Mother devil

Man can hardly even recognize the devils of his own creation. – Albert Schweitzer

In the water stain left over from an early morning rain fall: a devil. A little one with horns and a yellow eye. He stands strangely balanced at the oddest angle on the very tips of his tippy toes. He has no arms, this little devil. He is smirking, it seems.

Waterstain for Sirène and Petit diable arrivant sur la pointe des pieds

You hurry home and waste no time sketching the contours of this devil. How odd is it then that a siren with a tremendous head of hair comes out instead? Her contours, like her colors, are soft, and there is artistry in her clothing. Eyes closed, head bowed slightly forward, she floats lightly in the air. She seems so peaceful, so calm.

Sirène (21 March 2020)

Except that she isn’t. You wouldn’t be either if you had two hulking bulls and a bird tangled up in your hair. You’d think a person would comb that shit out after a while. You’d think a person wouldn’t want those bulls and that bird glommering around up there on the top her head, weighing her down and making her all tired and everything. Right?

Well, yes, obviously.

But then again, no.

A person would have to know that the bulls and the bird are there to start with. Which the siren doesn’t. Just like the woman walking her dog in Femme promenant son chien, ses oiseaux et sa petite baleine enragée doesn’t know that there is an angry little whale attached to her back.1 Just like you don’t know that there are devils inhabiting your soul.

Petit diable arrivant sur la pointe des pieds (22 March 2020)

These devils are not the screamingly obvious kind with the evil eye and the pointy horns dressed in a menacing red that you will insist on committing to paper tomorrow. These devils aren’t just now arriving sneakily on the scene, either. They’ve been here for a long time. So long, in fact, that they’ve grown too big for your body, they’ve ruptured the surface of your skin.

The doctors call it lichen sclerosis; you call it hell. And you hate this thing the way a warrior hates his worst enemy. The war you wage against it, however, is one you will never win. At least not if you keep attacking it from the outside. The source of your troubles is the poison inside you, after all, the devils of your own making2: angry whales, flightless birds, cumbersome bulls. They can all be traced back to a specific adverse childhood experience that you have never taken the time to process and put to rest3. The mother devil, if you will. It is she you must attack and destroy.

Now listen carefully: I will tell you what you must do to be rid of her.

First, hold her out at arm’s length to better observe her. You cannot ignore that which you can see.

Reine se débarassant d’un petit démon vert (23 March 2020)

Second, walk with her a while to better understand her. You cannot fear that which you know.

Le Prêcheur et son démon (8 April 2020)

Third and last, with the help of a hunting dog named Sophie, stab that fucking bitch right in the heart and be done with her once and for all. You cannot suffer the pain of that which is no longer there.

Chasseur en jean (20 April 2020)
Bubblegum (?) stain for Reine se débarassant d’un petit démon vert
Water stain for Le Prêcheur et son démon
Waterstain for Chasseur en jean
  1. See Art is a fortune teller. ↩︎
  2. See Ça bon, Fanny Fox! and Naked as the day. ↩︎
  3. See Love is forgiveness, Dear Dad, and Happy Birthday, Fanny Fox. ↩︎

1 thought on “Mother devil”

  1. I does feel good when you rid your self of existing issues that weigh you down. And sometimes someone has to point them out for you. You’ve carried them around for so long you didn’t realize they even existed.


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