Tag Archives: Writing

December 14, 2025 · 10:05 pm

Goodbye Columbus

You saved your panic for the last act, didn’t you? Roth, I’m talking to you. You had Neil, your stand-in, your man—your young Jewish protagonist—clutching for answers, calling on Brenda, the girlfriend from the other side of the tracks, to come clean and admit to all that would fit his projections: he’s unwanted, an outsider who never really had a chance. It’s unfair what just happened, by the way—that thought that just disappeared due to an errant stroke of a finger. What happened? Words just left, retrievable only by the technically adept. Anyway, it’s like what happened to Neil. His confidence: it just left him in the end. His sense of assurance, of being loved and having a future of his choosing, because that’s what was owed to him, had just vanished.

           Brenda wouldn’t cop to it, of course, the ulterior motive he assigned to her. She was in denial, like she had been from the outset, playing it cool, pretending to not remember Neil when he first called, full of chutzpah—there, that’s the word that got away. She sorta came clean in the first few passages, saying she liked him, wanted to sleep with him, steal away from under the noses of affluent parents, find herself in Short Hills, New Jersey, not Connecticut, where school and high society beckoned. In the middle act, they slip and slide, playing at love, making love, discreetly and with reticent suggestion, fifties style. Neil was pre-sexual revolution, all from the boys’ side of things: do it for me, he said, regarding the diaphragm that became the point of contention, the fly in the ointment for a silent class war. It would increase his pleasure, was his argument to her. Would it? They’d know it already, the kids today. Nothing new anymore about carnal knowledge, the defeat of sexual guilt. But this was a post-war, fifties neurosis being navigated, with sex as the battleground. Naivete aside, you’re made to wonder as a sympathetic reader where the story was headed had it not been for the sexual mishap. What’s the future of a young aspirant couple heading into the sixties, scratching at their pants, but with much to look forward to, it seemed.

           It all blows up like a sudden cold war crisis. Neil’s panic seems to have him looking backward to a fear that has sat dormant thus far, squeezed into the subtext of an otherwise bland coming of age tale. What happened? Did something disappear, like words from a screen in our digitally cloudy age? No, a discovery of a physical object was the problem: discovery of the diaphragm by a priggish parent whose attachment to decorum and probity is at once ignited, only that’s not the true crisis from Neil’s point of view. What’s on his mind is what’s on Roth’s mind having been in psychoanalysis and then decided to make the Freudian arts a motif in his stories. So, with that in mind, Neil has it out with Brenda about the diaphragm, about why she let it be found by her snooping, we-thought-we-raised-you-better mother. Why didn’t she take it to school, avoid the problem of it being found, Neil asks. A mother going through a daughter’s belongings: that’s to be expected, he chastises, perhaps thinking of Jewish mothers in general and his own burning sexual guilt. Brenda has an explanation, an excuse for her laxity, only Neil is having none of it. His sense of persecution is piqued, and is foregrounded as they fight, which leads to a deadened climax—their break-up. Now the chutzpah with which he once approached Brenda and later called upon her, feeling brazen and hopeful, is gone, displaced by a paranoia that was previously absented, but ever floating in the literary unconscious. Don’t you know? He says as she bristles at his insinuation that she’d deliberated this discovery. No, she insists. Now she’s estranged from her parents, having disgraced them with her sexual impropriety. Why would she do that on purpose?

           But what Neil experiences, what he feels and what he calls upon the reader to acknowledge if she won’t, is his rejection, as if this were all pre-ordained. Yes, she liked you. She wanted you. She might even have fought someone over you in the unseen, unwritten scenes of a middle act. But in the end, she can’t have you and you can’t have her, not even in America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, plus being equal. And worst of all, you can’t even get it straight, as in the truth, if there are blind spots. That this was her plan all along—a dalliance, but not a life due to her myopic self, which is foreshadowed in their first meeting—is his and our putative takeaway. She didn’t remember him, she first claimed, being demure and foreshadowing their unhappy end. She asked him to hold her glasses at the pool. She didn’t see him. Goodbye Brenda, and middle America. Goodbye Columbus is the name of the story.

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November 16, 2025 · 5:09 pm

What’s wrong with my approach?

He sat down before his laptop, extending a finger to the screen like he was adjusting controls, a pilot making final preparations ahead of the flight. He adjusted his seat, making it higher, or at least higher such that he could aim his gaze downwardly at me. A requirement, I figured. “Good morning,” he said chirpily. I returned a tense greeting, feeling a bit like I did the last time I was in a dentist chair. Where are those torturous needles, I wondered? I always imagine that when I go there, my hygienist will start off lightly, performing a gentle prodding here and there with puffy, soft fingers. The only pressure I’d feel would be in my gums as they harden, showing off their sturdy endurance. Hmm…looks good, you’re doing well, I expect to hear.

“So, what’s your problem with my approach?”, my colleague asked. My colleague? Are we intertwined, at odds, collaborative in any way. I don’t know else to call him. My interlocutor seemed best in the moment.

“Right, straight in, I see”. With the needles, I added inwardly. “Well, let’s see. Where to begin”. He chuckled, thinking this a friendly exercise. He opened his mouth, readying a statement. I think the question was a ruse. He didn’t really want me to start. He wanted to appear inviting, but actually spear in with his driving oratory, his oral assault. I opened up, bore my gums, my weakened incisors, and intoned, “I basically think that mental health treatment is a morally neutral exercise, as psychoanalysis prescribes, or has prescribed. And…”

“I guess that’s where we disagree”, he interrupted. He was still smiling. This was still a friendly exercise, though I knew what was coming next. “I mean, I understand that old school approach, taking a neutral position, but I think that has falsely justified a lot of neglect, especially of victims, over time”.

There were already balls in the air, forcing choices upon what to juggle. Old school? I mused. A pejorative term, I think, signifying a kind of philistine ageism: what’s old is out, or should be. What’s new is necessarily that and ought to be ushered in asap.

