Příbor gave the world Freud—and the couch. So for one day, we made sure that no cars parked in Sigmund Freud Square. Instead, we parked couches. It was our very first year. We managed to gather only twenty-nine. Every scrapyard and scout clubhouse had been picked clean by us that week. Next year, Freud turns 170. I want to place exactly that many couches there. Like candles on a cake. And then, each year, add one more. People came. A swing band got the party going. A barrel organ lady tirelessly turned her crank. Some people sat shyly on the edge of a bed. Others sprawled out boldly. Kids turned an old springy loveseat into a trampoline. Freud is all about the unconscious. You don’t even know it—but something has to come out. Spontaneity demands to be seen. As if the city’s subconscious had poured out through the sewers—onto the surface. Like in The Magic Porridge Pot. Only instead of porridge, it was people and couches. I can already picture next year: some folks bringing their duvets and, at the end of the celebration, the boldest of them spending the night—right there in the square. Someone up in the church tower playing a bedtime tune on a trumpet. And in the morning, as people make their way to Mass, they’d walk past beds and dreamers still asleep. Maybe I just Freudian-dreamed the whole thing.
