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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4539 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Appliance of Self-Analysis M I call him Freud – my nine-year-old General Electric Potscrubber 970. He forces me to re-scour every id, ego and superego pot and lid I’ve got. Like Freud, he washes philosophic while I lie on my couch of a kitchen sink and nit-pick dried-on pieces of pasta fused to the brain. Strain, drain, feign to fix the mess, break every one of my fingernails in the process. He doesn’t understand the perk of real work; insists getting things clean is a patient patient’s scheme, not the analyst’s job. He mutters the standard “Um-hmm” and “What do you think that means?” in those nifty fifty minutes it takes to ponder life’s ponderous preposterous enigmas, like why I stay in a house where I’m no longer sappy happy and why heat-sealed red sauces won’t peel off plastic Tupperware tubs. Precisely when I’m on the urged verge of catharsis, removing the final vestiges of spiced rice turned to concrete on the steamer basket that is my life, Freud stubs out his just a cigar, patronizingly burps, “Sorry, but I see our time is up for discussing dream scenes of screwing yourself over in the rinse cycle of relationships. You consciously missed a spot on the unconscious. Resistant to transference, eh?” I’ve considered replacing that bastard Freud with a harder working Perls, but the emotional vault to Gestalt is a somersault assault of conversational confrontation too intense for me to trust to a new Kitchenaid Model 230 I hardly even know. |