“We might, though you’ve stepped in before I’ve even named the alternative to neutrality. Should I yield and just…let you?”

“No, go ahead”

“By the way, are we recording?”

“Yes”. He was now terse: impatient to move on, or offended that I’d questioned his piloting skills.

“I think your approach is essentially moralistic. Dominantly so, actually. And I know what you might say, what you have said: that psychotherapy, or analysis, is an ethical framework. It is set up as an ethical entity, representing, if you will, moral values. However, it isn’t meant to be moralistic, I and many others think. It’s—”

“But what’s moralistic in my approach? I mean, I tell people it’s their choice, their decisions on what approach to take. I’m not forcing anything on anyone”

“For the moment, that’s besides the point I’m not yet making, because this part of the discussion isn’t about authority, as you’re suggesting. By moralistic, I mean offering the patient an idea, a lesson essentially, that is intended to leverage a change by appealing to their moral reasoning”

“Right”. More impatience, inflected with wary distrust.

I continued: “You, say such and such a behavior is wrong. You say it hurts others. You add that it hurts others in ways they haven’t noticed, either they didn’t know or didn’t want to know, and that distinction gets short shrift because the nature of their resistance is to be dismissed—”

“They’re narcissistic”

“—by assessment/partially diagnostic labels that are a shorthand for an explanation of why someone is acting in a certain way”

“Hold on, you don’t think that problem behaviors, the ones we typically speak of, are a result of narcissism?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying that labels like that are not motivational. If a person is stirred to an action that’s adaptive or not, they don’t go ‘well, I’m narcissistic’ as their half-conscious understanding of their desire in any given moment”

“Wouldn’t you agree that they’re not thinking of other people, specifically their loved ones, in such a moment?”

“We don’t know that, and I think you’re assuming that if they did think of loved ones, it would deter problem behaviors because that’s what thinking of loved ones does”

“Not necessarily. I know that people have mixed feelings towards loved ones, that they feel ambivalent. I get that”

“Well, I don’t hear that represented in your approach. As far as I can tell, it’s all about drawing attention to the negative effects of problem behavior with the expectation that your listener will then feel inspired to stop doing the problem behavior, thus healing can proceed. It’s like one of those TV ads that show half-starved, shivering animals laying in a shelter, looking miserable. You’re meant to feel sorry, get off your ass and either adopt one or make a donation. The ads not saying, what are your mixed feelings towards the neglected that might lead you to NOT act”

“Well, sure, you want people to act appropriately. What’s wrong with taking steps to elicit appropriate guilt?”

I stuttered, half-incredulously. Where to begin. “See, there’s the crux of your method: appropriate guilt. You think because you’ve called it that, and because your patient will consciously agree, as in agreeably if dolefully nod their head, that they will change their ways. What’s wrong with that? We don’t need therapists or analysts to play that role, is what’s wrong with that? That’s what preachers and social justice warriors are for, to persuade rather than explore thoughts, seeking to understand conflicting thoughts and feelings, not to vanquish them. You’re a mental health professional, and now I’ll be directive if not directly moralistic: it shouldn’t be that difficult to persuade you that persuasion as a tactic is at best limited as an intervention; at worst, it’s counter-effective. People resist being told what to do or manipulated in how to feel”

“That’s not what I do”

“I think it is what you do”

“It’s not. How can I persuade you?”

I paused. “Do you do case conferences with your colleagues, your team, as you put it?”

“Of course, we meet regularly, discuss cases, prepare a plan of action, discussion interventions”

“Do you each read transcripts from sessions, verbatim or near-verbatim notes, or make recordings, as we’re doing?”

“No”, he said tiredly.

“Then how do you really know how each of you is responding to patients’ process? How do you know how you’re persuading patients to experience appropriate guilt, as you put, or else being interested in their ambivalent feelings. And how, if you don’t hear instances of patient responses to your statements, how do you know if they’re really thinking about what you’re saying versus merely complying with your pronouncements? And why, for example, if they glean from the outset that you think they should feel guilty about their actions, would they even tell you about their mixed thoughts and feelings”

“Wait, aren’t you presuming that people will only share their feelings if they expect validation? I’d suggest that when people come to me, they already feel some guilt. I’ve not imposed that upon them, as you’re implying. They expect to hear push back. Secretly, I think—here’s an in-depth interpretation for you—they’ve longed for someone to take a hold of them and tell them what to do, persuade them that what they’re doing is against their values”

“That’s the authority piece, and you may have a point that people are looking for a version of parenting via the therapeutic relationship”

“Well then?”

Now I chuckled. “Interesting. You say that as if you think the matter resolved”

“Well, you seem like you’re affirming that a parent-like, values-validating approach is indicated, which would be healing. What’s next?”

“Indeed”

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October 3, 2025 · 5:01 pm

The Right to Cry Thunderbone

X: Can you believe what happened to Eddie J?

Y: Of course I can, nothing surprises anymore

X: Yeah, but I mean, it was way uncool after his dog died

Y: that doesn’t make him a good person

X: still, it’s about respect

Y: respect for who, Eddie J?

X: For the fact that he’s going through something…I mean, be human is all I’m saying

Y: It’s not all you’re saying. From your post it sounded like you thought people should be fired or even arrested for calling him out

X: Well, yeah. It’s totally inappropriate, don’t you think? It’s not the right time.

Y: Problem is, doesn’t that cut both ways? People who were fans of his had no problem singing his praises, saying what a great guy he is

X: What’s wrong with that?

Y: nothing, except it’s one-sided to say only speak positively, leaving out what’s critical or even insulting, just because it’s “not the right time”. When does it become the right time to accurately speak to a deceased person’s reputation across divides? People have a right to give an opinion

X: So do I and I say IT’S BULLSHIT

Y: actually, you’re shouting that, plus wanting people to be fired or arrested, which is more than giving an opinion

X: It’s my opinion that they should be arrested

Y: Okay, you have a right to say that

X: Well then…

Y: Well what?

