My husband thinks he is artistic..
While I am a mere nature mystic.
I go into a trance,
When he gives me a glance.
I go so far off, they think I’m autistic.
In truth I’m in communion with trees
With flowers and red leaves and striped bees..
I know I’ve a mind
And you are so kind…
So lend me your heart,if you please.
I am no more autistic than thou.
I live in the real world and how.
I give home to new words
Which fly here like birds.
With humour I now thee endow
During the past few years I’ve had pneumonia and other such things and so unable to lie down I have sat upright and browsed the internet.I have found a lot of articles on philosophy,art,literature which I could read free of charge.#But when it comes to psychoanalysis,you [without much exception] have to join and pay a hefty fee..
This is interesting like the notion you must pay a big charge for therapy in order to get the full benefit… and I know one friend who has got rich that way.
To me it seems bad.If their articles are good,why not let folk who might benefit read them? Mind you,they are often hard to follow
The archaic image of the dead breast lay under her psyche-soma [ like a bed?]
A narcissistic wound had formed the core of her non integrated identity.[Does it have seeds?]
She was unable to accept her schizoid split off vest
His death instinct had throttled his sexual drive so that he always evaporated before he had sexual congress with his wife or anyone else and he had tried frequently until worn down to a bore.
He had never identified with his mirror or imago and thus could never reflect on his introjects or his extrajects or his microjects either.
So don’t pay.. it not worth it.. keep a diary or a dairy cow instead
Trust the unknown force that grew you,
From the joining of two cells.
Act of love, of self giving,
Thus to grow a newer self.
Trust the dark,the unseen aspects
Of the life we all do live.
Trust that there is wisdom elsewhere,
To your emptiness to give.
Wait in patience for the time
When inspiration comes at last
Trust in darkness,silence,lowness.
Opposition forms the cross.
Pain is bearable in lowness,
Like the worm in earth I dwell.
When I look I see the sunrise
And I trust all shall be well.
Shapely tulips catch my eye
Red as cherries
Holly berries
Shape can never lie.
Willow buds as green as glass
Happiness
Happiness
Memories are made of this.
Sunlight slants across the wall
such loved color
my eyes follow
Delight to me is all
Mauve and grey the evening sky.
Sun descends
Day must end
One last goose flies by.
How my heart sings 