Despite everything we know regarding shadows through the miracles of science, namely the aetiology which accounts for the fact that they exist in the first place, and the laws of nature which govern how they behave, there are some who still doubt that they are real things, as they are not substantial entities, as it were. They maintain that shadows are only secondary phenomena, and because of such doubts, insist on questioning whether it is sensible to consider whether, in truth, they are only the fruits of our shared imagination. If this is true, it is natural to consider other questions: can we treat them merely as objects of childish fears, symbols that signify unconscious lacks and desires, or inspiration for artistic images? And if shadows are neither important nor dangerous in terms of causing physical damage, or disturbance in the real world at least, for example, are we permitted to get rid of every shadow of doubt by stealth, exchanging presence for absence, substantial things for insubstantial ones, light for shadow, without causing trials and tribulations? However, if we were to do this, what would be the effect on how we perceive truth, and reality itself? And what of the psychological problems that might ensue as a result? 

 

Who’s taken up the reins in this Clinic? Who’s in charge and at the helm? Who’s responsible, or in authority? Who’s supervising, overseeing, directing, managing? And of course, a woman is the appropriate answer. Even when she’s totally on her own, more or less, anyway, after he – him – deserted her! Hmm, well, never mind that…

 

Time and time again I hear the words calling to me – Mrs Blodeuwedd Grossmann (who used to be Miss Procter in the good old days!) – the mother, the generalissimo, the story-teller – over and over, and they are singing the magical song of the Idolaters, full of truth, bravery, and despair, but, then again, one which is so familiar, tempting, much too human {Star-Mother}. In the land of the shadows they live, the tales, multiplying in the imaginary kingdom of language, where legends and old selves are constantly recycled and reinvented, so that no matter how quickly you run, you’ll never escape them. That’s why I’m languishing, alone in the dark, drafty kitchen, chasing shadows in the deepest depths of night.  

 

And here I am investigating my history as a creature who’s always watching dramas unfolding about her. But at the same time, this is the story of us all, which is full of the symbols of absence, lack, and want indeed. And I wonder, who takes responsibility for the majority of the things we do, of the things that happen to us? Are we free or do we dance to a tune composed by who-knows-who, being forced to tell stories all the time to make sense of the world? We can scarcely say, and anyway, that’s her problem, you’ll answer. Well, fair enough, but you can’t claim that I haven’t worked my fingers to the bone, because I’m exhausted, although I can’t fall asleep. But, after waiting for ages, I’ll doze in the end, while my rest is disturbed by the same dream every night, where the whole Eyrth is almost at an end, and I am the only soul left. 

 

Look here, now. I won’t be striving to analyse meanings here and now. I’m a sensible and practical person, not the kind to indulge in flights of fantasy, and anyway, I’m not competent, and I’m too busy, and so tired. Here, in the enchanted forest, I’m the fairy-godmother, and there’s always chores to be done. It feels like I spend all my time raising money, counselling troubled minds, giving help to the afflicted, looking after those at death’s door, and stopping the old place from falling apart. All day long I’ll be thinking, and deciding, and acting, trying to do the best thing. It’s no surprise I can’t sleep when the time comes! And me a single mother to a fool of a son, who can’t blow his own nose, not to mention the lad who’s just arrived, who isn’t able to wipe his bum nor tie his laces yet.

 

But, having said all that, I can’t stop pondering life’s mysteries from time to time, especially when the Director of the Clinic needs a second opinion about one of the residents (as he calls them). All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy they say, after all. In truth, having read the reports, spoken with the patients, done research into the appropriate topics in the textbooks and the current literature, consulted with my brother, and written the notes, some would say that it’s me who’s the specialist in this mad’ouse. But, chief of all, I am the only one who pays attention to the welfare of the people who live here, their bodies and their minds. And we welcome all kinds of people, like in the words of some old verse, we’ve worked with ones who play the part of baby, teacher, medic, lad; lecher, learner, writer, bard; soldier, keeper, hero, nurse. And the occasional odd creature who used the title Wizard, too. 

 

Well, a job begun is almost done, and I’ve started so I might as well go on! In this human world, created of words, we have to try to understand: does anything exist separate from our thoughts, our concepts? Do we live in a cave, were the indistinct images that’re always melting, and escaping from our grasp, are but shadows of the real things, cast on the walls? Everything is mixed up, because nothing exists on its own. For example, objects presuppose subjects; children need parents; in order to be a citizen, society must exist; it’s not possible to establish a relationship or have a chat without two people (well, two personalities, perhaps). But in the end I answer myself with another question: who am I? Or, to be more objective: who is she, who is this woman? I scratch my head, which is plastered with irony, trying to decide whether I can keep my tongue in my cheek while not putting my foot in there at the same time. Oh, I love mixing up metaphors!