X: Then they should be fired and arrested

Y: (laughing) no, there’s a difference between saying that and having the power to put it into effect

X: we can if enough people say so. That’s democracy, the social contract

Y: not really, it’s a matter of law whether someone gets arrested, at least

X: laws are democratic because we vote for people who make the laws

Y: right but we have certain inalienable rights that supersede the kind of legislation you’re talking about—one of them is free speech. People can say what they like about Eddie J as long as it’s not slander, as in factually incorrect, versus an opinion, like calling someone a jerk

X: or calling for violence

Y: nobody called for violence against Eddie J or his dog

X: they did, they used words that led to violence. It was…whaddya call it?

Y: a dog whistle?

X: no, smart ass. It was hate speech

Y: that’s not calling for violence. You’re allowed to hate, otherwise calling me a smart ass would be grounds for you being fired or arrested

X: that’s not what I mean. It was way worse than that, come on. I’m talking about words, certain words, equaling hatred, and therefore violence. Words are violence

Y: last week it was silence equals violence. Make up your mind

X: sometimes silence is violence if you’re not speaking up when you should

Y: should I lose my job or get arrested if I don’t say anything about issues you think are important?

X: No, I’m not saying that

Y: silence is violence, you said, so why wouldn’t it be punished

X: not in that way, I just mean you should be criticized

Y: or yelled at

X: I’M NOT YELLING

Y: I think your voice is hurting my foot

X: whatever, now you’re blaming me, playing the victim. There’s way too much blaming and fingerpointing going on right now. I blame the left for that.

Y: You see me as on the left?

X: No, you’re in the middle, but that’s bad too. Anyway, I’m outa here, not talking to you

Y: Or “liking” my posts anymore, none of which are political

X: That’s right. Maybe you should be fired, or arrested if you think it’s okay to mock someone whose dog just died just because you don’t like them for dissing on your favorite band, whatever they’re called

Y: Thunderbone. Greatest band ever! It should be so declared by the highest authorities, like chatgbt. To suggest anything else is false news, disinformation, or misinformation, whatever the difference between those things is. And it’s the only issue that really matters. It should be illegal to diss on TB, or even fail to invoke their name, like you just did: punishable by job loss, incarceration, public stoning, banishment to a leper colony…like a red state

X: Ugh, I knew it. You said red state, you hater! You’re on the left. Bye

Y: It was a joke. What, are you banning me?

X: yes, and your stupid blog

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August 25, 2025 · 4:37 am

A psychoanalyst and sex addiction specialist spar

G: Hey there, welcome. This is Graeme Daniels, psychoanalyst and author. I am a co-author of Getting Real About Sex Addiction and more recently, the author of An Analyst in Training, and I am the winner of the American Psychoanalytic Association’s Lee Jaffe prize for my paper, “Panal Treatment of an Alcoholic with Substitute Addictions”. I am here today with a guest, dr. Davide Sakmanov, host of the podcast, “the empathy coach”, plus the workbook, “do it the right way: a practical guide for behaving properly”. Davide Sakmanov, welcome to the show.

D: Thankyou for having me

G. So, Dr. Sakmanov—sorry, the doctor—is that a medical title?

D: No, it’s a sobriquet, as it were

G. A nickname? So, you’re Doctor Davide?

D: I prefer coach Davide. The doctor thing is more of a nom de guerre, if you will

G: Nom de guerre. So, this is war. And you’re not a doctor

D: Not as such

G: Or an academic?

D: Umm…define academic

G: a Ph.d, for example

D: No, not a Ph.d. Sorry, are we here to discuss my credentials?

G. Only if you don’t have any?

D: Alright, if it’s like that, then I’m an MSW, a CCPSC…

G: MSW—social work. CCPSC?

D: Certified Process Safety Professional

G. Is that a mental health credential?

D: It can be. Look, I thought we’re here to talk about my intervention model for the treatment of sex addicts and their impacted partners. You’ve written your big to-do paper on “substitute addictions” or whatever—good for you, and I read it in fact—but I’m here to talk about my model of care that emphasizes empathy. I call it the 2 Es idea—emphasis and empathy—that are the building blocks of a paradigm that has drawn countless listeners and followers…

G: Countless? I mean, if you’re referring to your podcast, it’s easy to track #s. It tells you how many people you have listening, so it’s only countless if you don’t know how to read numbers

D: Okay, thousands. Is that what you want to hear? I have thousands of listeners, and lots of readers

G: Lots?

D: Yes, lots. I’m popular. Very popular. You’re popular too, I’m sure, though I bet not AS popular as me

G: Okay, we’re popular. Maybe you’re more popular, let’s leave it at that, shall we? Let’s talk ideas

D: (relieved) Yes, thankyou. Gawd…

G: Okay, so in your model, the—lemme get this right, Recovery Empathy Couples Therapy Unified Mission– just thinking of what that spells, actually—you bring together couples who have been impacted by infidelity issues, sometimes other addiction issues (we’ll come back to what that means, maybe) to do interventions relating the traumatizing effects of cheating behavior, which includes use of online pornography, utilizing feedback from a treatment team of collaborating professionals. So, I’m curious in particular what that last part means, the “utilizing feedback” from a treatment team

D: Right, so as you probably know, old school therapy models, addiction models, recommend that the sexually misbehaving person, or perpetrator as we call him, does his personal therapy work privately while the woman does hers separately without any coordination that would make her feel safe. The thing is, as the partner, you have every right to know what he is doing and what his treatment plan consists of, and you get to weigh in as to what you believe will strengthen the relationship.

