how I express it, so you don’t pay.

      Since as an INFP I’m all about creative expression, and that’s all I choose to do in any and all medias, and since you judge me incompetent, then I punish you by remaining at home in a sit-down strike of powerlessness, in a protest against routine and sweatshop repetition for pay so low it’s insulting, for no benefits for my old age. Well, here comes my old age, and I welcome it with open arms as freedom from responsibility.

      I fall deeper into the arms of my abuser, going from an angry man to an angry child who will surely abuse me even more violently when I’m bedridden and covered with sores.

      Incontinence will replace incompetence. Old age job discrimination makes me fold inside myself and turn to ESTP for the three hots and a cot.

      ESTP put down the hammer and hissed, spitting in my face as he screeched between the serrations of his buck teeth. You call this fun? He sank into the air mattress.

      You can’t stand to see me happy. Every time you get pregnant with ideas, you turn into a bitch. He swung his arm across the table and sent the fruits and nuts flying to the carpet."

      I’m a feeling bot, not a thinking bot. Thinking’s my inferior function, I reiterated for the thousandth time. So you clean up this mess. Then we can have harmony, so I can be what I’m really about, even though you programmed me for taking a whipping and keeping on ticking.

      Mess? ESTP shouted. I’ll show you what a mess is. He picked up the food and dumped it on the floor. Then he opened the freezer, pushed out the contents and threw them on the floor. He took out the newly peeled apples, bobbing in water, and dumped them on the carpet. He lifted the cleaver, the milk, the tomatoes—everything that I had spent the night before mincing and rosetting, and threw them on the floor.

      I watched in torturous belief looking at my ‘husband,’ the stranger. I looked as I’ve looked before, straight down his heart, feeling the shudder of the shrinking caves of powerlessness beneath my feet, piling towers of sotware under baby shoes. He hated holes right through my heart.

      Ninety-nine percent of the women I can get along with, but only my botwife, only you...make me...bang, zoom, to the moon. He slammed his balled fist against the palm of his hand.

      ESTP backhanded me, and I jerked my head away—flow mechanics—in the direction of the slap, as robot-like as his hands dished it out to my mouth. An elipses of dust burns formed on my cheek where his hot fingers touched my cool metal. His femwife put him in jail a couple of times for the same, took the night shift to avoid him, and ordered him to get a punching pillow.

      Gazing into his face was like looking into a mirror, or into the glossy side of a toppling wave and seeing myself, a thing of hate and ugliness, mirroring his own inadequacy and failure, poverty, and pain, mirroring until I reflected him as if he were myself.

      Blame the victim. Men say, She marries such a man because of HER low self esteem, because SHE wants to punish herself.

      What if I came from a good family and had high self esteem, but he was the one with the mixed-up early childhood, and it was his problem? The voices tease, but if she stays, if she keeps going back to him, she must have low self-esteem, must want to punish herself, it’s her sickness, if she stays.

      No, it’s society’s sickness because they won’t hire her and

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