Tuesday, January 31, 2006

The end of an error

I am surprised that no one (where were you RJ) spotted the deliberate grammatical error in the previous post: yes, it should have read "girls' school" since the school belongs to "girls" plural and not just one girl.

I shall be making further deliberate grammatical and syntax errors in future posts - prizes will be awarded to them what spots 'em.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Let's get metaphysical

I was exhausted and drained when Carol left. Intellectual conversation can be stimulating but it can also be very tiring. I have not mentioned this before, but Carol has a degree in sociology. What I did not know – until today that is – is that she has also completed a doctoral thesis: “The council estate syndrome: an ethnomethodological study into the relationship between domestic violence and low cost, high-rise development in an inner-city environment.”

Well I should say almost completed. She went to live on a council estate so as to immerse herself in the background, so to speak. It was there that she met Gary and ended up in immersing herself in him . She now identifies with the working class - she was from an upper class background and went to a posh girls' school - affecting a lower-class accent and adopting the idioms and slovenly syntax of the proletariat. (By the way, she now calls Sociology ‘intellectual masturbation’! Talk about biting the hand that feeds you…)

Carol also left me with mild post-coital depression. I don’t think I’ll do the coitals any more. Is it worth it? I ask myself. I’m going back to making model aeroplanes. Life was simpler then, before I found girls – or they found me.
But you can’t go back, can you? Not really. You have to go forward.

“Therefore go forth,
And when you find
No highway more, no path,
All being blind –
The way to go shall glimmer in the mind”

(That is from a poem called ‘No Highway’ – did you see the film? James Stewart and Marlene Dietrich. Brilliant.


I was thinking about what Carol said, about thinking. I think she may be right about my thinking too much. But that is the difficulty: you have to think about thinking to decide whether you think too much. And if so, how much thinking is just about right? Very tricky.

Actually, I am working class. Well I was born into a working class family. All my family were miners – except my mother. We lived in a ‘two up, two down’ with a lavatory at the end of the yard. As you know, Amanda wants me to talk more about my childhood and that is what I am going to do.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Philosophy with Carol

A suitable case for treatment

What’s that you’re applyin’ to Brian?
Does it sting – is that why the lad’s cryin’?
If it’s for his own good,
Then maybe you should
- but I’ve got a strange feeling you’re lyin’

Is a lie an attempt to ‘firm up’ the truth, so to speak. I mean, the truth is so elusive; it slithers from our grasp as we try to hold on to it; it changes from one minute to the next: a chameleon.
Does the liar attempt to ‘tame’ the truth? Put it in its place? Domesticate it?

Fucked if I know, says Carol. That’s your trouble: you think too much. If you did more doing and less thinking you’d be a lot happier.

Is that right.

Yeah. It’s like that mate of yours said: A man of knowledge lives by action. Not by thinking about acting. Nor by thinking about what it will be like when he has finished acting.

Carlos Castaneda?

That’s the one. Him that was always stoned on pot.

Peyote. And he’s not really my mate. I’ve read his books.

That’s another thing you do too much of: reading. And when you do read you don’t take no notice of what they tell you. Like that other geezer you told me about: Gurdjiev, or whatever his name was – him that had a library with no books. Now he really knew what he was talking about.

Carol, I am surprised you remember so much of our conversations.

I have a good memory. You need to when you have to deal with as many liars as I do.

I expect so.

I saw that wife of yours down the Pervert.

Please, I don’t want to know.

Got herself a new girlfriend.

Carol, I am not interested.

Angela. You know, the one you used to give a seeing to.

Good God. Are all women turning into lesbians.

I’m not. Although don’t think I haven’t thought about it – the trouble I’ve had with men, over the years. How long they gonna keep you in here?

I really don’t know.

How do you go on for sex? Where’s your bedroom?

Thursday, January 19, 2006

An interlude

They told me God sat, on a throne in the sky –
I was little, and couldn’t be asking them ‘Why?’


Sam, the Christian policeman, called to see me again. I asked him if he were a ‘creationist’.
He laughed and said that he did not believe that God literally made the world in seven days (although he could have done so had he wanted to). He accepted Darwin’s theory of evolution but saw no reason to suppose that God was not behind it.
I told him about the TV programme I had seen, where this American evangelist, when questioned by Richard Dawkins about the ark and the problem of the dinosaurs, had replied: well Noah probably just carried the eggs – although it should be remembered that there were some small dinosaurs.
He laughed again and said: well that’s Americans for you. Which I thought was not much of an answer - and probably racist to boot.

I am confused. On the one hand I think the evolutionists are correct – it makes sense and it answers a lot of questions about human behaviour. I don’t believe in ‘original sin’ (although I have witnessed some sins which I thought were highly original). But I cannot believe that this life is all there is. And that is not just wishful thinking: there is much that I would accept as evidence (although Richard would not) of ‘something else’. I myself have had a so-called ‘supernatural experience’ for which I can find no rational explanation.