 

Now then, dear people! I hope you’ll forgive my attempt to be witty then. I’m a sensible, clever, and polite woman, except when I’m not. I’m not Lady Meykbeds nor a woman from "Khronikles of the Kimbrian Kollektive" like Arianrhod or Blodeuwedd! I mean only this: what particular specimen of the human race is this? What kind of woman is she? Or perhaps, it would be better to ask: what exactly is the human nature of the person who can fashion the kind of stuff that’s presented in this piece? Don’t forget that I’m laughing at myself here, too. Who is it, in other words, who can weave a web of words and write wondrous things like this, as majestic as the Song of Tefnuth which brought Lushfé back to life, brim-full of beauty and strength? Who, under her own direction, can perform such miracles? What kind of individual can induce other people to feel this way or that by using only inky scribbles on bits of paper which dance in front of the eyes like midges; by whispering only puny breaths of air that tickle the ears for just a moment? But of course, it’s possible that the only answer is to say that one must interrogate the work itself in detail. And here, when I say work, it’s the new life-stories I mean, created through a process of speaking and imagining which’ll lead to development and growth. That is the magic of language. 

 

Let us bring a character to mind then. She is similar to some literary woman who’s got a taste for mixing short, sardonic sentences with longer witticisms. artfully fashioned. She’s the soul of discretion whilst talking of living, being lonely, raising a child on her own, working much too hard to complete all her tasks, and perishing. Her voice, we might say, is muscular, and her accent reminds us of her roots, never to be forgotten, and her sense of humour is earthy, despite the time she’s sacrificed as indentured servant to this temple of the healing virtues and its inhabitants. In her every-day work, she hears myriad voices talking ceaselessly. So, the stories she tells are full of talking heads, giving voice to old people, common folk, those who are forgotten, the lost, as much as the young, the beautiful, the wealthy, and the idealistic. 

 

And then, I ask myself: how much of an authoress’s life will play a part in the pieces she writes, whether she likes it or not, and even if she doesn’t intend to speak of herself? From where does her voice come, her specific way of talking? And to what degree can the things she tries to say in her work come to be different from that ones you, the receivers, hear? Is it you, the audience, who’s a midwife, in a manner of speaking, is it you who bring sense and meaning whilst interacting with the text? Is it possible for us to generalize? Should we try to do such things at all?

 

However, you have to ask: does she narrate stories that arise from her own experience, or rather does she just bewitch you with her artistic charm? Or, would it be better to say, her autistic spells? Is it true that a woman must delve down into her core to connect herself with the world, or should she be trying to reach beyond her boundaries all the time? Is the story-teller a joker or a genius; does she see clearly, or just claim to? But then again, what does it matter to you? Anyway, as the scale of experience oscillates back and forth, it appears that the producer desires, more than anything else in the Two Worlds, to control the flow of the narrative. 

 

Sometimes, perhaps, she is a true musician, and mistress of her craft, who plucks at your heart-strings and plays hide-and-seek with your emotions, whilst describing confusion and mute fear. And as a result, often, your emotions will be left heavy under a shadow of loss which remains for a long time after the entertainment finishes. And furthermore, in her role as mother to orphans, foster-mother to lost adults, healer of damaged souls, and patron saint of lost causes, she’ll need to attend to terribly sad tales, and, on occasions, unite them with quite funny ones. So, swept along by her tender mercies, the chorus of voices under her direction, whether they belong to women or men, regardless of their backgrounds or their social station, the old and the young alike, will sound so suitable, so powerful, so sweet, so angry. 

 

But, despite all that, perhaps self-sacrifice is the true nature of the nurse-maid, the authoress of fresh, new lives (when the magic works at least), and thus it always was, and will be for ever, too. Most of the time she gives up telling her own truth to create a space for the other voices. Who knows, then, maybe by deceiving herself, she frees the other characters she portrays, or incarnates, from the stain of deceit. And through doing this she achieves the masterwork of alchemical transformation, turning leaden personalities into shining spirits of gold. And then, from another point of view, perhaps the response of the audience, the correspondent, the watcher, or the patient, is the true crux of the matter, whatever is the meaning imagined and fashioned by the authoress of the communication. After all, she is not the first cause, who initiates creation ab-initio, but rather she’s a demiurge, a deputy who sub-creates with the raw materials which already exist.

 

Well, fair play, but what then? After they are set free, should thoughts and brand-new world-views (and the brains that contain them), be able to roam the Eyrth without restraint, like lonely orphans, only to wither due to lack of nourishment? The foundational problem is that the world has changed comparatively recently. Since the dawn of civilization, it’s the devils who’ve ruled the most important details of life’s great narrative, leaving the angels to fill in the gaps which would otherwise be inexplicable. But now that the ancient spiritual authorities, who were so busy before, have fled, who, then, will care for the new-born ideas, which sprout from the seeds sown by the dramatist, growing up in the fertile soil of skulls ready to accept them? 

