Sunday, April 17, 2005


"We all begin in nonsense, in the babbling gibberish of baby-talk. In the end we find shapes of sounds that make sense, but this process of verbal hit and miss started in the womb. I am here to take you back to that brilliance of birth. I will take you back to the womb. I am a professional womber." He adjusts his black professorial glasses and then lets out a sustained shriek that rips out from the back of his throat.

"Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeee !!!"

Most of the students continue taking notes, unphased by the change in his volume. They write down notes like, "face gets red after ten seconds of screaming", "bring earplugs next class" or "so do we then return to the womb when we scream at rock concerts ?"

"Waaaa waaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

Some students put down their pens and watch carefully as the veins start to emerge from his neck like worms from soil on a rainy day. A couple of the students look over at their teacher Mr Griftens who invited the womber into their honours English class in order to introduce them to alternative modes of expression. Before they can understand literature, he tells them, they must understand basic language and also what exists before language. Mr Griftens sits on his desk, giving his blessings over the proceedings with a smile.

"Bwaaaaaaaaaaa Aaaaa Aaaaa !!!" The womber falls over into a fetal position. His screaming continues unabated.

And so it lasts for thirty minutes, until he stops to lead a discussion in what the class felt while he bawled.

"Did this make you want to cry ?" he asks. "I want you to cry. I'm here to make you cry. To find your baby voice."

I want to make you cry so that you can touch freedom.



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