Wednesday 20 June 2012

I have been working with Thom on the itinerary for Poland and, in his excitement, he is at last talking about life with Serena and his mother. Apparently Serena has take over the kitchen which Thom doesn't mind because, actually, her cooking is a bit better than his mother's. What a heresay! As he lay flopped over my sofa, it felt as though he had, at last, crawled out from under their special love. And guess what? Serena has to pay exactly half of the phone bill. We paused in our laughter. It was a detail that didn't bode well for their relationship but we said nothing. He was staring at his shoes. But I can't wait to go to Austwichz, he said, you know why? Because I really want to see the art that the prisoners made.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Therapist, it seems this time there is a clash of discourses in the offing - but the soul wearies to defend itself and will not issue forth from the shadows ... crawling out from under his mother's faltering liberty, what is to made of Thom's interest in prisoner art? Otto rank viewed all art is issuing from a problem with one's assigned existence. But for that generation of thinkers who put things so well, where would be?

the therapist said...

Assigned existence, I got stuck on that phrase I'm afraid. Is it yours or Otto's?

20th century thought has done away with the soul, it is a tragedy for the human thing. The failure of religious thought to develop has been a catastrophe, I cannot believe you think we are better for anything written after the 17th century.

Anonymous said...

Alas, I am found out - drawing out my own portents I was, and hopefully Rank will forgive me the rushed steel of modern parlance.

20thC has done away with the soul - in every way. Consumed out of existence it is, pummelled into the ground by the noise of our tweets. No matter the numbers, the links and the likes, we are abandoned by ourselves to virtual friendships. We are all Pascal's orphans, halfway between all of a nothing and a nothing in infinity.

Keep winnowing the conscience, dear Therapist.

the therapist said...

My shoulder's to the wheel, David. I do it for all of us, the whole human race of it.