 

On the other hand, on the contrary, who’ll be to blame when words work too well, casting irresistible spells on the spineless ones they greet? What about such ideas, which go on only to feed the malevolent imaginations that belong to madmen, bullies, and despots? And that’s all without mentioning the polished words which hit on merciless ears, and so don’t find a spiritual home, as if they were seed which fell on rocky land. Who knows? No-one knows. Who should know? No-one gives a hoot. And with that, you’ve been warned. Take care, you broadcasters, listeners, readers; all of you who love producing and using words, because here lurk dragons. Which one of the two will be stronger or cleverer, the red one or the white, the hard facts of experience which limit possibilities, or imaginings which can support every outcome without referring to anything of importance? That shall be a lesson for you to learn for yourselves! 

 

Never mind about all the sophophilic musings, one must always come back to the real world, full of practical things, and problems to be solved, and so that’s what I shall do. I shall win here in the end, whilst pretending that I’m losing, although I hate using such militaristic terms. It’s not fighting that succeeds in achieving your aims after all. The fact of the matter is that by being flexible and bending with the wind like a reed, I’ll never be broken, whilst the others shall be blown hither and thither like dead leaves. It’s me who’s pulling the strings out of sight in the background, while they play their proper parts, jumping up and down like puppets.

 

It’s an old trope, the maid who is mistress in truth, one has only to consider Nebesh commanding Swtakh to commit his atrocities against Lushfé. But, it’s not me who writes the entire script, I just stir up the actors. But of course, I only work for the good of the individuals, well, whilst bearing in mind the needs of the Clinic too. And indeed, we’ve witnessed wonders in this place, such as an academic becoming a healer; a former soldier who is now making peace; a nitwit who speaks in tongues; a pitiful youth turning into a hero; and scared people falling in love. Who would’ve thought it? Wonders never cease. 

 

And here am I awake with all these voracious words and edacious ideas, once again, the signs of solitude, written in smoke, blurred like fog, sealed amidst night's ravines, waiting for the lads who are adventuring as usual [*]. That’s how they pay me back for all my help. But despite all the hard work and the incessant suffering, neither priest nor politician will realise that I’m half knight on a white charger setting about windmills like in the old days of yore, and another half teacher from the Old Books who went on donkey-back in the last days. So, I’ll never receive a public reward, despite the sleepless nights, and all the sacrifices for humanity. Well, virtue’s its own reward, I suppose. And just as well, as I’m not much of one for honours and fuss to say the least, in contrast to my dear brother! 

 

Anyway, I’d prefer that my favourite boys are out in the world having fun than that they stay here like puppy-dogs. And it’s very useful when they do some special errand from time to time. I am sure they think they’ll save the world one day, the young idiots. But then again, I still remember the dream that comes night after night, and then it sends a shiver down my spine to realise it makes no difference whether we live or die, from the viewpoint of the far future. And also, there’s that so-called trainee mentalist, who’s always saying she’s some famous poet from abroad. Oh, she’s constantly interfering and causing a headache as if she knows everything and owns the place as well. And all the carry-on about innovative techniques inspired by extra-terrestrial beings. By Hebé! No surprise anyway, knowing who she is, but why she’s come here now, I’ll never understand. But one must carry on regardless. We have no choice. I hope I’ll be able to get forty winks before the handsome princes come back, I’m almost dying from lack of sleep. Just half an hour would do. Time will tell.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

[*] I think Mrs G.’s being too hard on herself here (or maybe she was taking the mick whilst smiling serenely, the old astucious alpaca). G.Ll. was fond of saying (from the musician’s – and the enchantress’s – standpoint) that one had succeeded in life when he could utilize language as a form of “patamultabductio,” using it for its own sake whilst relishing its texture and savouring its richness – and not to represent anything beyond itself. Then (according to her), he’d be able to see the truth of the “nay-yes-is-scary” language-games that make us laugh whilst playing them, learning how language structures worlds and how to escape from its snares and enchantment. — P.M.

