Reactions on Freud

Drives may become conscious by means of its representation. The development of language allows for some knowledge of unconscious content. But knowledge is hardly a cure.

Words designate things and events. Judgment is the composition of things and events. Judgments may describe complex states of affairs.

Language develops as a means of revelation for any conscious mind. For conscious mind does not understand itself.

To reveal: to see what was once clear, but then was not. Re-veal. The idea of reflection as a means of self-understanding.

I do not understand myself. I do not think it is possible to do so.

The godhead, should it exist, cannot be self-conscious in the sense that I want. For self-consciousness implies the necessity of an other that may reflect. What could possibly reflect divinity?

Drives are obscure. The analysand works in tandem with the analyst to bring the obscure into words.

Pizarnik: "I have forced myself, kicking and screaming, into language."

To be a consciousness entails the necessity to be into words. I say to-be-into in the most radical way. I cannot narrate myself, for I cannot see what I am.

What I am is always in development. I develop through words and through actions. I am not clear to myself.

That which is divine may be clear to itself. There is no way to know if it is not.

To find love: to narrate a succession of events. To choose a particular set of events to make sense out of other events.

Making sense through words: I cannot make sense of a particular set of events. I talked about them, but I find myself unable to find an ending for the narrative. Particular things do not fit into words.

I do not fit into words. I cannot narrate myself.

Anger, hate. I feel the words. Events resonate through my utterances.

I hate you. This is not a performative utterance. I do not hate by saying I do. I can only narrate because I hate.

When I utter the words, I am through my anger. I ramble. I become self-destructive.

Blake: "Cruelty has a human heart". To be cruel: to make sense of events through a univocal interpretation of events. I attach the word to a thing.

BTBAM: "We can speak obsession; we can love the endless".

Repression: the dislocation of drives. I find myself unable to properly face my anger. I cannot speak.

To speak requires a listener. I have not spoken in months.

In my view

I kissed a flame. What did I expect.

—Rosanna Warren

Lo que no cabe en palabras se convierte en repetición. Insistencia en nombrar los eventos; ponerlos en palabras. Repito lo que no entendí en su momento. Me he despedido varias veces de la misma persona. Sé en el momento que se trata de una repetición, pero no puedo detenerlo. No puedo nombrar.

Orfeo y Eurídice: Orfeo pierde a Eurídice por mirar antes de tiempo. H. D., Eurydice:

"so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;

if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness
into peace,
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past."

Hay una especie de paz en la idea de la muerte. Vivir es campo de flores; morir es una pared austera. Eurídice reclama perder la vida en el umbral. Lo que se pierde duele más que algo que no se tiene. En algunas narraciones, Lilith —la primera pareja de Adán— se convirtió en un demonio tras ser expulsada del paraíso. No es para menos. Eurídice recorrería la tierra y clavaría sus garras en el pecho de los hombres. Si pudiera.

Parte del problema: tratar de construir una narrativa para encontrar sentido en los hechos. Eurídice puede señalar al culpable. Pero rara vez se puede. Algunos demonólogos medievales recomendaban que no se nombrara a los demonios porque eso implica su invocación. Pero el exorcismo es posible precisamente por la posibilidad de nombrar.

Quien señala a un culpable puede conocer la falsedad de su acusación. Pero encontrar sentido en los hechos no depende de la verdad. Me señala como culpable porque eso tiene sentido. Quizá volteé la mirada demasiado pronto. No hay forma de saberlo.

H. D., Eurydice:

"what was it you saw in my face?

the light of your own face,

the fire of your own presence?"

A city

I spent the past four months as a visiting scholar at an American university. I wrote a substantial part of my dissertation, swam every single day, and kept up with my jobs.

I had intense aesthetic experiences. I was suicidal and cheerful. I was not bored once.

I found an impossible love that made me break most of my rules on dating.

I met a great number of people that were interested in what I had to say.

I found that I can be outgoing when it is necessary.

I realized that I am perfectly able to live on my own. I do not like to share a place with strangers.

I was able to write again. I wrote short poems. I shall not publish them.

I experienced several bouts of depression. I was surprised by my ability to handle them.

I felt alone, but not in a bad way.

I experienced the selfishness and cruelty of two persons I formerly loved.

I was mugged. Somehow, I found myself trying to empathize with the mugger.

I found a foreign city that somehow felt like home.

am I n

Reactions on the idea of forgiveness

I am a terrible dancer. I can only dance when drunk. Even then I am a terrible dancer. I apologize profusely for this. I can only attain an ability through cognitive impairment.

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The Buddha, on the noble follower: "When he finds estrangement, passion fades out. With the fading of passion, he is liberated. When liberated, there is knowledge that he is liberated. He understands: 'Birth is exhausted, the holy life has been lived out, what can be done is done, of this there is no more beyond.'" (Adittapariyaya Sutta)

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There is no more beyond determinate existence. It is done in that nothing exists beyond present time. Liberation consists in release from the desire to keep existence as it is or as it were.

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To forgive oneself entails ceasing to desire. That is, not desiring to keep things as they are or as they were, but accepting their fleetingness.

