Guilty Pleasure: Hack Psychology

Eleven popped by the kitchen the other day to say hello. She also recommended The Unsayable by Annie G Rogers. That evening I went by the library and checked it out. I picked it up after dinner, and I didn't put it down 'til around midnight, when I had read the final chapter. Eleven had said it was "intense" and at the time I thought she mean that the subject was heavy, but I didn't think I'd be absolutely glued to it for six solid hours.

I Might Think Twice Before I Post Another Dream

Dr Roger's premise is that language is the first trauma. When we are infants learning language, in the process we lose a big part of ourselves that cannot be put into words, and that piece becomes our unconscious. Because our unconscious is without words it uses the body, dreams, verbal slips, art, events and whole slew of other things to communicate with. Her ideas were influenced by Jacques Lacan, a French psychoanalyst, who said "the unconscious is structured like language". She worked with children and adolescents who were victims of abuse and who couldn't talk about it. She found ways of listening to the clues that slipped past the children's consciousnesses, helped them listen to themselves, and in the process they were able to heal.

The thing that Eleven and I found compelling was that in Quebec there is a Lacanian analysis program that has a high success rate for young adults diagnosed with schizophrenia. After 8 years of treatment 60% of the patients are off heavy medications and are living relatively normal lives. That is huge. My uncle wasn't nearly this lucky. He died last month, after suffering from the disease for nearly forty years. His bedroom floor was covered with loose change, and his mattress was stuffed with newspapers. I wonder what he was trying to say?

I am Intrigued for Entirely Selfish Reasons

The idea of looking for clues to my unconscious in every aspect of my life is very exciting. I can be a more sensitive and reflective reader of "Fat Camille," the floor of my room and this blog. I can begin to unravel why, at nearly every stage of my life, there has been a male person of Hispanic heritage who corrects my English grammar (I can count four at this writing). Maybe some day I'll even be able to understand why I don't want a real job and why I can't seem to date anybody longer than four months at a time. I like the idea that very little separates dreams and daily life, because on a certain level, I experience them as one continuous narrative. Of course, anything that has to do with stories, narratives, symbols and decoding the above is seductive.

This explains why English feels so awkward, as if it is not my native tongue. When I am talking, words come out backwards, in the wrong language, or they don't come at all. I am a language victim! (stop your sniggering, Cab!)

Eleven's Patties

4 3" Patties (1 serving)

• chop fine and caramelize 1/2 small onion and 1/2 med. bell pepper. salt.
  
• while onions and pepper are cooking combine: 1 egg white, 1/4-1/3 cup pureed (canned) pumpkin, 1/4 cup masa harina
• Add veggies and mix thoroughly.
• spray pan w/ non stick spray
• spoon batter in large spoonfuls onto pan and smash them flat
• cook on both sides until done.

Serve with Uncle Albert's Pico de Gallo

Eleven's Chile Polenta
this is not exactly like Eleven makes it, it is how I recalled it after dining at her house.

1 can of Turkey Chile
1 cup polenta
1 can black beans
1 cup of salsa

in a 9x9 greased baking dish
combine: polenta, 3 1/2 cups lukewarm water, beans, salsa and turkey chile
bake uncovered for 1 hour in a preheated 350 degree oven.

clean room, clean mind

In the last few years, my family has had to clean some spaces that belonged to members who were, to put it kindly, a little deranged. I didn't participate personally in these cleaning orgies, but I heard the tales. Rooms flooded with piles of newspapers stacked under mattresses, with human ashes, old receipts from 20 years ago, defunct electronics, loose change, girly magazines, old bills, piles of books and dust that had been undisturbed since the last century.

As I was carefully picking my way across my room yesterday I realized that I might have, um, inherited some tendencies towards slovenliness. Clean laundry mingled with my rising frustration at not getting any progress made on my art projects. My drafting table was swamped under rubber supplies and open bottles of oil. Dust bunnies were mounting open rebellions in the corners and I felt more and more powerless. I wanted to flee the dark, cold cave it had become.

I often complain about how disorganized I am, and when I do, Eleven gently points me towards FlyLady. I finally poked around the website a little, and read the article about cleaning the sink. Somehow, while my sink is still supporting an active compost culture, it was enough to galvanize me towards getting the drafting table set up to support some comic-action. Yee Haw.

From the Outside In

There is a mystical connection between my room and my brain. Since I have purged and straightened things up, I feel much calmer, I have caught up on my correspondence, framed a bunch of photos, which are now gracing my wall, and I don't feel restless at all. I love my room, I want to stay.

A Slightly Less than Stellar Thursday

Road B, originally uploaded by camille94019.

It has been a rough day. The rat chewed through my phone line and the door. My car died in an intersection (it restarted again, regardless, stalling is no fun). A crazy relation yelled at me in public. My dentist raised her rates. My messy room depresses me. I am consumed with stagnant art-guilt and I didn't do anything creative today (I did get the T-beast's computer onto our wireless network, which was something the Belkin guy couldn't do). I didn't get a substitute job today. The house is an icebox and the electrical bill is in the three-digits (so much for trying to conserve). If I read the news, I'd probably find out that somebody died horribly in Baghdad.

Friends Are For Pep-Talks

I'd be huddled under my covers right now if it wasn't for Eleven and El Caballero. Eleven took me kick-boxing and out for tacos. El Cab let me whine about how crummy things were. He said if the world ended tomorrow, rest assured the rat would die too. Eleven said it was okay if crazy people made me cry.

And the Family...

I whined to the Pater and he said he could help me with the car. My mother listened carefully and gave me some well-considered advice.

::

The rat is at large, I am not any richer, and the car still sounds terrible, but good people have joined me on my raft, and maybe I can start thinking about nicer adjectives.