retrospective

It began with one name: Freud. A name loaded with academic tones, not of authority but of scholarship. The text On Dreams was incomprehensible, and yet thrilling; names of theories demanded repetition, and sounded so intellectual. Instead of giggling at the words: “penis envy,” science and scholarly background were implied by talking about things well beyond understanding. He looked like the quintessential professor, all white hair and glasses, the ironic and foreboding glint as he stared from postcards and dust jackets.

It was about people, how they behaved, how they thought; why do we do the things we do? Could anything have been more basic? How could I not ask these questions of myself, of my peers and of this bizarre creation of humanity?

Psychology was helping people understand themselves. It was a way to understand myself. A way to explain why there was suicide in the family, why there was unprovoked crying, anger and fear. Why medicine was a solution, but not an answer.

Why did the things that made me crazy, the things that disrupted my life have no impact on the lives of those around me? If we are all the same, why are our experiences so unique?

a foray

I'm attempting something new. A novel way to record those things that come to mind in these somewhat tumultous and terrifying months that are ahead. The mission: a means to collect thoughts and record minutae that will otherwise fall through the cracks, as it has been years since I was a faithful journal keeper. It seems that it is about time for me to embrace the digital age and accept an electronic recording system, though it will never be as pleasurable as pen and ink recording.
It seems somewhat vain and absurd to publish my own thoughts in a form that sends them out into the "great unknown," and I think some admission of humility is in order. I do not ancipiate or solicit a readership. I just encourage myself to write again.