The Cynical Psychology Series...Lacan

Cynical Psychology Series

You must have been potty trained to early?

Journal Entry: 1/22/18

Anytime I see the word Lacan, I am always reminded of a boat I once owned. I named her Toucan. Like the Bird. From time to time I would pick up this pirateious acting crew for a weekend of sailing. For some strange reason on this weekend, we got on the subject of my boats name. One thing lead to another, bit by bit, one snide remark after another, so I finally said, out of disgust, ”OK damn it! You rename her.” So they did. “Toucan Do It Too.” Still remains one of my favorite boats of all time. I had one other boat that I was quiet fond of. The Mary B., but that is a story for another time.

Today, I am in a more cynical mood. I want to think about some shit. Heavy shit, if you know what I mean. So I’m thinking...what’s some heavy shit to think about. That’s when Jacques Lacan crossed my mind. 

I see a lot of quotes and post that reference JACQUES LACAN, so let me give you a very short version of my thoughts on the man and his myth.

So fasten your seatbelts and put your seatbacks and tray tables in the full upright and locked position, because you're gonna need all the help you can get to grasp the Psychoanalytic Industrial Complex that is Jacques Lacan, the bigwig of French psychiatry. (Freud was Austrian, so pull it together).

Let it first be known that Lacan coined a lot of phrases and used complicated language to describe various psychological phenomena (mirror phase, objet, The Real, The Thing… yadda yadda yadda). Plus—bonus!—Monsieur Lacan was considered very controversial, even scandalous at times.  My, aren’t we all?

Think of Lacan as the Johnny Rotten of the Psychiatry World. First, there was that whole abolishing the Freudian School of Psychology in Paris thing. Sure, that hardly sounds like a high crime against humanity to most of us, but trust me, a whole lot of French intellectuals got their knickers in a twist over this move. But hey, Lacan had good intentions. He was worried that people had gone too far from the true Freud. Heaven forbid.

Then there's the fact that Lacan was so radical that he and his peeps got booted out of the International Psychoanalytical Association for "deviant practices." I know that sounds straight up insane, but it really came down to the fact that he didn't believe that 50-minute sessions were fundamental to analysis. He was more into this whole psychotherapy-as-speed-dating. A ten, five, or even three minutes on the analytical couch would do just fine.

Sadly, I must say, explaining his theories would be impossible to squeeze into a Lacanian-length therapy session. So for now I will just state his basic premise: 

Lacan's thing was that learning to talk was the crucial event of childhood. Once a kid gets to yakking, they have to parrot what the family and society tells them to say and they just bottle up all of the those little magic ideas they ever had before they could talk.

Guess what happens when that little kid does a really good job of holding those ideas inside? That's right: he gets himself a nice little mental illness—psychosis, if he's lucky. And that's where the psychoanalyst comes in: he's there to decipher all of that stuff held in from the pre-language phase. When you were still peeing in your diapers. 

And that, ladies and gents, is Lacanian therapy in a nutshell.

But always remember...things do not exist until they appear, 

We still have hope! Don’t we?

Doc

P.s. Did I ever tell you I did not want to be a doctor? I just wanted to be a bum and my mother wanted me to be a doctor. We both got our wish. Now I am just a bum doctor..;)

Medium By, Bill Gekas and his beautiful daughter from down Melbourne way...

Life Inside The Sane Asylum...the story of it all

The story of it all..

CITIZENS of THE SANE ASYLUM

And their illusions of truth...

I think I shared with you in an earlier post how this idea of The Sane Asylum came to be, so I think it only fair that I share with you the story of it all...see how transparent I am becoming?

Well, you have this thing...this Sane Asylum Thing that seems pretty logical. So you start thinking...right? Now, who do I want in my Sane Asylum? My entourage, so to speak. 

Well, Me of course...not a real me, but a reflection of me. An Alter Ego perhaps. Like a real selfie. So Dr. Ego Prozac was morphed...just like that. He became a Thought Placebo Researcher and the primate zoo keeper. A man with a mission to create brain ease...Yes, he will do just fine and besides, Ego Prozac sounds very Austrian. I just hope the big Pharmaceuticals don’t make me change my name.

Now, Ego as we call him, needs allies. The sort of allies that are a little corked in their thoughts and habits, but they have asemblance of a sound mind. Those you want to have around at your last dance. 

