Archive for Psychology

Time to get a Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2013 by JC

The building I’m in looks just like the city outside. It’s a library but it’s full of people, stone, glass, and metal, and the shelves are heighted and arranged just like the structures off the street.

This is my sandbox. I’m trying out a new self, and I want to keep the experiment contained, focused for now.

There is an architect named Rich Shepherd my age who looks just like me in the same city. I’ve always had a visual way of interacting and an appreciation for space. Good find.

“Hello, Maggie,” I said to the  the curly-haired, ginger, early-forties librarian behind the counter.

“Sih-r,” she broke during that single syllable like: sih-she took off her glasses and dipped her chin while keeping eye contact-r. Her shoulders jerked up and down a bit, along with her hips. This one’s sensitive, potentially attracted, and/or neurologically defective. Any case, she’s a find!

“First, I like your scarf—it looks breathable. Second, I’m an architect and I can’t help but be inspired by this place as such—or you.” I smile.

She dries up instantly—it’s obvious.

“Just saying.” I walk on to fiction.

There, I see a girl. I say she’s a girl because she looks about twenty. I’m twenty-seven at the time.

She’s reading Cat’s Cradle, which I don’t like at all—too “why did he write this,” for me. But I understand the need to taste overrated stink in order to recognize it, and that’s where she is at. She’s cracking up laughing.

“I’m reading The Da Vinci Code. So exhilarating.” I wasn’t, and it sucked; I just took a cynical, sixty-forty chance.

“Fuck off, bitch.” She says, never taking her eyes off the page.

“I’m an architect, you know…”

She’s not listening.

On to self-help; desperation can’t hurt.

There she is—reading Dr. Phil, around forty-six years old, no ring on her finger, once attractive but rendered underwhelming by excessive empathy. I’m gittin’ laid tonight!

“I love him. I love the suspense element of his show: ‘what you nied to do is…more Dr. Phil after words from our sponsors…Welch’s grape juice is now fortified with chia seed <lip smack>…what’s right for you!’  that bitterness of minor abandonment warms my heart and sweetens the inevitable sweetness every time.”

“You’re a sardonic dickhead. Dr. Phil is a genius. Why are your pants stuffed? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Why are you wearing a fake torso that makes you look forty pounds heavier than you are? Seriously, who does all that at the same time?”

Time to get a dog.

As goes the psyche, so goes the pen

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 13, 2013 by JC

Drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip…

“Sounds like my faucet in disrepair,” you say?

Try hearing that all day, every day. Try hearing and feeling drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip on top and inside your head all the time and then try such flippant comparison again. Every fucking time there’s the sound, there’s the sensation, the two make the phenomenon—drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip means wetting of the same 1-inch radius, the same pi-inches-squared area, followed by geometrically different but equirhythmic radiations all day long.

I won’t talk—I won’t—and that’s why the dripping and thipping won’t stop, why a bit of my scalp is bare, why little, cracked bowls are wetted in the same time, time after time.

I thought this method of torture was bygone, but it’s 2013 already and still
I’m getting dripped and thipped insane by this routine, these habits, by myself. All the play I have now is with letters. No longer do I play with sounds, spoken words. No one would or will play like I want to.

This, here, my jungle gym, my wooden castle like the one distant daddy brought and built one Christmas—brought and built by daddy, played with ad nauseam, until that consistency became drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip.

Though I’m aware of what’s happening and my body and the rest of me are free to go, I continue furiously and only semiapologetically; what separates this from my boyhood playground?

I suppose that since I am still that boy at heart I need to play, and since now I won’t play with my body like I used to, I must play with letters.

But can I reengage my muscles, my bones, my connective tissues, my organs? My soul is healthy, engaged. My letters come from my body, so my body is engaged. That’s right. This is everything I need.

The Beginning

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 10, 2013 by JC

Note: I wrote this two-and-a-half years ago and just published it. I got a gas guzzler handed down—nine months later I think it was.

Today is a pivotal juncture in my life. I’ve decided it’ll no longer pay to take shit from anyone–including myself. Assertiveness is my new robe; fuck forbearance. Fuck meekness. This is my time to initiate the actualization of what I want. I’m only twenty, which is pretty encouraging; most people, in all age groups, are beholden to the whims of others. I’m not–at least not anymore. Yes, I’m still dependent upon my parents to some extent; however, I’m confident in my ability to convince them that their participation in my becoming independent, while perhaps detrimental to their near-term bottom line, will save them quite a bit of both money and regret in the future, and may even pay dividends! They’ll naturally resist, but I’m confident that even in the lowest people, reason trumps emotion, given ample time to do so. Just because I’ve committed to no longer taking shit doesn’t mean I won’t help people when given the opportunity. I’m convinced this is the threshold of manhood; perhaps my prefrontal cortex has undergone some significant development overnight. In any case, promise is evident, and only if I seize upon it will my potential be fulfilled.

