I used to see a therapist at my first year of school here, and the therapist was very kind. After a semester he said he liked talking with me and I could continue on for the next term which of course meant to me “You are highly fucked up and I need to study you longer.” He was actually getting his doctorate and working there for the experience, and all he really did was sit and listen and occasionally offer a nod or a smile or you know, something poignant but bare, so that I could continue on with whatever tangent I was going, and many times they centered around one particular thing or person. One day he asked just the right question that got me speaking about my family and my dad, and he said at the end of the session that this had been the most successful he had had with me. He said that the first five minutes I always seemed stand offish like there were multiple walls up, and then as the hour progressed I would loosen up and as he listened I told my weekly stories then by the end of the hour I was calm and he felt calm and he felt like my good friend. And then he also said that there seemed to be this critical voice in my head that never shut up. And I thought about it, and thought about it, and by the next session I described to him the way I saw this voice. It was like this old lady marionette doll. And it was squawking at everything I did and said. And he said he hoped that we could kill the doll. Or maybe I said that. And he nodded. I last saw him at the end of the year Vernissage art show where everyone had installed their work in a hotel room. Each room had two artists and a different mood or theme. The old hotel was in the middle of the city by the Tenderloin and famous for its punk rock stars and its wild history. In the middle was a lit up swimming pool which students started to strip down and jump into at the end of the night as the art talk progressed into nonstop drinking and bands and weird peripheral art performances. I ran into the therapist there and of course our acknowledgment was contained to preserve the anonymity of our relationship. So he nodded again, and I smiled, and he said briefly you look well, and I said it was my birthday, because it was, and he said I hope you will do well next year, and don’t listen to that old woman, and I smiled again and said of course, and wished him well with his own degree, and he walked one way and I walked the other.
Clou le Fou
In conjunction with my photography exploring negative space, I have also been writing in that silent time between midnight and 4am, and here I have gathered memories and words from that space between dreams and reality.