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Thus, desire and stubbornness frustrate any chance of forgiveness. This I know.

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The desire to prevail is self-defeating. Its object is unattainable and unfitting. Happiness cannot be kept, for it is real and therefore fleeting.

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And so is misery.

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I am aware that I will die someday. I do not want to die, but my desire to prevail is self-defeating. My desire to forgive is not, but I am unable to forgive myself and others. This, I think, occurs because of my desire to keep the form of existence with which I am familiar.

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Blake claims that virginity desires, but acts not. He also claims that infertile desire breeds pestilence. Refusing to act leads to stagnation.

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I dance when I am drunk. I also become deeply self-destructive. I rage and go on self-harming sprees because I confute my every desire. I deploy every desire and hope to be destroyed again.

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I am an expert in starting over. I have been many versions of myself.

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As one grows up, pain becomes deeper. One is supposed to become stronger. I can love with greater strength, which necessarily entails that the hollow once I no longer love will be greater.

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Pain can lead to compassion. Pain can lead to humility. Yet, I am still unable to forgive.

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Sheer force of will cannot remove deeply entrenched pain. Pain is supposed to bleed slowly; to become a part of who I am. The unconscious recalls old wounds under new circumstances. Harmful behavior repeats itself and tries to achieve different results.

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I really need to stop doing things that are bad for me.

untitled

You have one baby, I have two.

I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.

I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.

We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,

Me and you.

—Sylvia Plath - Lesbos

you talk
but do not mean
this is all we are
thoughts and not words
silence and not noise
distance and not contact
etcetera

I came from the forest
and it would be expected
that I learned
how to read minds
but I did not learn
from the forest
and its dark mysteries

when I was in the hospital
I learned about depth
and I thought sadness
was depth

just my luck
I am always sad
I am a sad
pathetic
color
sad sad sad

and then I left
and I was not
expected to leave

you left me
but somehow
did not mean it
and I was expected
to know how
to read minds
as I was expected
to learn
from the mysteries
of the forest

I was expected
to know
how to unfold
to develop
to fold
and break
and bend
but I did not
the forest kept silent
and I thought
silence was the lesson
but I was wrong

"mass is only useful
because of the silence"
so I kept silent
I am silent
and I will keep
silence to myself
because
really
it does not matter

I found an abandoned dock
and it was mine
it is not useful
so we have that in common

you wrote me a long poem
and said how deep
and powerful
are my emotions
and how lucky you felt
because I showed them to you

my birthday was last week
yesterday was yours
and you wrote me a poem
and I flinched

you wore yellow
the color of sulphur
demonic yellow
and wrote me a poem

I was expected
to keep silent
and you wrote a long poem
and expected me
to keep silent

you do not care
who you hurt
honey
sweetheart
apple of my eye
kitten
vixen
you do not care

you invoke sulphur
honey
sad girl
golden lotus
pink chain
yellow wall

you expected me
to keep silent
I know your name
and I invoked you

you expected me
honey
sweetheart
kitten
vixen
sad girl
I will not forgive you

Different kinds of reactions

E invites me to a party. As I walk to her house, a man asks me for money. I tell him I am Mexican. He lets me go. Seconds later, he returns and demands all of my money. Minutes later, I talk to a policewoman. I apologize several times because I am unable to properly construe the events.

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S is going through a hard time. She barely speaks. I do not know what can I say to confort her because I lost my words. I keep silent for two days.

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I drank too much and I am about to vomit. In front of the toilet, I realize how far from home I am. But the place I live in is no longer home. There is no place I can designate with that word.

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I run into U while grocery shopping. He asks me what I have been up to. I tell him I read a book on Freud. I tell him about my experience with psychoanalysis. I stumble with my own words. I am not sure if I actually finished the treatment, but I do not know if there is such a thing as a cure through words. Words.

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English is not my native language. I never talk in English unless it is absolutely necessary. When I hold casual conversations, I have a very noticeable accent and forget ordinary words. However, whenever I talk about academic topics, most of my accent goes away and I can fluently handle complex terms.

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A swimmer takes the lane next to mine. She is incredibly fast; most likely a professional. We recognize each other because we swim at the same regular hours. Whenever we rest on the same side of the pool, we look at each other. I think sometimes I smile at her, but I cannot tell if she smiles back because I am nearsighted.

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I dream about A, my dead relative. She appears every few years in my dreams. She always leaves abruptly. She says she has to go. I respond by telling her how much I miss her. I feel a deep sadness every time. I would have never told her something like that when she was alive. But this time is different. She makes very clear where she is: "I still have some years to go." "It is weird. I miss you, but I would never say something like this while you were still alive", I respond. "You said enough. At least to me."

I feel the same sadness. I cry, even though I did not cry at her wake. She tells me that her visit can invigorate her enough to "kick the shit out of Aeneas". She disappears. On the next morning, I read about a kind of purgatory in the sixth book of the Aeneid. I realize what she meant.

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After graduating, I lost the ability to write. Nothing came to mind. I lost my words in another sense: I could write long essays on academic topics, but I could no longer write poetry. After a few weeks in another country, I wrote a poem. I can write again, but not in my native language. My words have shifted.