Concretely, now’s the time to ask for a car.

“It’s an investment,” I’ll say, “not a net drain on your wealth. In order to get and do justly a meaningful job, I’ll need a consistent, ever-available form of transit. No such transit means inconvenience for any prospective employer–i.e. they’ll need to coordinate their schedule with mine instead of just catering to their own needs. Employers are likely to be rational, at least with respect to fulfilling their need for help; if one’s availability is inconsistent with their needs, they are not going to make room for them simply out of philanthropic impulses, at least not at a rate such that my meeting that sort of employer would justify the search costs. The purpose of opening a business is to make a profit, and if the slots within which I’m available are already fully occupied, then hiring me would detract from that quantity. Thus, in order to maximize my chances of finding work, I’ll need to be available, barring no hour. If you’re impervious to this argument up front, I’ll give it time to seep into your subconscious mind, the seat of all basic understanding. Believe me, this is going to stave off costs I can already foresee, costs you’ll bear if we don’t act swiftly. Suppose you’re to spend four-thousand dollars on a car, and the requisite monthly sum for insurance.”

Thanks, Ayn, for the kick in the ass I so desperately needed. I won’t forget you when I strike gold.

Change her and Minimize the Collateral Damage of her Sociopathy

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 9, 2013 by JC

Doop bee doopbah

That’s the kind of shit we used to fill our “awkward” silences with, the silences when we’d be staring at each other and I’d be content to continue doing that, stirrings of love above and below my belt, and she’d be pathetically self-conscious about not having anything brilliant to say or not hearing anything brilliant from me, not hearing anything consistent with her fantasy of joining up with some pompous, pontificating piece of abjectly cuckoldable shit* who never shuts up, who never allows her a moment to peer into her vacuous, ultimately sociopathic self; who rarely suspects there’s something wrong and says nothing when he does. To her, every silence is awkward because she is awkward, and so she must always be in “conversation.” That’s what happens when you have a poorly developed personality and you need thoughts and words and images and entertainments injected into your brain from the outside. It’s what happens when you have no sense of direction, no sense of personal responsibility for making lists mentally or graphically and getting the shit on them done. If you’re bored, you’re boring and liable to fuck things up for other people. That may damn well be the most verisimilitudinous half-cliche I’m aware of. If you can’t find a way of amusing yourself, and you project this need constantly onto others, and say things like, “I don’t know how I could have acted differently,” in reference to abusing your open-relationship privileges, which specifically restricted serious feelings and repeated events, or “you should read so that we have more to talk about,” you erode all possibility of earning MY respect, and in my eyes degrade yourself contemptibly.

Your dependency on feedback from the outside is your death to me, your cession of all affections and affinities. When you can’t figure out organically what you ought to do, when there’s nothing organic beneath your facade, then fuck off from me. If that’s the state of your soul, then you are pathetic and you should stay the fuck away from people who are capable of self-reliance and clean morals, capable of planning and living their lives intelligently, doing and wanting to do what’s right for them and those around them, because you’ll risk fucking up this certainty, this second-nature showing of real poise that marks the self-actualized and -actualizing. You should stay the fuck away indeed, but you won’t because you want to control those characteristics; you want something outside to hold on to because you can’t or won’t find anything valuable within yourself.

Serial monogamy is a disgusting, pitiful symptom of these deficiencies of the soul, and if you see it, my like-existing, like-minded, like-self-loving friends, run away–especially if she tempts you to be like her; especially if she clamors for your approval of this completely fucked approach to relationships; especially if she seeks or offers justifications for her odd, disloyal, scatter-shit behavior, comments, and patterns of thought instead of seeking heavy chemical interventions combined with heavy talk therapy to address them. She’s a schizophrenic, borderline-personality, bipolar, depressed, narcissistic, bean-flicking, inappropriately-coquettish, wannabe siren. Oops, almost forgot histrionic!

There’s no cure for that stiff cocktail of emotional, social, and intellectual infirmities–there’s only a lifetime of business for mental health professionals and a trail of ground-up balls, hearts, minds, and souls to result from this personality type’s having the right to exist within society’s heart as opposed to provisional relegation to its fringes.