G: Well, there are a number of phrases there that bear exploration, but firstly, again, regarding “utilizing feedback” and say, the “right to know what he’s doing”: do you mean that impacted partners have a right to know, and therefore should know via feedback of a treating therapist, when a cheating behavior has occurred? Are you asking individual therapists to inform other therapists in a treatment team, and thereafter, their impacted partner clients, when a behavioral slip or relapse has occurred?

D: We can do it that way. I know of countless occasions when that has proven therapeutic both for the perpetrator of infidelity and the impacted partner. We know from our clinical experience that disclosing behavioral slips makes an impacted partner feel safer, plus it’s relieving for the other person to have that experience

G: Clinical experience. Not exactly proof, as you put it, but let’s say we agree that it can be therapeutic for an acting out person to reveal their secret behavior to a partner. But you’re suggesting, I think, that the disclosure would occur via an informant therapist, not the perpetrator, as you put it.

D. It doesn’t have to work like that. It would be best, I guess you’d say, if the perpetrator did the disclosing.

G: Under duress? Meaning, it would be “tell your partner or else we will”

D: See, I think you’re trying to make this something it’s not

G: I’m more than trying, I think I’ll succeed in making it sound like what it is. You’re saying that if a client in your program reveals to their individual therapist that they have slipped in their behavior—let’s say, looked at porn—then that individual therapist would communicate that information either directly to the impacted partner, or to that partner’s individual therapist, who would in turn relay that info to the impacted partner, yes?

D: Under the terms of an honesty agreement that we have our clients sign, then yes, that’s how that might play out. I don’t see a problem with that

G: The terms of an agreement? Is there an understood window of opportunity in which the acting out person must disclose to a partner?

D: We like 48 hours. We think that’s enough

G: Between disclosure to a therapist and thereafter to a partner, or between the onset of the behavior and disclosure to a partner?

D: Okay, well I guess the former in practical terms since the disclosure to us is when we’d remind the client of the honesty agreement

G: (upon pause) Do you find that they need reminding? Presumably, they are aware of this agreement all along, or certainly upon agreeing to it. You’d think it would influence whether they choose to share with a therapist an instance of cheating behavior, as your program defines that. Don’t you think that sets up a dynamic that contaminates the authenticity of disclosure? Why would your clients share their secrets with you if you’re going to either inform, in effect, their partners, or else guilt them into doing that?

D: I think you’re getting into the weeds here. Our method has helped untold number of couples heal after years, even decades of deceit and disloyalty

G: Which you seem to think you can dissolve with an honesty agreement and a “come to Jesus” moment in your office. I think you’d consider this matter “the weeds” because your training around confidentiality issues has been remedial

D: Remedial? Lemme tell you something, our program has gotten more positive feedback from all corners of this industry than your outdated psychoanalytic whatever…ever will

G: Again, I’m sure you’re a big hit on tik-tok

D: See, now you’re being a snob. Our program employs the golden seal of approval from leaders in the field of sex addiction: renowned experts in a condition that afflicts millions of men across the world

G: They’re experts in a condition not recognized by the AMA or APA, by the way.

D: It is recognized, meaning sexual compulsivity is recognized, by the WHO

G: Yeah, only as recently as 2017, and with a caveat within its criterion language that warns against diagnosis for moralistic reasons. You don’t merit diagnosis of sexual compulsivity disorder just because you “violated your own values”, like masturbating when you think it’s a religious sin, or because objectifying women via porn violates a feminist affectation. Also, why are men the only focus of your program? The pronouns you use imply that the perpetrators of this sexual abuse, as you think of it, are dominantly if not exclusively male

D: Not exclusively, but most are male. I think it’s harder for women, they have to face the stigma relating to their sexuality, so for them sex addiction or infidelity treatment is really shaming

G: which would be moot if the “right to know” or the “trauma” of their impacted partners were being privileged, as it is in your model. So, why wouldn’t male impacted partners be calling you in #s asking for you put their wives and girlfriends under privacy-violating cross-examination, to “hold their feet to the fire” with honesty agreements, full disclosures, polygraphs?

D: Like I said, I think it’s more complicated

G: Meaning you don’t know why you don’t attract male impacted partners

D: I think maybe they don’t want to appear weak so they don’t…who knows?

G: Sure, who knows? Women don’t want to be shamed for their sexual desires. Men don’t want to appear as victims, would rather act out and feel guilty—actually, that is something I think is true—but maybe these are side issues, “weeds” that are unworthy of attention, as far as you are concerned. Back to the main point: you think the impacted partner, likely female, has a “right to know” what the perpetrator is doing in his behavior. They have a right to know whether that perpetrator’s individual therapy is facilitating expression of appropriate guilt and awareness of the full impact of the perpetrator’s behavior upon their partner’s emotional, physical, and spiritual health

D: Absolutely!

G: And those perpetrators will gladly disclosure those slips and relapses, past and recent past, moved by your coaching about how their partners deserve to know the truth! They will be galvanized by learning the extent of their impact upon their loved ones—they will learn how they have induced hyper-arousal, high anxiety, self-blaming, in an innocent partner—and in developing this awareness, they will not only significantly reduce if not entirely halt their harmful sexual activity, they will take empathy to another level, privileging a definition of empathy as meaning the validation of an impacted partner’s feelings and perceptions, whether they are distorted or not: the “perpetrator” will eliminate argument from their repertoire of conversation; validation of their partner’s feelings and perceptions will become a near reflex. They will surrender their will to the power of God as they understand it. They will extinguish negative feelings that are denied but acted upon, and love…will prevail

D: I know you’re being sarcastic, but yes…all of that

G: Well, I doubt you understand all of that. And given your stance, plus—I will concede, that of many professional counselors, licensed and not—an astute consumer of psychotherapy might wonder why a mental health professional versus a clergyman is even necessary when it comes to infidelity treatment. A priest, or anyone for that matter, can say that an intimate partner has “a right to know” truths. Anyone can point out the common sense that secretive behaviors violate consciously made agreements about sexual exclusivity. What difference does it make that an “expert” can recite the criterion of PTSD syndrome. You want details? Vivid anecdotes to relate to? Go to CODA meetings. They existed long before you came up with what you think is your original “empathy” model.