So neighbors and friends he gathered... Neighbors like most of us have...Dr. I B Thinking for example. One of those kind of thinkers that’s open and free with his theories. Always thought out, but when he is finished you need brain optimization treatment to understand what he is saying. He believes language has created all of our “illusions of beliefs” about who we are. He is like a linguistic medicine man that wears a bow tie.

Then in strolls Less Wrong. I always admired Less for his strong belief of not knowing WTF he is doing. He does not have therapy sessions, his therapy sessions are always in progress. He started out wearing a different color pair of glasses to match his different hair color. Now, Less just seems to take pride in making offensive comments. He is good to have around when you feel cynical about things.

There is this one special fellow Ego created to be some mysterious messenger. He just had to have the name Moore Wright, and so he did. He is like one of those people that just out of nowhere show up and delivers a coded message. It really became confusing because he was an emigrant or is it immigrant! One is coming and one is going, I think? Anyway, Moore Wright shows up and delivers these cryptic messages from “They.” We all have those, “They”, in our lives and we are always trying to figure out who “They” are? Moore is married to Mammy Dell Small and they live out on the edge in a Yurt. Did I mention that Mammie Dell is a big ole girl? Well at least in my illusion she appears that way.

Of course you want some friends, so you add sometimes Jes B. Rambling in the present tense or Jess Ben Rambling in the past tense. You see, it’s the tense and grammatical stuff that gives a reason to ponder the deeper meanings of life. Jes is skilled in the fine art of doing nothing and never tires of it. Make him, cynical, hard to know his whereabouts and always looking for Hysterical Sites. So Jess he will be.

Jess hangs around this man of La Mancha and Friend...the most fascinating La Mancha in the world. Let’s just call him Dado for short. I first called him Doda but that’s not a very good La Mancha name. We need someone from afar to be the historian of the Hysterical. The resident photographer of sorts. The In Resident Photographer Of The Sane Asylum he will be.

Add in Old Goat Man, the wandering sage, and Mr Bill the 96 year old BBQ Pit Master... just to give character to a very uncharacteristic bunch. Mr Bill, who always smells like smoke, reminds me of the uncommon man that made peace with himself and just got along with it all, while the Old Goat Man, never lets us forget that we all have goats. We just happen to see his.

There are other homesteaders I met along the way. Amy G Gala, the blast from my past. She stores all the emotional history. Kinda like an Anal Historian. And how could I forget Ima Aging and her sister Ura Wrinkling. There to remind me of youthfulness as they swim nude around midnight in the Mill pond with the Frazier brothers and sip on the Angles Share of only the good stuff. Even Chuckle MeSum and his out of focus Three Quarter Time of misfits shows up from time to time.

Now how can we have a good illusion and not include family? You just can’t. Well my family thought this was a pretty cool idea so they created their altered selfies. Let me say they were somewhat cool with this idea. I think they thought WTF lame brain Idea is This? I could tell they did not want permanent residency status in The Sane Asylum so I negotiated and we came up with Visitors VISAs. I can’t much blame them. So, Izzy Isness, M.T Lot and N.D. Shadow they came to be. 

More homesteaders could be added, but it seems there is just not enough time to bring them around to my way of thinking.

There you have it...The Sane Asylum. At least my Sane Asylum. That part of me that likes to smile, be punny, be cynical and above all, make it up as I go. Just an illusion. Don't take it serious!! It's just a hobby. I don't really know how I got this post up and running. Once it popped up on the screen, I had to write something. Now it has become a community of Altered Selfies or basically a halfway house for Altered Selfies. Most of all, it is my preservation site for those with a twisted mind and a crooked smile.

I am Dr Ego Prozac, a Cynical Psychologist. Some would say I am an alter ego. Others say just an illusion of another ego. It makes little difference since meaning only exist in our minds and I will only be what you believe me to be. What I observe are not things, properties, or relations of a world that exists, but rather the results of distinctions about reality I have made. So I could be wrong. I would never ask you to deal with your reality better, but I might ask you to change your beliefs, which changes the reality you have to deal with. My desire and endeavor is to try and realize what may be of value in life and have a grin along the way.  

Make peace with your self and get along with it all...

My friends call me Doc

Entry Note To Self...purpose

At Play In The Fields Of Now

People With Purpose...Sister Margret

Morning Meditation

Journal Entry: 1/11/18

There is a story behind this photo entitled Morning Meditation. Just a memory. Perhaps those mental things we keep around to remind us of certain feelings and affections. This photo is by John Donnels Of New Orleans.

