Baffling, but not in a way that I feel needs to be solved. It's all fine: blog, don't blog, whatever, it's alright. The thing is, I know it helps me. I think that's because I can control it, I decide how it'll be. It's not so much about the content (though that isn't irrelevant) it's the act of not writing -- or of writing -- in the voice I choose right now, about the topic I choose right now, without obligations, without standards, without cost, without anxiety about outcomes, without purpose. It's cool. I can't think of another thing I do that is quite so free. Well, maybe there is something similar. Thinking, perhaps: probing, reflecting, ruminating, fantasising, puzzling, imagining, daydreaming, there is even greater freedom there. But thinking doesn't leave a trace and sometimes it slips away too easily. This writing exchanges a little bit of freedom for a lot more substance. It works for me.
So, two weeks off...at first it was because I was intensely preoccupied by things happening at work that I can't write about here, not ethically or pragmatically, and which I've needed to think through and, I hope, sort out in a practical way. But then I just sort of forgot how to do it (blog, I mean). Hence, I guess, the above, in all its dim and I-hope-not-too-awkwardly-self-conscious glory. And so I wanted to jumpstart myself here again, and what better way of doing that than paying a visit to my doctor, and discussing with her my most intimate and private feelings?
I did have a very personal conversation with her -- sometimes, like today, I want help from her about something so I talk about that thing, but I try not to do it directly, because it's just too embarrassing, even after five years of these sessions. And at those times she has this amazing and terrible ability to cut through the evasions and get the truth out of me; today I think she was helped in this operation by her shoes which I couldn't stop staring at and thinking about. They were great all right - burgundy clogs with a closed toe and an ankle strap - these, in fact.* But it wasn't the niceness and desirability of her shoes that distracted me from the effortful labour of trying to know myself better and become a more capable and decent human being, it was their obviously very well worn condition. How did her shoes get dirty and rubbed? Makes no sense. After all, I have seen all her shoes from when they were new right up to the present day, so where did these come from all of a sudden? Also, she has no existence outside of that room.
My own footwear today, on the other hand, I should have photographed and I feel both dishonest and improvident** for not having done so - but instead I will reuse an earlier image
These are R.M. Williams boots, and by god, I love these fair dinkum true blue Aussie boots. Look at them. Can you see why. At the time of their purchase they were the most expensive footwear I'd ever bought and the horrific expense I was about to incur made me take exceptional care to choose the right shape and style, and I've also been very careful to keep them clean and shiny, and in good repair. These also make me taller than necessary, but I don't care because incredibly good looking boots. Not very easy to ride a bike in, but worth the hassle. Anyway, back to this increasingly useless account of my afternoon from 4 to 4:45 pm.
The other disturbing thing that happened in today's session was that I noticed we were sitting in mirror images of each others' posture. Aargh! Stop it! And as I have mentioned elsewhere online, she seems like she might be embarking on the process of getting rid of the hair dye and going naturally grey, which upsets me immensely. Can't you just ask her if that's what she's doing, said Dorian. No I can't ask her that. If I find out anything at all about her normal person existence, the spell will be broken.
* Now that I've gone and found the clogs on the clog shop website I'm going to have a hard time not doing what the posters on the Vogue.com forums in the mid 90s used to call 'lemming', i.e. becoming like a lemming rushing suicidally over the edge of the cliff in the headlong desire to possess some article that you see somebody else in possession of. Even though I am already the ashamed owner of four pairs of clogs, none of which I wear much, despite the high comfort and visual awesomeness levels, because they make me too tall to carry on normal interactions with many of the people with whom I associate, and also its just a pain when you expect seat and tabletops etc to be at a certain level relative to your body, and all of a sudden they're seven centimetres lower than they should be.
** this sort of emotional shite is why I am still in therapy.
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