The recently released issue #5 of Mode Depesche by Heimat is all about Hysterie.
I’ve written a text about my visit to Dildo. A little town on Newfoundland’s coast.
My own personal hysteria most often starts with a crazy itch in my stomach. Sometimes I can satisfy the urge for excitement by shoving two or three jumbo hot dogs down my grubby throat. Other times the pull towards hysteria is so strong that a little snack won’t help. That’s when I feel I have to cause a joyful explosion. And this got me wondering, where does this thing called hysteria come from? What does it mean?
I found this entry in the Online Etymology Dictionary:
Hysterical: from Latin hystericus “of the womb,” from Greek hysterikos “of the womb, suffering in the womb,” from hystera “womb” (see uterus). The ancient Greeks thought that excessive emotionality in women was caused by a displaced uterus and sexual discontent.
I was not surprised: we woman are always to blame.
But being hysterical isn’t like that at all for me. I think it’s the ultimate: it means spreading joy to the people far and wide, like the best form of entertainment. When my own personal hysteria is strong, I feel like an ambassador of joy. Yes: Joy to the World, that’s the mission.
On vacation in Newfoundland, I got that crazy belly itch, again. They have all these wonderful names for towns and bays on the island, including Virgin Arm, Heart’s Delight, Conception Bay. But the one name that really got me going was Dildo. I sort of hyped myself up into a frenzy over it. Maybe it was Dildo Fever, Dildo Hysteria.
Of course, I thought, in a town called Dildo, the streets must be paved with pleasure. Them Dildonians are surely an ecstatic folk – why else would they have chosen the name?
So off I went, hitchhiking my way around Newfoundland. I was all pumped up, thumb held high against the battering wind. Cars, trucks, SUVs, pick-up trucks, vans passed by. Some drivers honked and waved, but 15 minutes on not one of them had been so kind as to take my little butt on board.
I began to worry. What if I’m not going to be able to deliver my inner joy to the outside world? What if them Dildonian’s aren’t receptive? What will happen if their subtractions collide with the sum of all my inner additions?
That’s when I took matters into my own two pumps and walked into town. I arrived boiling over with excitement, the old hysterical belly-itch going strong. I needed relief. I strolled around Dildo and along its wonderful harbor. No one there. Where are them Dildonian’s?
Suddenly, I saw this cute, tiny little pony standing on someone’s front porch tethered to a post. I thought: good, this little bugger can’t escape my joyful mission: I will infect it with my frenzy and commandeer it for a bold ride through the streets of Dildo. That will lift everyone’s spirits! But it was not to be – the pony used the same hysteria-repression technique as me: it ate and ate and ate. I stroked it, tried to speaking to it rationally, then yelling. I did a little dance. But I could do nothing to distract it from eating. And eating. And eating.
I felt like I was about to implode. There was a subtraction being made to what had been added to my inner joy-power supply. Yes, there were several people staring at me from the safety of their Dildonian dwellings – some of them even had binoculars – but no explosion of pleasure rocking the streets of Dildo yet.
The ambassador of joy decided to give it another try.
Near the middle of town I saw a place called the Dildo Interpretation Centre. That once again set my imagination aglow. What could this be all about? Do the people of Dildo have different interpretations for, well, Dildo? Are there other meanings for Dildo we don’t know about?
Entering the Interpretation Centre, it quickly dawned on me that I was in a museum. And it wasn’t dedicated to that time-tested ‘ol Dildo you and I had been thinking of the whole time, the one that had first got my joyful spirits bubbling like a fat turkey roasting in its own juices.
Well, I raved with joy nonetheless. This Dildo Centre was packed with pertinent Dildo information: all the Faqs on Dildo’s fishery, its founding fathers, and whales galore. They even had a little shrine there to HRH Queen Elisabeth II.
And then, finally, I discovered a little metal plaque bearing the official Dildonian explanation of how the town came to have its name:
“D’Isle Duo” can be translated into Spanish, Portuguese and French, all roughly meaning “two islands”. With respect to our community, we believe these two islands to be Spread Eagle and Dildo Island, both visible from our community. Over time, with the dialects of the settlers, the flow has been lost and it evolved into Dildo.
It made me a little sad that they felt the need to deny the true glory of their name – why not stand up proudly for the truth? What if they don’t let me? Why repress the true spirit of Dildo? And I still had my unquenchable thirst to bring joy to these people!
Finally, I knew I was in the right place: they needed my help to let that deeper, pent-up meaning all hang out. I kept wandering around the museum, glowing with joy. Everything was so cute and wonderful. I had that itch in my tummy – it was all shaky and wobbly. I wondered if it wasn’t just an intestinal problem.
Then it hit me like a deer in the headlights: The explosion. I was about to drop a bomb – a J-bomb. I lay down amongst the whalebones for comfort and out it splashed: The little bomb of joy. I was so glad I didn’t have my panties on.
So there it was, my contribution to the Dildo Interpretation Centre: the joy bomb would now always be there to spread good cheer and pleasure to all the future generations of Dildonians still to come.
Photos by Oliver Husain
Dress by Mary Messhausen
Stockings by Bernhard Willhelm
Editorial office by Ellen Wagner
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