Notes for therapy couch: my therapy couch should be a retro Danish mid century sectional, with a dim yellow bulb covered in an opaque shade and a pitcher of ice water on an oval oak nightstand, with a still lit half-smoked joint tilted on the edge of an ash tray. Butter popcorn brought in greasy paper bag.
Therapist should preferably be a female of an alien species that it is impossible for a human to desire on any level; I request a female in the interest of the therapist being properly discerning, introducing the condition of her asexuality because I wouldn't trust my motives,and I'd end up even more hung up then I started. Complexity in the fact that the unavailability or unattractivity of the alien therapist could in itself spur some deeply Catholic attraction, thereby complicating motives. The need to accept some imperfection in general schema, etc.
Unresolved pain, surfacing in unmanageable ways. It sounds dumb to say --so many problems in the world, why get stuck in these dull white ones? Here I am, someone who could never give a shit past page 3 of Herzog, starting to resemble that epistolary idiot more by the day, the documents in this case a scatter of half-formed thoughts emailed at random to the info boxes of zoos around the world, sent to those because they usually auto-respond with something interesting, in a matter of seconds any time of day, as if to say you exist, you exist, you are safe and loved.
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