 

Er popeth yr ydym yn ei wybod parthed cysgodion trwy wyrthiau gwyddoniaeth, sef yr achoseg sydd yn cyfrif am y faith eu bod yn bodoli yn y lle cyntaf. a deddfau natur sydd yn rheoli sut yr ymddygant, mae rhai yn dal i amau nad gwir bethau ydynt o gwbl, am nad ydynt yn endidau sylweddol, fel petai. Maent yn maentumio mai dim ond ffenomenau eilaidd ydy cysgodion, ac oherwydd y fath amheuon, yn mynnu holi a ydy’n synhwyrol tybio ai ffrwythau ein cyd-ddychmygu yn unig ydynt, mewn gwirionedd. Os bydd hyn yn gywir, wedyn bydd yn naturiol ystyried cwestiynau eraill: a allwn ni eu trin dim ond fel gwrthrychau ofn plentynnaidd, symbolau sydd yn arwyddo diffygion a chwantau anymwybodol, neu ysbrydoliaeth ar gyfer delweddau celfyddydol? Ac onid ydy cysgodion yn bwysig na pheryglus o ran peri difrod corfforol neu gythrwfl yn y byd go iawn o leiaf, er enghraifft, a ganiateir inni gael gwared ar bob cysgod amheuaeth yn y dirgel, gan gyfnewid presenoldeb am absenoldeb, pethau sylweddol am rai disylwedd, goleuni am gysgod, heb achosi helbul a helynt? Fodd bynnag, pe gwnelem hyn, beth fyddai’r effaith ar sut y canfyddem wirionedd, a dirwedd ei hun? A beth am y problemau seicolegol a allai ddigwydd o ganlyniad?

 

Pwy sy wedi cymryd yr awenau yma yn y Clinig hwn? Pwy sy mewn gofal ac wrth y llyw? Pwy sy’n gyfrifol, neu mewn awdurdod? Pwy sy’n arolygu, goruchwylio, cyfarwyddo, rheoli? Ac wrth gwrs, menyw yw’r ateb priodol. Hyd yn oed pan fydd yn hollol ar ei phen ei hunan, mwy neu lai, ta beth, ar ôl iddo – yntau – gefni arni hi! Hmm, wel, er gwaetha’ ‘ny…

 

Eilchwyl ac eilchwaith rwy’n clywed y geiriau’n galw arna i – Mrs Blodeuwedd Grossmann (oedd Miss Procter yn yr hen ddyddiau dedwydd gynt!) – y fam, y cadlywydd, y storïwr – drosodd a throsodd, ac maen nhw’n canu cân hudolus y Delw-addolwyr, lawn gwirionedd, dewrder, ac anobaith, ond, eto i gyd, un sy mor gyfarwydd, mor ddengar, yn rhy ddynol o lawer. Ym mro cysgodion maen nhw’n byw, yr hanesion, gan luosogi yn nheyrnas ddychmygol iaith, lle bydd chwedlau a hen hunain yn cyson gael eu hailgylchu a’u hailddyfeisio, fel na waeth pa mor gyflym y rhedwch, allwch chi byth ddianc rhagddyn nhw. Dyna pam rwy’n nychu, ar fy mhen fy hunan yn y gegin dywyll, ddrafftiog, gan hel cysgodion gefn trymedd nos.

 

A dyma fi’n archwilio fy hanes fel creadures sy wastad yn gwylio dramâu’n datblygu o’i chwmpas. Ond ar yr un pryd, ein hanes ni i gyd yw hwn, sydd lawn symbolau absenoldeb, diffyg, ac eisiau yn wir. Ac rwy’n tybio, pwy sy’n cymryd cyfrifoldeb am y rhan fwya’ o’r pethau rydym ni’n eu gwneud, o’r pethau sy’n digwydd i ni? Ydym ni’n rhydd neu fyddwn ni’n dawnsio ar ôl tiwn a gyfansoddwyd gan pwy-a-ŵyr-pwy, gan gael ein gorfodi i ddweud straeon bob tro i wneud synnwyr o’r byd? O’r braidd y gellir dweud, a sut bynnag, dyna rhyngddi hi a’i chawl, fe atebwch chi. Wel, chwarae teg, ond allwch chi’m honni dw i’m wedi gweithio hyd at yr asgwrn, achos mod i wedi ymlâdd, er na alla i syrthio i gysgu. Ond, ar ôl aros am hydoedd, fe fydda i’n pendwmpian ym mhen yr hir a’r hwyr, tra aflonyddir ar fy ngorffwys gan yr un freuddwyd bob nos, lle bydd y Ddaear gron bron ar ben, a fi yw’r unig enaid ar ôl.

 

Edrychwch yma, nawr. Fydda i ddim yn ymdrechu i ddadansoddi ystyron yn y fan a’r lle. Person pwyllog ac ymarferol dw i, nage’r fath i ymhyfrydu mewn ehediadau dychymyg, a sut bynnag, dw i ddim yn gymwys, ac rwy’n rhy brysur, ac mor flinedig. Yma, yng ngwlad y tylwyth teg, fi yw’r ddewines garedig, ac mae wastad negeseuon i’w gwneud. Mae’n teimlo fel petawn i’n treulio fy amser i gyd yn codi arian, cwnsela meddyliau cythryblus, estyn cymorth i’r cystuddiedig, edrych ar ôl y rhai ar fin farw, ac atal yr hen le rhag dod oddi wrth ei gilydd. Trwy gydol y dydd fe fydda i’n meddwl, a phenderfynu, a gweithredu, gan geisio 'neud y peth gorau. ‘Sdim syndod mod i ddim yn gallu cysgu pan ddaw’r amser! A fi yn fam sengl i hurtyn o fab, sy ddim yn gallu chwythu’i drwyn yn iawn, heb sôn am y llanc newydd gyrraedd dyw’m yn medru sut i sychu’i din na chlymu’i gareiau eto.