For most of my productive years, at least those that had any value, were the ones I spent working alongside Catholic Nuns in healthcare.  A strong and dedicated group of women. Since I am deeply rooted in religion, but not a deeply rooted religious man, I have always remembered that I was raised by a Holy Man and worked most of my life with Sister’s of Charity. My entire life has been around people with purpose. So in a way that has become my religion. *

*Anyway, I visited with this one Sister each day, and hanging on her wall was this picture. I always gave it a nod and a praise. When my career ended with this Order, Sister Margret presented me with this photo. What a gift. I entitled it People With Purpose. I look at it each day with fond memories.

I just happened to be in New Orleans one year during the French Quarter Festival. It was one of those short trips that turned into a longer trip. I made it a purpose to stop by Mr Donnels Photo Gallery down on St. Peter Street. St. Peter’s Street is nestled in close to Jackson Square. What a nice walk it is to revisit a few times of year. I usually take St. Ann down to Cafe Du Monde, have a cup of dark coffee, stroll the River levee and pick up St. Peter to Mr. Donnels studio. It’s like you need to check in again with all those first impressions.

Mr. Donnels did not know me, but I felt I knew him, maybe just a little, by looking at his photo each day. His gallery was filled with pictures of his neighborhood and its people. His kind demeanor, only confirmed my belief in his purpose.

Mr. Donnels died at the age of 84...a local documentary was made of him. It was called the Pink Satin Suit:

The Pink Satin Suit documents the struggles, perseverance and discipline that go into the making of a self-made man. Johnny Donnels is an icon of the French Quarter where he runs a gallery filled with his own art. Revealed in a lover’s embrace with the life that he has created, he is, to many, the last of the great Bohemians: a symbol of freedom and ease.

Entry Note To Self...rainy morning

Life At Windrush Lake

Rainy Morning...

Journal Entry: 1/20/18

It’s a little more than a drizzle this morning. In the back of the house I hear the alarm sound of a severe weather warning. I think to myself...it can only be one of two things. A flash flood warning or a tornado warning. Can’t do anything about either one. And besides, there are some things that can only be learned in a storm.

There is a very remote possibility that it could be a North Korea nuke warning but I think the warning sound would be different...more like Siri screaming at the top of her frequency, “duck tape your doors and windows,”  Don’t know, just a guess. I can’t do a lot about that one either.

So here I sit, a person, with not many troubles, healthy of mind, body and spirit. 

Enough of the Zen, pensive stuff. I almost stepped inside The Sane Asylum again. The Sane Asylum, as I call it, started out as an illusion that I created for myself. It went something like...What if one day we had to create an Asylum for the Sane? 

Think about that...it could happen. What if being Sane became the abnormal and “they” have to put some of us away? Well, I think it would be a pretty good gig. Maybe they will give us Music and Art Therapy everyday, pills to make you forget and Maybe a little ECT when we forget... and we will be normal again.

I kinda like the idea... so this illusion has grown over these years as I try and act as Sane as I know how to be.

Each morning I rise and take my first steps into My Sane Asylum. Each day a little different in the have too’s and don’t want too’s, but do it anyway, it has to get done. Chores, I call them. Always a list of things to do. When those are done, or a least some of them, I get busy at My Want Too’s for the day.

I don’t have a list of those, I just make them up as I go. Usually on my morning walk I will ask myself, “What can I do today to be a better person?” Lol. Not really. I just ask myself...”Man what are you doing here?” 

Anyway...it’s one of those whiskey and cigar kind of days.

Quiet a gig...on a rainy morning
Doc

The French Quarter Series...Mr Okra

Arthur "Mr. Okra" Robertson lumbers down Esplanade Avenue in his rickety pickup truck. Hot, sodden air blows through the open window and his sweat dampens the towel draped around his neck. Holding a jerry-rigged microphone in his hand, he calls out in a thick, furry voice, chanting a simple tune that is somewhere between talking and singing.

I have oranges and banana...

I have eating pears and apples...

I have peaches, I have plums...

I have cantaloupes...

I have watermelon...

Mr Okra passed away on Thursday of this week...

Entry Note To Self...the ecotone

The Ecotone

Journal Entry: 1/11/18

On my morning walk this morning, I noticed the beauty of where the forest meets the meadow. The ecotone...that defined space where two habitats merge. That threshold where water meets the shore, where the forest comes to meadow, where woodland ends at a cultivated lawn, or where the sky meets the earth. It is the edge habitat where everything, soil content, vegetation, moisture, humidity, light, pollination, changes. It’s also where species from both sides converge, rendering it a place of complex interaction and diversity. 

