The Psychoanalyst and The Rain
The Psychoanalyst and the Rain
She stood listening to the rain fall
It was heavy, fast falling and wet
Staring at the curtains of the living room window
Not opening them, as hours of
Gazing at the glistering pavements
And disturbed puddles of grey sky
Would envelop the rest of her evening
The room she stood in was sparse
A curling poster of Paris
One of many leftovers from university
A few photographs of people she sometimes
Lunched with, when there was time
Mostly there are books
Piled high in random spots
Where she had evidently begun working
And now collecting a thin dust
The spines broken and withered
Pages of neatly typed case reports
Spilled from folders, flooding the desk
The sofa and the coffee table
Each individual’s conversations
Dreams wishes and anxieties
Left open to any visitor
Except she had none
So she cared not for discretion
Privacy or tact.
Freud had not been a tactful man
This cold statement written
Upon paper beneath her pillow
As though its words could
Comfort her. Remind her she was
Good. Good only at psychoanalysis
Patient results were good
Better then most young graduates
But nothing in comparison
To her desired figures
Her theoretical essays lay unfinished
She felt on motivation to continue
Listening to the drumming drips
As water escaped the gutters
The joining corner always faulty
Rain was distracting and cleansing
Hearing something so beyond control
Beyond solving or analysing
Rain wasn’t sublimated affected
Traumatised repressed or overtly egotistical
Rain didn’t have an oedipal complex
And it didn’t want her to solve it.
Rain also wasn’t nosy
It didn’t ask for gossip about
Strange patients or if she’d treated a sex addict
She had.
Twice.
But why was that what mattered to people
She learnt more about others insecurities
From what they asked about her patients
This amused her sufficiently
Made tedious hours of wine and cheese
Appear interesting
She sighed, thinking about Lacan
He often crossed her mind
Another post-Freudian doctorate
Except he was there before
Arguing with Laplanche
She would sacrifice her left hand
To argue with Laplanche
And all that she had though
Was theirs
It belonged with their names
On the neat library shelves
Placed under the decimal system
As though this destiny
Was always intended for them
Self doubt was her own issue
She could form a folder
Her name coldly typed upon a report
Where her lack of sisters
Or sufficient attention from
Her parents
Her friends
Her past boyfriends
Teachers, lecturers and counsellors
Left her to un-abandoned self pity
Which as a psychoanalyst
She had no time for
Being impatient with herself
Lead to more hour of staring at the weather
Pondering anxiety made it worse
Solving self esteem relied upon
Other people
She wanted no other people
Knowing that eventually
She would slip, and analyse the unwitting
Presumed perfect attitude of that person
She was better off alone
Rather than driving another away
Lacan would tell her she’d never
Bonded with herself as an ‘I’
Missing the primal stage of
Ego development
Lacan was a fool
Anzieu would suggest the
Lack of affection displayed
By others in her life
Lead to an underdeveloped skin ego
Occurring before Lacan’s
Mirror ego even had a chance
Freud would mumble something
About repression
Then change his mind
Assert her development never
Fully allowed her to understand
Social contracts
Then see her again
And switch back to the trauma theory
Kristeva’s argument would be too
Complex to follow
Making the whole effort pointless
She opened the curtains
Opened the window
Just far enough
To stick her hands into the rain
Childish delight ran across her skin
Regression
Sue
You never hear much mention of John Bowler. Very underestimated in my opinion.
10 Jun 2010, 19:10
Sue
Of course I meant John Bowlby. And
You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection. Buddha
Do not wish to be anything but what you are, and try to be that perfectly. St. Francis de Sales
And you can feel my heart beating, you can feel it through my chest. Rihanna
10 Jun 2010, 23:11
Add a comment
You are not allowed to comment on this entry as it has restricted commenting permissions.