 

Ond, wedi dweud hynny oll, dw i ddim yn gallu peidio â synfyfyrio dros ddirgelion bywyd o bryd i’w gilydd, yn enwedig pan fydd angen ar Gyfarwyddwr y Clinig ail farn ynghylch un o’r preswylwyr (fel mae’n eu galw nhw). Gwaith heb ŵyl a wna Huw’n ddi-hwyl, meddan nhw, wedi’r cyfan. Mewn gwirionedd, wedi darllen yr adroddiadau, siarad â’r cleifion, gwneud ymchwil i’r pynciau priodol yn y gwerslyfrau a’r llenyddiaeth gyfoes, ymgynghori â’r brawd, a ‘sgrifennu’r nodiadau, fe fyddai rhai’n dweud mai fi yw’r arbenigwr yn y madws ‘ma. Ond, yn bennaf oll, fi yw’r unig un sy’n talu sylw i les y bobl sy’n byw yma, o ran corff ac enaid. A dyn ni’n croesawi pobl o bob math, fel yng ngeiriau rhyw hen bennill, rydym wedi gweithio gyda’r rhai sy’n chwarae rhan baban, athro, meddyg, gwas; llechgi, dysgwr, llenor, bardd; milwr, ceidwad, arwr, nyrs. Ac ambell greadur od sy’n defnyddio’r teil Dewin, hefyd.

 

Wel, hanner gwaith ei ddechrau, a dyma fi wedi cychwyn, felly man a man i fi fynd yn fy mlaen! Yn y byd dynol hwn a grëir o eiriau, rhaid ceisio deall: ydy unrhyw beth yn bodoli ar wahân i’n meddyliau, ein cysyniadau? Ydym ni’n byw mewn ogof, lle dim ond cysgodion y pethau go iawn wedi’u taflu ar y waliau yw’r delweddau aneglur sy wastad yn toddi, a dianc rhag ein gafael? Mae popeth wedi’i gymysgu, achos dyw dim byd yn bod ar ei ben ei hun. Er enghraifft, mae gwrthrychau’n rhagdybio goddrychau; mae ar blant angen rhieni; er mwyn bod yn ddinesydd rhaid i gymdeithas fodoli; dyw’m yn bosibl sefydlu perthynas na chael sgwrs heb ddwy bobl. (wel, dwy bersonoliaeth, falle). Ond yn y diwedd fe fydda i’n ateb fy hunan gyda chwestiwn arall: pwy ydwyf fi? Neu, a bod yn fwy gwrthrychol: pwy yw hi; pwy yw’r wraig hon? Rwy’n crafu fy mhen wedi’i blastro ag eironi, gan geisio penderfynu a alla i gadw fy nhafod yn fy moch, wrth beidio rhoi fy nhroed ynddo ar yr un pryd. O, rwy’n dwlu ar gymysgu metafforau!

 

Nawr ‘te, gyfeillion annwyl! Gobeithio byddwch chi’n maddau fy ymgais i fod yn ffraeth yna. Menyw synhwyrol, gall, a pholéit dw i, ac eithrio pan nad ‘dw i. Nage'r Arglwyddes MacBeth na gwraig o “Khwedlau Kenedlaethol Kimbria” fel Arianrhod neu Blodeuwedd monof fi! Dim ond hyn rwy’n olygu: pa achos neilltuol o’r hil ddynol yw hon? Sut wraig yw hi? Neu, yn hytrach, gwell fyddai gofyn: beth yn union yw natur ddynol y sawl sy’n gallu llunio’r fath stwff fel a gyflawnir yn y darn yma? Peidiwch chi anghofio fy mod yn chwerthin am fy mhen i ‘ma, ‘fyd. Pwy ydy, mewn geiriau eraill, all wau geiriau a ‘sgrifennu pethau rhyfeddol fel hyn, mor fawreddog â Chân Tefnuth a ddygai Lushfé yn ôl i fywyd, lawn hyd yr ymylon o harddwch a nerth? P’un o’i phen a’i phastwn, fedr gyflawni cyfryw wyrthiau? Pa fath o unigolyn all gymell pobl eraill i deimlo fel hyn neu fel ‘ny drwy ddefnyddio dim ond sgriblan inciog ar ddarnau papur sy’n dawnsio o flaen y llygaid fel gwybed mân; drwy sibrwd dim ond chwythiadau tila o wynt sy’n cosi’r clustiau am foment yn unig? Ond wrth gwrs, mae’n bosibl mai’r unig ateb yw dweud bod rhaid arholi’r gwaith ei hun yn fanwl. Ac yma, pan dw i’n dweud gwaith, straeon bywyd newydd rwy’n eu meddwl, grëwyd drwy broses siarad a dychmygu fydd yn arwain at ddatblygu a thyfu. Dyna gyfaredd iaith.