The edge...

Things are always happening there. The small sea birds as they scramble from the edge of the waves, poking their beaks in the sand looking for that bite size crustacean. The Osprey as they break the edge of the water then tower to the sky with their next meal. Life just seems to happen on the edge.

It is a place of constant change and unexpected appearances. Such a distinction can be helpful when you are trying to distill a nebulous idea into a handful of words, or just in reflecting on a memory from our past. It is nothing more than noticing that space where broken sea shells become the sandy shore... just a glance is enough to remind us of the intensity and yet simple complexity in these places of transition, where one thing manages to become another. Edge walking with our mind and bodies.

We are all edge walkers when you really think about it. Always looking at the edge for our inspiration, our thrill, and our transition. Looking outward at the horizon or inward trying to discern the edge of our soul. That edge between depression and happiness, between control and freedom. The edge between love and hate, compassion and resentment. That space on the horizon where night becomes day and day to night. Life just happens on the edge and we all are just edge walkers between life and death...make your distinctions well my friends ...Doc

Photo Art: Marc Wabler

Entry Notes To Self...goofing off

From on the road...

I observed an ole man today, just goofing off

Journal Entry: 1/15/18

It was just after sunrise and we were getting ready to leave our mooring. He walked by and said, ”how's your monkey mind today?" 

The local proprietor told us to pay him no mind...that's just ole Dolittle, as we call him. Another young fellow chimed in and said ”he has mastered the fine art of goofing off."

Now in no way did I want to leave with that perception of Dolittle, so I followed him up the dock and caught up with him just as he was about to bait his hook.

”How’s it going?”

”Don’t know just yet. My hooks not in the water. If you don’t mind, you are standing where I want to sit.”

He took his ole five gallon bucket, turned it upside down and sat where I had been standing. 

”Not much of a seat, but it will do for a poor man. I'm so poor that when I die they can bury me without pockets. For that matter they can bury me without clothes, but don't open the casket. After all, underneath all them clothes people wear they are neeked. There is a difference you know between being neeked and being naked. Being neeked is like your getting away with something. Naked is just like being without clothes...I like being neeked."

He gave me a wink and a grin. ”Yep, I was so poor growing up that tumble weeds were my pets."

I asked him what he thought about the city folks that occasionally make it out this way. 

He quickly replied, ”I think they are as windy as a sack full of farts."

”Had me that whatchamacallit.”

”You mean this thingamajig?”

”Yes, but that is a whatchamacallit not a thingamajig.”

”What’s the difference?”

”Everybody knows a thingamajig is something useful and a whatchamacallit is something made for no apparent reason unless you want to put something init.”

”Well in my part of the world, it may be called a doodad.”

”Nah, a doodad and whatnot are them things you buy at flea markets that weren’t no good to start with but everybody gotta have one when you find em. Geeeez mister, you must be from the city or a yank from North Louisiana.”

A fine day it was in conversation with a man just goofing off.

His name is Ambrose.

From Inside The Sane Asylum...conversation

Conversation Between Dr. Ego and Jes B. Rambling

Sometimes spelled with two s’es.

Journal Entry: 1/8/18

Jes: “Hey Doc, did you know that English has a phenomenon whereby so called “objective” pronouns, (just like ordinary noun phrases)are actually used as the subjects of gerundives, whereas the subject forms are unusual in this case. For example: If a gerund is a noun that can have special properties such as using an adverb, why is that OK as a property of the gerund, but using the "objective" form for the subject isn't?

Doc: “Well Jes, my recommendation would  be to just say and write the form that feels most natural to you. If you feel that (c) sounds like natural English to you, then great. If (a) feels more natural to you, but you feel compelled to use (c) anyway because of some piece of linguistic etiquette based on spurious argumentation, then by all means use (c), but it's worth recognising that that's what you're doing...and besides Jes, never bet against me being stupid...

P.s. Doc is the tall one

Entry Note To Self...confidence

The Old Barn

Journal Entry: 1/7/18

If you are coming from the south, turn right at the only red light in Hornbeck. Go over the railroad tracks and take the fork to the left. Drive until the black top turns to gravel and dirt. About two miles you will come to some dogs laying in the road. Make your way through the dogs and take the first dirt lane on the left.  As you round the curve you will see my house down in the pasture. You will find me in the old barn...

