Sitting with a cup in me hand,rattling my pennies. The wind cuts through my salvation army coat – I feel bare.
Half an hour until the big brother brigade does their rounds, to come clear off the debris of me, offending society, with my appearance of failure. Glasses fixed on nose bridges to hide poverty’s despicable, shining glare.
It wasn’t meant to get to this point. I had a home, a family. Believe me, I was a carer. That was many years ago.
I let my parents down. They was ill. They fought a lot. Dyspraxia and Alzheimers is a blinding, rallied up bull shit way to steer 30 years of love straight out the front door with a forceful blow.
Pa was getting violent he couldn’t help it – it was the frustration. The illness works that way . Too much protein in the brain ,the doctor says.
She had decided to teach me to read from a grown up book.
My job was to keep the book safe from harm and to study hard.
I did both.
I found that book today while spelunking in one of the living room closets.
It is amazing to me that I have this artifact from my childhood and that it is also a first edition.
I opened the book and discovered that I had marked certain paragraphs the way a school boy might highlight certain points in a textbook in preparation for a quiz.
“…Only a brave man will dare to think with solemnity that he is an animal and there is in consequence no human God, and he will need still more courage to hold in his mind the speculations that will rise thereafter. His solitude will become his chief associate.” An Essay on Morals, page 19.
As I re-read sections of the “Essay” over the shoulder of my five-year old self I am surprised to discover that much of my world view was shaped by Philip Wylie
An “Essay on Morals” was published in 1947 and was most certainly an “old book” when my Grandmother gave it to me.
These following paragraphs are from Section Five:
“The fact is that Freud’s work, and the work of psychology which has grown out of it has suffered every belittlement, ignominy, argument, sophistry, avoidance, disdain and outlawry the species can invent.
To begin with, the concept of an unconscious mind is so diametrically opposed to common habit of thought and popular instruction that only an honest and somewhat open intelligence can profitably examine it.
Next, the language in which it is professionally discussed has been, almost exclusively, the language of medicine and of the academy. This in turn, was for a century modeled on German forms of pedantic expression; to read psychological literature is to take the full measure of the conceit, the insolence and the lugubrious inclarity of modern scholasticism.
Again, the discoveries and developments of psychology were the work of doctor’s of medicine—principally three: Freud, Adler, and Jung. Not only did they describe their findings in the pompous tone of their profession, they made their findings among patients. Ill people.
It was in an attempt to cure such persons that Freud saw the first inkling—and subsequent knowledge came from the clinic. Most of it was set forth as therapeutics.
So the world—even the world of other scientists–thought of modern psychology, if at all, in the same frame of reference as the doctors did; that is, as a branch of medicine.
Now, medicine itself is a mere branch of chemistry and physics and since psychiatry and psychoanalysis and psychology in the modern sense have come to be regarded as mere offshoots of that, they do not hold a very high position among the intellectual enterprises of man.
Actually, Freud and the rest were eliciting laws of consciousness of the same magnitude as Relativity, calculated to redefine and recast every aspect of the mind’s knowledge of the mind, including all science and including itself.
Their “psychology” was setting down, at last, a true science of philosophy, but since it was called a mere branch of that mere half-science and half-art known as medicine, the tiny type appointed to it by society gave it a comfortably miniscule aspect amidst the exciting work of Krupp, RCA and Du Pont.
One thinks of a similar specialized trifle in this connection (and it is still a small thing when compared to the possibilities of psychology), a short equation announced by a quiet voice in a most obscure and esoteric branch of investigation, unheard by the multitude, which has nevertheless lately demonstrated itself to be of some magnitude.
I'll occasionally post stuff I write here. It'll probably end up being a mix of life stories and fictional short stories. This blog is very much so a mix-match of various projects, so bear with me while I do this.