 

Gadewch i ni ddwyn cymeriad i gof, felly. Mae hi’n gyffelyb i ryw wraig lên sy’n cael blas ar gymysgu brawddegau byrion, sardonig, â ffraethebion hirach, wedi’u saernïo’n gelfydd. ‘Does mo'i gwell am gadw cyfrinach wrth iddi sôn am fyw, bod yn unig, magu plentyn ar ei phen ei hun, gweithio’n rhy galed o lawer i gyflawni’r gorchwylion oll, a threngi. Mae’i llais, ddywedem ni, yn gyhyrog, a’i hacen yn ein hatgoffa o’i gwreiddiau, nad anghofir byth, ac ar ei synnwyr hiwmor mae blas y pridd, er gwaetha’r amser mae wedi aberthu’n gaethwraig i’r deml hon i’r rhinweddau iachaol a’i thrigolion. Yn ei gwaith bob dydd, mae’n clywed lleisiau fyrdd yn siarad yn ddi-baid. Felly mae’r straeon mae’n eu hadrodd yn llawn pennau’n parablu, gan leisio hen bobl, pobl gyffredin, y rhai wedi’u hanghofio, y colledigion, cymaint â’r ifainc, y bobl brydferth, y cyfoethogion, a’r rhai delfrydyddol.

 

Ac wedyn, ryw’n holi fy hunan: faint o fywyd awdures fydd yn chware rhan yn y darnau mae’n sgrifennu, p’run yw’n ei lico ai peidio, a hyd yn oed os dyw hi’m yn bwriadu sôn amdani’i hunan? O ble mae’i llais yn dod, ei ffordd benodol o siarad? Ac i ba raddau all y pethau mae’n ceisio’u dweud yn ei gwaith ddod i fod yn wahanol i’r rhai fyddwch chi, y derbynyddion, yn clywed? Ife chi, y gynulleidfa, sy’n fydwraig, mewn ffordd o siarad, chi sy’n dwyn synnwyr ac ystyr wrth ryngweithio gyda’r testun? Oes bosibl i ni gyffredinoli? Ddylwn ni geisio gwneud y fath bethau o gwbl?

 

Fodd bynnag, rhaid i chi ofyn: fydd hi’n traethu straeon sy’n codi o’i phrofiad ei hun, neu yn hytrach ife dim ond eich hudo â’i swyn celfyddydol a wnaiff? Neu, fyddai’n well i chi ddweud, ei dewiniaeth awtistig? Ydy’n wir y bydd rhaid i wraig gloddio lawr i’w chraidd i gysylltu’i hunan â’r byd, neu ddylai hi fod yn ceisio ymestyn tu hwnt i’w ffiniau bob amser? Ife ysmaliwr neu athrylith yw’r storïwr; ydy hi’n gweld yn glir, neu ddim ond honni? Ond eto i gyd, pa bwys ydy i chi? Ta beth, wrth i fantol profiad ogwyddo yn ôl ac ymlaen, mae’n ymddangos bod y cynhyrchydd yn dymuno, yn fwy na dim byd arall yn y Ddau Fyd, reoli llif y traethiad.

 

Rywbryd, falle, mae’n wir gerddores a meistres ar ei chrefft, sy'n plycio gïau’ch calonnau a chwarae mig gyda’ch emosiynau, wrth ddisgrifio penbleth ac ofn distaw. Ac o ganlyniad, yn aml, fe adewir eich eneidiau’n drwm dan gysgod colled a arhosa am amser maith ar ôl i’r difyrrwch orffen. Ac ymhellach, yn ei rôl fel mam i blant amddifaid, meithrinyddes i oedolion colledig, iachäwr i eneidiau clwyfedig, a santes achosion anobeithiol, bydd rhaid iddi roi sylw i hanesion trist enbyd, ac ar adegau, eu cyfuno â rhai eitha' doniol. Felly, wedi’u hysgubo yn eu blaenau gan ei thrugareddau tirion, fe fydd y côr o leisiau dan ei chyfeiriad, a fyddan nhw’n perthyn i fenywod neu ddynion, ni waeth am eu cefndiroedd na’u safle cymdeithasol, yr hen a’r ifainc fel ei gilydd, yn swnio mor ddilys, mor nerthol, mor felys, mor grac.