Sam didn’t stay long. He was on his way to a ‘Questions and Answers’ session at his church. He has asked me to come along one evening – when (and if) they let me out of here.

Oh, I can see Carol coming into the ward. How did she get past Greta? I must say she’s looking good – that orange hair really suits her, and she’s wearing her ‘fuck-me’ shoes! You would not think she was a grandmother. Of course she was married at seventeen. Not to Gary – he came much later. Her first husband was a childhood sweetheart – Jed. They first consummated their love in the chemistry-lab store cupboard. She was a monitor at the time and so had the key. She told me that forever after, the smell of sulphur turned her on. Which was just as well, since Gary farted in bed.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Dig this

How old were you when your mother threatened to smother you with the pillow?
Seven or eight, I guess.
Tell me about it.
Well I couldn’t get to sleep, and I think I must called downstairs – a couple of times, maybe… I had also been down for a drink of water… I just couldn’t get to sleep.
This worried you – not being able to sleep?
Well I was afraid I would not be able to do my school work the next day. I used to get panicky about that.
What happened next?
I heard my mother coming upstairs. Her feet were stamping on the stairs.
And then?
She came into the bedroom. She was very upset.
Upset?
Well, angry..
What did she do?
She picked up a pillow from somewhere. She came over to my bed with the pillow raised in front of her – she was shouting.
What?
If you don’t go to sleep I’ll smother you!
That must have been frightening.
I was terrified. I knew I had done wrong.
Done wrong?
Upsetting my mum like that… she had a lot of worries… my dad being away, and all that.
What did she do?
I don’t remember…
You don’t’ remember?
Well I mean obviously she did not smother me… but… I just remember seeing this big pillow… raised above me.
How does it feel now… talking about it?
My stomach… it’s there in my stomach… that feeling…
Can you describe the feeling?
Fear, dread… and a strange, horrible excitement…


Dr Amanda stood up, and came over and took my hand. It was only then that I realised I was trembling.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

A Modification

Wouldn't it be good if you had a switch on your head marked 'Restore Factory Settings'

A piece of news

I am back on the ward. Harold approaches.
A little wisp of a man with glasses and a permanently runny nose, he was a computer programmer before he came in here. He goes around the ward, talking to himself in machine-code.
But today he has shifted into a high-level language for my benefit. ‘You been to see Amanda then?’
‘How did you know that?’ I respon, surprised and not a little bit irritated.
‘Not much goes on round here that I don’t know about’. His voice has a metallic hiss, like it might be coming from one of his computer speakers.
‘She’s Freddie’s sister – did you know that?’
I didn’t know. And I am astonished at this piece of news.
‘Bit unusual, eh: brother and sister running a private psychiatric clinic. Neither of ‘em married – know what I mean, eh?’
Before I can think of a reply he is off down the ward, whistling binary.

Friday, January 13, 2006

The other doctor

The other doctor was a woman - nothing wrong in that. She started to ask me questions about my childhood. I couldn’t remember much – I told her, I was only little at the time. That was the point, she said. It was maybe stuff that had happened to me then – trauma - that was affecting me now. Fair point, I said, but what can we do about it?
Well, she said, we have to go slowly and try to get you to remember; it is possible that you are blocking unpleasant memories. I said, well if they are unpleasant isn’t that a good idea. No, she said, because even though you block them from your consciousness they are still affecting you at an unconscious level. What we have to do is to bring them to the surface so that you can re experience the feelings and emotions – but this time in a safe environment. She went on to remark, I am sure you have heard the saying (you being in the trade), ‘If you have a monster lurking in the cellar invite him into the lounge for a cup of tea.’
I said, okay baby, I’m willing to give it a whirl if you are. (I didn’t actually say “baby”)
So it looks like this is the way my treatment is going to go from now on: weekly sessions with Amanda (that’s her name – she’s got long red hair). And I thought that perhaps I could share with you some of the material unearthed in these sessions. In fact that is a good word to use ‘unearthed’ because she said that we were embarking upon an archaeological dig, the two of us. A partnership. And she said, yes we may have to shovel some shit before we’re done.
I was surprised to hear her swear, but I thought I perhaps should enter into the spirit, so I said, too fuckin’ right girl.
She smiled at me over her glasses.
I like her.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

BOO!

Just when you thought it was safe to go surfing.

I'm back.

A virol infection plus a bit of the old depression. One never knows when it is going to return but for the moment...

I am not going to say Happy New Year because I think it is all baloney... waiting for midnight and then jumping into the fountain in Trafalgar Square - I won't do it again.

In fact I think it was the time of year that precipitated the depression - that and the herpes.

They are taking me in an un-marked van to see another doctor tommorrow. I will let you know how I go on - that is, if I am allowed back on the computer - or the ward.

Best wishes.

George (I lied about the herpes)