D: Hold on. What is it you think I don’t understand?

G: Firstly, I don’t think you understand what I meant by “feelings that are denied but acted upon” because your model ignores unconscious process. I think you think that individuals can be coached to access their loving feelings, put aside what is implicit in acting out—angry feelings, underlying rage—and skip to guilt as a therapeutic tool that will heal. You think that perpetrators are NOT aware of the impacts of their behavior, hence needing education. They ARE aware to the extent that they attempted, at least, to keep their behaviors secret. To complicate matters, they are paradoxically in denial of impacts so as to protect themselves from feelings of guilt, which in turn stem from uncomfortable hostile feelings towards loved ones. It is therefore the INHIBITION of these thoughts, the failure to access AMBIVALENCE, that is THE PROBLEM. Your model, plus—I guess I’ll say, “countless” like it—emphasizes reactive love response designed to vanquish ambivalence. You think your clients or coachees can’t tolerate ambivalence, likely because you can’t tolerate ambivalence, so you preach “get over yourself” rhetoric

D: That’s not true. We talk about ambivalence. We understand ambivalence. We educate that ambivalence is normal

G: Yeah, educate, right. So, in this model of “She has a right to know” regarding slips, plus “what’s happening in the treatment”, that latter ambiguity implies that disclosure beyond the matter of perpetrating behaviors are subject to being relayed to the partner. Regarding empathy, if your client discloses a slip in empathy—let’s say, “I hated her guts yesterday”—that should be shared with the partner, or is there an agreed upon or tacit agreement that such thoughts would not be shared, and what would be the reason for not sharing? The client’s right to private thought? A fear that such thoughts would be traumatizing for the impacted partner, triggering a reactive outrage?

D: Probably more the latter. I see what you’re saying, there’s room for counselor discretion. I wouldn’t share that thought you mentioned. I think that would be re-traumatizing for the impacted partner, and plus I’d think that a defensive thought on the part of the guy

G: Probably true, though your thought about the impacted partner suggests an illustration of my earlier point: you think the impacted partner would not be able to tolerate the hostile feelings of her partner

D: She’d think he shouldn’t have those feelings, sure…

G: And you’d agree with her…

D: (Pause) yeah, I think so. Because I’d think he was being defensive. You said “probably” so maybe you disagree

G: I said probably because I wouldn’t foreclose the possibility that his anger may be legitimate, and that what’s defensive is the addictive acting out as a displacement, plus the inhibition of what may be a rightful protest

D: What rightful protest, hating his wife’s guts? How is that in any way healing?

G: Why do we have to rush to healing? Since neither of us is a doctor, can’t we look to understand the thought, which may only be an impulse, before we seek to eradicate it? So, forget informing the wife for the moment. If we did that, we’d likely get into managing or soothing her feelings, which I think interferes with the process of understanding, taking focus away from his internal problem. Besides, why not consider that the expression, “I hate her guts” is a reaction to a series of repressed thoughts, the content of which is obscured by what’s disturbing in the intense expression

D: Okay, I can see that, sort of…and I can see why we don’t have to share with an impacted partner, or encourage sharing with an impacted partner, every time this guy has an undesirable thought…

G: Right, so…

D: At the same time, I’d be concerned that by inviting more details about this rightful protest that is speculative, we’d be indulging a defensive pattern, which would take us in the wrong direction

G: That presumes a bi-linear process, plus the bias that all negative thoughts are a “slippery slope” that must be avoided. But lemme give an example: a man and his wife are in household garden together, having what at first seems like a benign disagreement about an arrangement of flowers. At first, the problem is that he had gone ahead with the flower arrangement without consulting with her. As they talk about it, the conflict escalates. He says, “what’s the problem?”. She says, “it looks fucking stupid!” and further starts cussing him out, after which he complains that she’s always abusing him or talking down to him. That scene ends with her storming off, shouting “I want a divorce” over her shoulder. Backstory is layered, the presenting problem at least 2-fold: 3 years ago, he was caught cheating on her, getting caught on film with another woman at a party—pictures and video posted online—then they went into couples counseling. He stopped the affair, acknowledged the pain he caused and listened to a lot of podcasts on that subject, has passed 3 polygraphs since, and generally lives in the proverbial doghouse. After a year of little more than mea culpas he says he started bringing up in couples therapy how she mistreats him…as in the flower arrangement instance. She admits she can cross a line and be harsh sometimes but says it’s because she’s still angry and traumatized about the betrayal of their marriage through his infidelities

D: (pause) So, what’s the issue? Doesn’t that make sense? She’s been traumatized by his betrayal, now she’s sensitive to his not talking about things with her, so she gets upset because, as you might think as an analyst, the flower thing is a substitute for the affair-seeking plus keeping it secret and ignoring her. The task is for him to acknowledge the links there, show that he understands why she’s upset, and apologize for the fact that he doesn’t share his thoughts with her while he goes about doing whatever he wants to do…

G: I agree with what you’re saying to an extent: I’ve no problem with acknowledgements, the apologies, especially for not sharing his thoughts, and I appreciate your “it actually isn’t what it is” attitude towards the seeming source of conflict, the flower arrangement. However, your position still presumes a unilateral disorder, likely grounded in, as you might put it, “old school” addiction narratives: that person has THE problem, etc. Anyway, the thing is this: he says the abusive language got worse after discovery of his affair-seeking, but the condescending attitude, her talking down to him, is long-standing, is almost as old as the relationship itself so it predates the betrayal, and to compound the problem with irony, when he brings this up either with her or with therapists—and they had at least one episode prior his acting out pattern, he claims—both his wife and therapists dismissed the subject