 

Ond, serch hynny oll, falle mai hunanaberth yw gwir natur crefft y faethmam, awdures bywydau newydd, ffres (pan fydd yr hud yn gweithio o leia’), ac mai fel hyn yr oedd yn wastad, ac y bydd am byth, hefyd. Ran fwya’r amser bydd hi’n rhoi’r gorau i adrodd ei gwirionedd ei hun i greu lle i’r lleisiau eraill. Pwy a ŵyr, felly, o bosibl drwy’i thwyllo’i hun, fe fydd hi’n rhyddhau’r cymeriadau mae’n eu portreadu neu’u hymgorffori, o staen hoced. A thrwy wneud hyn fe fydd yn cyflawni’r campwaith o drawsnewid alcemegol, gan droi personoliaethau plymaidd yn ysbrydion llachar o aur. Ac wedyn, o safbwynt arall, falle mai ymateb y gynulleidfa, y gohebydd, y gwrandäwr, neu’r claf, yw craidd go iawn y mater, beth bynnag fo’r ystyr a ddychmygir a llunio gan awdures y cyfathrebu. Wedi’r cwbl, nage’r achos pennaf ydy hi, sy’n cychwyn creu o ddim, ond yn hytrach mae’n ddemiwrgos, hynny yw, dirprwy sy’n is-greu gyda’r defnyddiau crai sy’n bodoli’n barod.

 

Wel, chwarae teg, ond beth wedyn? Ar ôl iddyn nhw gael eu gollwng yn rhydd, ddylai meddyliau a byd-olygon newydd sbon (a’r ymenyddiau sy’n eu cynnwys nhw) allu tramwyo’r Ddaear heb lyffethair, yn amddifaid unig, dim ond i edwino oherwydd diffyg maeth? Y broblem sylfaenol yw fod y byd wedi newid yn gymharol ddiweddar. Ers gwawr gwareiddiad y cythreuliaid sy’n rheoli dros fanylion pwysica’ naratif mawr bywyd, gan adael i'r angylion lenwi’r bylchau fyddai’n anesboniadwy fel arall. Ond nawr bod yr awdurdodau ysbrydol, hynafol, fu mor brysur o’r blaen, wedi ffoi, pwy, wedyn, fydd yn gofalu am y syniadau newydd-anedig, sy’n egino o’r hadau wedi’u hau gan y dramodydd, gan dyfu lan ym mhridd ffrwythlon penglogau'n barod i’w derbyn?

 

Ar y llaw arall, i’r gwrthwyneb, pwy fydd ar fai pan fydd geiriau’n gweithio’n rhy dda, gan fwrw hud na ellir ei wrthsefyll ar y rhai di-asgwrn-cefn fyddan nhw’n cyfarch? Beth am y fath syniadau, fydd yn mynd yn eu blaen dim ond i fwydo’r dychmygion drygnaws sy’n perthyn i loerigion, bygylwyr, a theyrnedd? A dyna oll heb sôn am y geiriau graenus fydd yn taro ar glustiau didostur, ac felly na ddaw o hyd i gartref ysbrydol, fel petaen nhw’n had a syrthiodd ar greigleoedd. Pwy a ŵyr? Dyw neb yn gwybod. Pwy ddylai wybod? Dyw neb yn malio’r un ffeuen. A chyda hynny, yr ydych chi wedi cael rhybudd. Gochelwch, chi ddarlledwyr, gwrandawyr, darllenwyr; chi i gyd sy’n gwirioni ar gynhyrchu a defnyddio geiriau; achos mai dyma ddreigiau’n llechu. P’un o’r ddwy fydd gryfa’ neu galla’, yr un goch neu’r un wen, ffeithiau caled byd profiad sy’n cyfyngu posibiliadau, neu ddychmygion a all gefnogi pob canlyniad heb gyfeirio at ddim byd o bwys? Dyna fydd yn wers i chi’i dysgu ar eich liwt eich hun!

 

Ni waeth befo am yr holl synfyfyrion athronyddol, fe fydd wastad yn rhaid dod yn ôl i’r byd go iawn, llawn pethau ymarferol, a phroblemau i’w datrys, ac felly hynny a wna i. Fi fydd yn ennill yma o’r diwedd, wrth gymryd arna i fy mod yn colli, er mod i’n casáu defnyddio’r fath dermau militaraidd. Nage brwydro sy’n llwyddo mewn mynd â’r maen i’r wal wedi’r cyfan. Y ffaith amdani yw mai trwy fod yn hyblyg a phlygu gyda’r gwynt fel corsen, fydda i byth yn cael fy nhorri, tra bydd y lleill yn cael eu chwythu yma a thraw fel dail marw. Fi sy’n tynnu’r llinynnau o’r golwg yn y cefndir, wrth iddyn nhw chwarae’u rhannau penodol gan neidio lan a lawr fel pypedau.