If you see this type emerging, don’t deny humanity the protection of smooshing it into the ground, razing it to the foundation, shattering it completely until all that’s left is a bleeding heart, something real (no physical violence, no abuse). Something real is better than something faked–feigned interest in others for the purpose of attracting interest from them in turn, for the purpose of having more personal acolytes and an as-big-as-possible rolodex of superficial social options that act as alternatives to self-reflection, self-discovery and real connection is something that must be eradicated from humanity, so don’t hesitate to take this work upon yourself. No double standards; no one-sided investment; no need for entertainment in relationships. Don’t let these things define your relationships, and you’ll be doing all you can to protect humanity from this evil. Don’t let her act like a babygurl forever. If she does, give her repeated tastes of her own rank-smelling shit. Cheat, lie, leave, and come back to see if it’s working until you’re done. That’s what she’s doing, minus the leaving part. She always keeps a foot in the door, because it’s cold in that empty head of hers!

* She had her bitchcucking, cocksucking, plagiarizing, taking-advantage-of-women, deserving of bona fide physical domination by a superior male, handlebar-mustached fuckold cuntwipe just two hours away when I was a cerebral young cucky trying to grasp at the threshold of manhood–trying to hold onto the half-finger-long ledge leading up to it while she was trying to set herself up for life by wooing, getting boinked fecklessly by, and marrying some piece-of-shit future physicist with the proportions of a cerebral, aging cucky and, this is no exaggeration, Yosemite Sam as his nearest doppelganger. My fingers became strong, my arms became strong, and even my legs got some action and I pulled myself up that ledge sans help and flung myself through that motherfucking door, past all the “men” who haven’t faced, let along managed, this kind of adversity–the kind particularly generated by a truly sociopathic and fucked up headcase of a young woman.

The Pinnacle of My Current Self

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 4, 2013 by JC

The day I forget the subjectively proclaimed tragedies I’ve suffered is the day I lose my impetus, my fire, my soul. The day I forget the passions associated with those tragedies, those events that were inconvenient and upsetting in their own time, is the day I lose this, this ever-giving gift, the blood of passion that bleeds, bleeds, bleeds from pen, fingers, mouth, body, onto paper, digital substitutes, into the air, onto, into or in other relation with sweet-smelling, straight-talking, fine things that think the same of me and bleed similarly.

The day I lose the sometimes infuriating, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes comical, sometimes contemptible, sometimes emotionally vacuous memory of myself as a boy, a lovestruck once-future, then-present, and now-past cuckold, and the similarly volatile memory of the then-wicked, then-selfish, then-confused, then-irresistible, then-in-my-mind-deified girl who made it so, is the day I lose the perspective I’m so proud of today, the day I lose the attachment to and love of me I now possess and rely upon, and it is the day I lose the ability to make do with only that, to anchor my state of mind by the weight of that alone.

I can take on anything, ANYTHING, as long as my passion bleeds for or against it, whatever the case should be. I have my failures, my sufferings, my detractors, my supporters, my lovers, my acquaintances, my friends, my family, my training, my mentors, and the random but unmistakably human, living, feeling, learning eyes and ears and brains I meet anywhere to thank for how I burn today and for how I’m positioned and poised and ready for the next poppage of passion accumulated that will no doubt occur, the next shedding of an underdeveloped self that will no doubt occur.

I love life. I love failure. I love the small tastes of success I’ve had and, at least as much, I love the reminders that they’re fleeting, that I must continue to succeed, to try, and I must live and fall in and out of love and suffer in order to keep moving toward better passion, more complete self-love, more complete love of all, and of someone in particular.

I love; thereby and therefore I burn. I fuck; thereby and therefore I burn. I touch; thereby and therefore I burn. I hurt; thereby and therefore I burn. I write; thereby and therefore I burn. I read; thereby and therefore I burn. I learn; thereby and therefore I burn. I converse; thereby and therefore I burn. I connect; thereby and therefore I burn. I run; thereby and therefore I burn. I lift; thereby and therefore I burn. I see; thereby and therefore I burn.

I know I am because I burn, and I know I burn because of this and other outpourings of stuff one can only call scintillating interactions of humanity and experience. I can’t imagine better points to know or better chains of conditionality to make them so.

When I burn, and only then, I am the pinnacle of my current self, the pinnacle of my example of humanity.