D: Well, I’m not sure I buy that, especially if they were in therapy before the sex addiction or just cheating behavior started. As for now, I generally think it’s a problem to muddy the waters of treatment, focusing on matters that could be just a way to excuse the acting out behavior

G: But that in itself strikes me as a splitting response—that is, a black and white way of looking at the problem. You deny the possible or maybe likely complexity of the problem because it takes focus away from a singularly defined task, and also because that background complexity appears to justify acts of escapism. No one is saying that. That’s rather what you are inferring from the speculation of an old relational dynamic for which both parties bear responsibility, even if those responsibilities are rendered asymmetrical by the betrayal of infidelity. In my “clinical experience”, a variety of problems get shelved and obscured by the specter of sexual betrayal: betrayals relating to substance use, money, parenting choices, to name some issues. Only the specter of violence supersedes sexual betrayal as a source of clinical attention. Indeed, this may be the principal reason why cheating or sexual betrayals perpetrated by women are marginalized in most models pertaining to these problems. What’s the priority? The safety of a partner discovered in her cheating behavior by an angry, or otherwise abusive male. I have no evidence of this bias per se, but maybe you can tell me: if you had a female client who had cheated on her male partner, would you insist on that honesty agreement and pressured disclosure if she said she was afraid of his temper?

D: (wearily pausing) I don’t know. Maybe you’re right in one sense about this being complicated, and maybe that’s because there isn’t a moral equivalence about these kinds of situations.

G: Wait, what do you mean by that, moral equivalence?

D: Well, basically that women have more cause to be afraid of men’s anger than the reverse

G: So, what are you saying? Does that set up a double standard with respect to honesty agreements? Do you employ “man up and get honest” interventions with male acting out partners, but then refrain from coercive rhetoric with the fewer female subjects you treat?

D: I don’t think of it as a double standard. Again, I think this is a moral equivalence issue

G: How about we call it rationalized asymmetry. There. I’ve coined a new piece of therapeutic jargon

D: Yeah, I don’t know. Like I said, I just think we’re getting into the weeds here on some of these issues. People come to me, they come to you, wanting help, practical help mostly, with what to do when they’ve done something, maybe a lot of something, that they feel bad about and they want to make a repair, express their love despite whatever other feelings they have, move on and be happy. That’s what it all about, I think, and all I can say is that I think my empathy model has helped a lot of people to find spiritual wellness, forgiveness, peace, and overall happiness. Exactly how many people, I don’t know…just…

G: Countless people. Yes, I know. Well, thank you for coming on the show, Mr. or Doctor Sakmanov

D: How about coach Dave?

G: Sure, anyway this has been an episode of Getting Real About…well, I’d say psychoanalysis, or formerly sex addiction—not sure what to call this at the moment. It isn’t quite what it is, maybe. Thanks for listening

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April 21, 2025 · 6:09 am

Wow

Wow…

              The narrow hallway of the eighth floor stretches westwards to a cul de sac and a small waist-high window letting in sun from a Pacific horizon. You can almost hear the echoes of an architect screaming to a builder, give ‘em some light, please. The units are a good dozen to a floor, expertly welded into a taut floor plan that allows an illusion of space being devoted elsewhere. As I walk down the wing towards Steve’s address, I note the change in color scheme and the insulated feeling. The walls are a cobalt blue exuding calm and security, a far cry from the sunburnt orange that adorned the interior when I’d first visited years ago. The once-well trodden carpet, similarly singed, has been replaced by a thicker material that fully absorbs footsteps, vacating the last sounds of an old creaking floorboard. Disconcerting, I imagine, for those residents whose ears are never far from a front door, worried that someone unauthorized might be in the building, stalking.

              I press on Steve’s doorbell and hear no sound. Even the ping of a simulated bell is subdued in this determinedly buffered setting. Steve answers the door, beams half of his amiable smile through the crack and then opens up the space after the briefest of hesitations. I walk in past a plain door, unpocked by ornate divots, with only a penny-sized spy-hole blemishing its surface. Doesn’t he trust it? I wonder, regarding Steve’s pause.

              “Hello dear boy”, he says in a slightly affected voice—his nod to my British heritage, which he thinks entails people greeting each other with overwrought expressions because that’s how they do it in period dramas or hoary Ealing comedies that somehow drift into modern minds. He gestures welcome with a wave of his palm and beckons me past a kitchenette towards a cluster of furniture and dense ephemera. Apologies follow: “sorry about the…”, and “I’ve been meaning to…”. When we lived together, once upon a time, I might have scoffed and remonstrated, depending upon my mood. In my fantasy of lived disgust, I might have kicked something, sent a console, a bucket of food, or a lounging pet flying across the room. That’s when we had standards followed by expectations, plus an appetite for conflict. It’s years later now, so like the walls and the floorspace, the feelings have softened. Anyway, nothing in this space serves as a centerpiece. It’s all a trail of bits and pieces, some discarded, others merely detained ahead of a hateful deportation. The inviolate fixtures are a wall-sized television and a triumvirate of computer screens that transform a living space into the semblance of a stock exchange floor.

              I am stepping over and in between piles of consumer and consumed goods, heading for a dead end. “Sorry”, says Steve, realizing there’s nowhere to sit. Outside, on a tight veranda overlooking a glassy vista and concrete cityscape, there’s space for a chair that looks dusty and unused and flanked by a wooden structure partially wrapped in mesh wire.

              “It’s okay for me to stay, right?” I ask uncertainly, half-plaintively.

              “Oh sure, sure,” he replies. “In fact, I might be joining you. My friend Sara also might come”.

              I stare back with a blank expression, thinking there’s a piece that’s awry in Steve’s thought. “Might come? You’re thinking of coming to my graduation?”