 

Mae’n hen syniad, y forwyn sydd yn feistres mewn gwirionedd, dim ond rhaid i ni ystyried Nebesh yn gorchymyn i Swtach gyflawni’i erchyllterau yn erbyn Lushfé. Ond, nage fi sy’n sgrifennu’r sgript gyfan, dim ond ysgogi’r actorion a wna i. Ond wrth gwrs, dim ond gweithio er lles yr unigolyn fydda i, wel, wrth ddwyn mewn cof anghenion y Clinig hefyd. Ac yn wir, rydym wedi gweld rhyfeddodau yn y lle ‘ma, fel academydd yn dod yn iachäwr; cyn-filiwr sy bellach yn gwneud hedd; hurtyn sy’n llefaru â thafodau; llanc truenus yn troi’n arwr; a phobl mewn braw’n cwympo mewn cariad. Pwy a feddyliai? Mae rhyw newydd wyrth o hyd.

 

A dyma fi ar ddihun gyda'r holl eiriau rheibus a syniadau 'sglyfaethus 'ma unwaith 'to, arwyddion unigrwydd, ysgrifennwyd mewn mwg, pylu fel niwl, a selio gefn nos, yn disgwyl y llanciau sy’n peryglu fel arfer [*]. Dyna sut maen nhw’n talu i fi yn ôl am yr help i gyd. Ond er gwaetha’r gwaith caled oll a’r dioddefaint di-baid, fydd na’r byd na’r betws ddim yn sylweddoli mai hanner ohonof fi yw marchog ar farch gwyn yn ymosod ar felinau gwynt fel yn yr hen ddyddiau gynt, a hanner arall athro o’r Hen Lyfrau a aeth ar gefn asyn yn y dyddiau ola’. Fydda i byth yn derbyn gwobr gyhoeddus felly, serch y nosau heb gwsg, a’r aberthau i gyd o ran dynoliaeth. Wel, rhinwedd yw mam pob dedwydd, sbo. A llawn cystal, achos dydw i fawr o un am anrhydeddau na ffwdan a dweud y lleia’, yn wahanol i’m hannwyl frawd i!

 

Ta be’, well ‘da fi fod fy hoff fechgyn mas yn y byd yn cael hwyl nag eu bod nhw’n aros yma fel cŵn bach. Ac mae’n ddefnyddiol iawn pan fyddan nhw’n mynd ar ryw berwyl sbesial o dro i dro. Rwy’n siŵr bod nhw’n meddwl byddan nhw’n achub y byd un dydd, y twpsod ifanc. Ond eto i gyd, fe fydda i’n dal i gofio’r freuddwyd sy’n dod nos ar ôl nos, ac wedyn bydd hi’n gyrru ias i lawr fy nghefn o sylweddoli ‘does dim ots a fyddwn ni’n byw ai marw, o safbwynt y dyfodol pell. A hefyd dyna’r meddyliaethydd dan hyfforddiant bondigrybwyll ‘na, sy’n dweud taw rhyw farddes enwog ydy o dramor drwy’r amser. O, mae hi wastad yn ymyrryd ac achosi penbleth fel ‘sai hi’n gwybod popeth ac yn meddu ar y lle ar ben ‘ny. A’r holl sôn am dechnegau arloesol wedi’u hysbrydoli gan fodau arallfydol. Myn Hebé! ‘Sdim syndod be’ bynnag, o nabod pwy yw hi, ond pam mae hi wedi dod ‘ma yn awr, fydda i byth yn deall. Ond rhaid i ni ddal ati serch ‘ny. ‘Sdim dewis ‘da ni. Gobeithio bydda i’n gallu cael hoe fach cyn i’r tywysogion golygus ddychwelyd, rwy ar fin marw o ddiffyg cwsg. Dim ond ryw hanner awr a wnâi’r tro. Amser a ddywed.

 

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[*] Dw i’n credu bod Mrs G. yn rhy lym arni’i hun yma (neu falle ei bod hi’n smalio dan wenu’n gynnil, yr hen alpaca ystrywgar). Roedd G.Ll. yn hoff o ddweud (o safbwynt y gerddores – a’r rheibes ‘fyd – wrth gwrs) fod dyn wedi llwyddo mewn bywyd pan allai drin iaith fel ffurf ar “patamultabductio,” gan ei defnyddio er ei mwyn ei hun wrth chwaethu’i gwead a blasu’i braster – a ddim i gynrychioli dim byd tu hwnt i’w hunan. Wedyn, fe welai (yn ei hôl hi) wirionedd gemau iaith “nagio nag-ie” sy’n neud i ni chwerthin wrth eu chwarae, gan ddysgu sut mae iaith yn strwythuro’ bydoedd a sut i ddianc rhag ei baglau a’i chyfaredd. — P.M.