TK,  they call him. He lives to the north side of Hornbeck. When I went to visit TK on my last trip into that part of the world, he gave me those directions to find his house;

Sure enough, he was in the barn grooming a skinny ole paint horse he had just rescued from the grips of Horse Heaven.

I've known TK all my living days. We played in the woods, made pine top forts, explored small ponds and even double dated sisters on one occasion when we were still wet behind the ears. TK could write a dissertation on the Game Of Dominoes, simply because he claims to be the world’s foremost expert on the fine art of the game. Said the only time he loses a game is when he has to donate a game for the aid of  personal pity or use it as a long range strategy.

Tall and spry, dressed in faded Big Mac overalls with a loud welcome of, ”look what the cats dragged in; see you found the dogs in the road!" He is always quick with a joke and a philosophy on just about any subject you can conjure up.

I don't even know how we got off on the subject of Dominoes. Never my intention. I only wanted a pint of his famous corn whiskey. It may have been the sampling from the pint mason jar that lead us in that direction? Not sure, but he tasted it first, said he wanted to make sure it was still good. Guess it was still good, as he passed it over to me for my liking. Yep, it was that sampling that begged my first question. ”Is it true TK, that you are the best Domino player in the world?"

”Y no," he said. ”But I beat the hell out of the best that said they was."

Domino is a good game. A game of skill. I would say it is about 10 percent luck. It requires a lot of concentration, thought, and just plan smart ass grit. Not like golf or chess where silence is required of spectators and competitors alike. A good player must shake off any heckling remarks. A Domino player has much more on his mind. He is working on his style of play. 

TK for example said he played with an Amateur Style. As he describes it; ”Amateurs play not knowing their next play. Just random, not following any expected strategy. It makes my competitors try and figure out what I'm going to do next. I know, if I don't know, then they couldn't know either." See how the moonshine brings out the best in logic?

TK plays most mornings at Hoot's Barber Shop. I spotted it as I crossed over the railroad tracks. A gathering of the towns finest men, doing their part to keep the moral and social fabric of Hornbeck alive. A lot of social bonding and way to many lies being exchanged. They call it therapy and gossip . I call it a reason to get out of the house. I always thought it would be great to host a live daily radio broadcast from Hoots Barber at the time of these gatherings. Maybe sell cassette recordings of the Therapy sessions...:)

There was an old straight back chair leaning against the barn wall. TK introduced the chair as, the retired in honor chair, of old man Pete Alford. As the story goes, Pete sat on that chair every Friday morning for twelve years, in this barn to best TK's Amateur Style.

”Alford was a nice feller, a fine upstanding citizen and looked reasonably good in his clothes for a man of his age. He just didn't understand the game of Dominoes very well." TK continue to spout, ”I feel it is my duty to report that I beat him sober, not so sober, whittling whist I whistled, and even left handed. Beat him four out of five times when we played...well maybe three out of four." As he looked up and grinned. ”Alford retired from Dominos in 1997 the same year the chair retired."

TK is known for his Wisecracking Psychology game strategy when he wants to humiliate his opponents and destroy their confidence. Here are a few techniques he shared with me:

Laugh-as if you didn't intend to, while your opponent is studying the board. Play fast for those that ponder and hesitate. Ponder and hesitate for those who play fast. After you choose your rock to be played, pause with your arm in midair, purse your lips as in thought then lay it ever so softly on the table. Each time after you win, idly say to your opponent, "one day I sure would like to know why you played that way." This implies stupidity and gives them something to think about. Before you begin each game, let your opponents know that 50% of your foes seek mental health counseling after playing you. Never appear to doubt the tale of your opponents, no matter how improbable. Except for Champions, and they have no need to gild the lily. They all are liars and braggarts. Smile, nod, and politely mumur as your opponent tells of humiliating ole Joe or Bob. Just say in admiration. "Gee Pete, you must have been really good...back then...gimme twenty-five."

We even played a game or two. After getting soundly whooped, I commented to him that I wished I were a good Domino player. He quipped, ”Yep, I wish you was too."

You see, the Game of Dominoes, as in the game of life, one’s confidence can seem boundless, but the matter for keeping it...well, that remains forever the challenge. Does it not?

Be well, play your doubles when you can and always take the dirt Lane past the dogs in the road. You just might enjoy an afternoon therapy session with an old friend...a pint of good moonshine and much more...Doc