              Steve’s neck snaps backwards as his eyes roll upwards. It’s like I’ve delivered a blow to his right side and he’s heading down for the count. “Aw shit, that’s right! I forgot about your thing. Sorry, I’ve been all turned around lately. I thought you might be at the protest tomorrow”.

              “Nah, I don’t think so,” I respond coolly, having half-expected this misunderstanding of why I’m visiting his urban lair. Steve shrugs. “Any chance you can come by later, maybe we can have dinner together, you can meet Sara”.

              I could care less about his friend Sara. “I’ll be eating at the center with some colleagues. There’s a dinner gathering after the ceremony”. He nods faintly. He can tell by the flat tone and terse delivery that I’m annoyed he’s forgotten.

              “Got it. This is your training program you’ve been doing, huh? That Freud thing”.

              “Analytic training”

              “Right. Do you get a pipe and a tweed jacket, or something?”

              This quip merits an indulgent grin, not quite the derisive smirk I’d prefer to give. I have his half-effortful hospitality to think of, to feel grateful for, though a hotel room will seem a good alternative at this point. Making a token effort, Steve grabs a cushion, wipes a swath of litter from a couch—ostensibly my bunk for the night. Then he asks that I excuse a phalanx of cans and bottles atop an adjoining breakfast table. “I’ll get rid of them later,” he says. “They’re just rinsing out, don’t want to put them away and get mildew”. That pings a memory. Back in the day, Steve was often saying stupid things like this to justify not doing something.

              “What’s the box for on the balcony”. I don’t care about this box just beyond a sliding door any more than I do his friend, but the awkwardness of Steve’s neglect is impinging upon my nerves.

              “That’s for chickens,” he says, prefacing an impending spiel.

              Chicken shit, I’m inclined to reply. “Doesn’t look big enough,” I say, indicating the box’s seeming three-foot length, its piecemeal disposition. “Where are the chickens?”

              Steve often answers questions not yet asked, aiming for what he knows instead. “Soon”, he says. “Collecting them this weekend. Been planning this for weeks, studying the raising of foul for ages. Gonna grow my own eggs, get ahead of rising prices. I just gotta put the box together some, wrap the mesh around it, do one or two other things”.

              “So, it’s a coop”

              “Sort of, mini one. Got a southern exposure here, plenty of sunshine. No predators around, of course. Just gotta watch the weather. Should be okay in spring heading into summer, though”

              “You got enough space? Kinda tight out there, isn’t it?

              “They only need a few square feet to walk, run around in”

              “Take a shit in”

              “No kidding. Got a few bags of shavings to lay down. Gonna start with three, see how they do, whether they fight, which happens if there isn’t enough space”

              “Don’t you have a cat?”

              “Miete? She died last year. Thought you knew”

              “Maybe you told me. I would’ve remembered, I think. Sorry”

              “No worries. Anyway, you ready for your big day?”

              Steve held a sudden look of cheer upon his face, suggesting I’d touched a nerve mentioning his cat. Now my life was a useful pretext for a change of subject, his chicken interest notwithstanding.

              I heave a practiced sigh. “Been ready for I don’t know how long. Feels like I’ve been doing this forever”

              “I bet. You started this…when?” I can tell he needs me to fill in all of the gaps of his unknowing, and as I do, I’ll see that his eyes glaze over and his mind will drift back to images of plywood, mesh wire and carefully marshalled chicken shit.

              “Seven years ago is when it started. You might remember the last night I stayed here overnight. I was applying still, had interviews with institute faculty at Zion hospital the next day”

              “Right. I remember that now. I seem to recall you saying it would take a few years, not seven though. Why so long?

              “Some elements are like college—you complete four years of seminar. The cases that are analytic: they have to get approved, plus you have to write an academic paper that’s more or less like a doctoral thesis. That’s what took the longest”

              “So remind me, if you don’t mind, what happens next? Do you get an extra credential?”

              “I’m a psychoanalyst”

              “Okay, you’ve said that before. But what does that mean? Could I just call you up and ask you for psychoanalysis, come lie on a couch in your office and have you interpret my dreams?”

              “That’s the last thing you’d want, believe me”

              Steve burst out a light chuckle. “Why? Am I that bad? Beyond help?”

              “Let’s just say it wouldn’t be your thing. You’re more of a go-to-a-retreat, take ketamine with somebody watching and then have what you think is a cathartic experience followed by a day at a spa.”

              “I have done something like that actually. My therapist, whom I see about four times a year recommended something similar to me, only with psilocybin, not ketamine”

              “So, did you do that?

              “Not yet. Haven’t gotten around to it. We’ve been doing EMDR, which I also find cathartic—lots of childhood stuff comes up for me. Deep stuff. You should try it. Or, you should get the certificate for it, gets lots of clients that way”

              “I did…twenty years ago. Now I do psychoanalysis, that Freudian thing I’ve mentioned a few times over the last few years. It’s different. It’s an older model of treatment: the patient speaks. An analyst listens. No drugs. No tricks. And you meet four times a week, not four times in a year.”

              “Four times a week! You’re kidding”

              I am not kidding, my face says. I’ve said this to him before, several times in fact.

              Steve’s incredulity resumes: “I mean, I know you’ve mentioned that before, I just can’t believe anyone does that. Jeez, who can do that? Who has the money for it?”

              “You’re presuming that an analyst would charge you three hundred dollars per hour like the person who watches you take acid does”

              “Well, okay, so you’re saying it’s less expensive, but still…the time…”

              “What about it?”

              “Who has the time? Plus, I don’t know. I’d run out of things to say”

              For a half-minute I remain still-faced, myself incredulous, except to think you might. I hold my mean-spirited tongue, for a moment at least. I gaze around, shoot incriminating glances at random objects that signify a random existence.

