September 20: Psychoanalyst Guy, Counselor Friend, Fairy Tale Therapy

A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keeps asking me if I'm going to apply myself when I go back to school next September...

Holden has little faith in his psychoanalyst guy, even though he's recovering from some kind of nervous breakdown.  He's in a hospital, and it isn't because he's just had his appendix removed.  All of the grief and worry of Holden's life has finally overwhelmed him, and he's trying to put his young life back together.

Unlike Holden, I have a great deal of faith in psychoanalyst guys.  In fact, some of my favorite people are psychologists and counselors.  This morning, I had a little visit with a good friend of mine, who also happens to be a licensed counselor.  She's seen me through a lot of tough spots in my life, and I contacted her a couple days ago.  Yes, my visit with her was more business than pleasure.  

It's nothing I haven't been posting about for the last month or so.  Money.  Job.  Insecurity.  Insomnia.  I needed to talk to someone, candidly.  Someone who could offer me some objective, clear advice.  My friend is really good at that.  After our visit, I honestly felt better.  Like I had a little power over my life.  Options.

I've had a fairly good day.  Cleaned the house.  Worked with a poet colleague on poems for the literary magazine I help edit.  Brought my daughter to dance team practice.  Read a little.  Took a nap.  I'm relaxed.  I'm sitting here watching Annie Hall now.

It's time for a fairy tale.

Once upon a time there was a little cobbler named Woody.  He hated his job.  He hated touching people's feet.

One day, into his shop strolled the palace psychiatrist, Lord Sigmund.  Sigmund said to Woody, "Do you think can fix my riding boots?  The heel broke off."

Woody took a step back from Sigmund.  "I'm sorry," Woody said.  "I can't touch your boots.  They've been on your feet."

"But, you're a cobbler, " Sigmund said.

"Yeah," Woody said.  "Exactly."

Sigmund took out his card and handed it to Woody.  "You know," Sigmund said, "I'm a royal therapist.  I may be able to help you with the little phobia of yours."

Woody shook his head.  "No, no," he said.  "I have a problem with intimacy, couches, doctor's offices, privacy, and doctors as well.  It just wouldn't work out."

Sigmund shrugged.  "What about my boots?" he said.

Woody nodded.  "I suggest chopping off the heel off the other boot.  Either that or give up riding horses.  They're big animals with yellow teeth anyway.  Don't trust them."

Sigmund picked up his boots from the counter.  "In my professional opinion, Mr. Woody," he said, "you're crazy."

"And in my professional opinion," Woody said, "your feet are incredibly ugly."

Moral of the story:  Watch out for foot fungus.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Is this guy's name Frodo?

January 8: Getting Some Work Done

In the second week of my vacation, I can't quite relax the way I did in my first week.  I have work I need to get done.  I finished a good portion of it this evening.  I put together my syllabi for this semester.  They are printed, hole-punched, and filed in my binder.  It took me a little longer than I anticipated.  It wasn't just a matter of changing dates from last semester's Intro to Film class.  Because of Spring Break, I had one less week to work with.  Therefore, I changed one movie and eliminated one movie.  We are not going to watch Annie Hall or It's a Wonderful Life.  Instead, the last film of the semester is going to be Stranger than Fiction.  My reasoning is simple:  I love the movie.

It took me about three hours to get my crap together.  Now, with the copying complete and the rest of the night stretching out before me, I will once again return to Stephen King land.  I didn't get much reading done this afternoon, so I have to play catch-tup.  My goal of having 11/22/63 finished before I return to work next week is becoming less and less realistic.  I'm hoping, with my school prep done, I'll be able to concentrate a little more on pleasure reading.  (Is it really pleasure reading if I've given myself a deadline and a daily assignment of pages to complete?  Sounds more like SK 101:  Introduction to Stephen King.)

My daughter is through with dance class in about an hour.  That allows me to read about fifty or so pages.  Or I may just sit at my desk and stare off into space.  My mind is beginning to implode a little.

To paraphrase Stephen King, all work and no play make Saint Marty really, really tired.

...and Saint Marty, too