              “The time? Like the time spent staring at that trio of screens, or that massive Orwellian eye in the middle of your wall-space? The time spent binging on eye candy, brain candy, or actual candy? Run out of things to say? If you mean platitudes, banal chatter, the dinner theater of modern politics, then sure, you’d run out of things to say? If you mean catching up on what’s happening in your life, or even retaining what’s happening after the last time you spoke to someone, then sure you’ll run out of things to say. If you mean external events, or how’s your health or how’s the family doing, or the kind of stuff anyone can understand without much effort at explanation, then sure you’ll run out of things to say. If you mean the stuff that you think others will understand or not form a half-understanding judgement or sample of disgust about, then sure you’ll run out of things to say”

              At once, Steve frowns and speaks in a low, measured voice.

              “You sound annoyed. Have I annoyed you?”

              I pause for effect and hold my friend’s attention with a fixed, unblinking glare. “That’s psychoanalysis,” I say.

              He shakes his head, befuddled. “What? what is psychoanalysis?”

              “What you just did. You responded as if everything I just said had something to do with you, or you and I”

              “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make this about me—”

              “I’m not criticizing that, you prat. It is about you and me. That’s what I’m saying—what you just did was an analytic thing to do, and a truly interpersonal thing to do, only it’s ironic because you think it’s merely self-centered”

              He shook his head again. “Right. What? What are you saying? Making it about me, or about you and I is the right thing. How can that be?”

              “It’s easy if you think about a principle that you haven’t been studying and thinking about for nearly a decade but I have. It’s this: when YOU’RE TALKING TO SOMEONE, WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY IS AT LEAST PARTLY AND SOMETIMES MOSTLY ABOUT THEM”

              “Why are you yelling?

              “I’m not…okay, I am…just because you haven’t listened, not really. Nobody really…”

              By this point Steve was staring at me like an emergency room nurse performing a mental health exam. “My big day. It is a big day, and I didn’t fully realize until today that it bums me out that you barely understand what it’s about, this big day of mine.  You think it’s a kind of joke, featuring cliches…”

              “Wow, I never said—”

              “I know you never said. You never had to say it directly. And it’s not your fault. It’s at least mine as well, the fact that we don’t get each other”. I gaze about his living space again. “I don’t get how you can live like this. That’s my judgement. You’re like those chickens you’re gonna raise. You wanna know how? They don’t have sphincters, chickens. They don’t control their shit. They just walk around and release and they don’t pick up after themselves. Someone else has to do that for them”.

              This remark freezes my old friend. He looks stunned, eternally undecided. Trying to seem poised, Steve walks over to his front door and pulls it open like he wants me to leave. With a cold, glassy shine in his eye, he asks, “How’s your wife doing?”

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March 23, 2025 · 9:00 pm

Lent

Lent. I’m meant to be in self-denial, abstaining from my habits in observance of grief. I’ll have to call her back, tell her I’m not coming. I don’t want to, though my reasons are no longer about sex. I already made the date, and I’m minutes away now. Damned regret. Always happens in the minutes following the decision, when there’s time enough to think. It shouldn’t be like that. Instead, it should be like magic, like a burst across a threshold into a bathed red-lid room. You’re in, and there’s nothing left to think about until it’s over, after which the thinking is all downhill. I’m going to hell. Anyway, this isn’t like that yet. This is still ripe with anticipation and surging dread. The picture’s still in my head of my would-be date laying enticingly on a bed against the base of a camera phone, peering into it, upside down, assuming a position below the viewer’s gaze, summoning from her void with her gravitational pull. The picture from the site reveals where she lives, where she stays for hours upon hours, waiting for a hungry text, an appeal. Is she available? Of course she is. Give her a minute, she says. Give her ten. Then come right over. That’s how long it takes her to splash on some make-up, deodorize a crevice or two, and then appear within a shadowy entrance behind a frayed screen door. Does she have a cancellation policy? Does her business model attend to regret, besides squeezing the time between contact and consummation, ever narrowing the gap, making it an exact science. Get ‘em in, get ‘em out, before they change their minds. That will have been the training. The real pros, the elders of the schema will have taught how to deal with buyer’s indecision and remorse.

              So, it’s an obligation now, not just a pleasure activity. Actually, it’s not much of a pleasure, now that I think of it. When and if I think of it. I feel nothing as I approach rendezvous: no excitement, not even fear. Just a dull buzz creeping in my ears as I pull into a space and reconnaissance the scene from a nearby parking lot. White noise in my head, I look out: just a strip-mall with a liquor store, a smoke and donut shop, plus a condo spread, practically attached: a blur of commerce and cheap living where the ring cameras outnumber the people and the whiff of cheap weed permeates the neighborhood. The abodes are across an iron fence divide, on a second floor overlooking an unkempt garden quad. Dry vegetation covers a dirt patch that no one has serviced while an adolescent palm tree sprouts hopefully through its center. Debris is pooled in a cemented corner, slipping down the cracks of broken stone that protrudes because an eruption of some kind once occurred and then just…stopped. A woman passes my car, shoots a glance at me, then again as she moves past a tattoo parlor, heading towards the housing units. There’s a hint of a smile on a taut face, possibly a come on, or a knowing smirk. Is she my date? I wonder as she enters a gate to the complex. Or is it a disapproving neighbor? She turns disinterestedly and makes no further eye contact, which puts paid to the first idea. If she was waiting for someone, she’d have looked a third time, I figure. Instead, I look up to see whether a curtain will stir from a window, revealing a pair of eyes spying on the lot, waiting on a visitor. I want recognition, then a sign, a further invitation, like a crooked finger gesture, plus a shifty look elsewhere to indicate risk and thrill. 

              Two gallant duties come to mind: firstly, to complete this act, perform due diligence. It’s only fair, after all. This is how one faction of the other half lives, how it makes its living, and who am I to tease with opportunity only to then back out due to moral neurosis. But the other voice is strong also, knowing that thought number one is merely guilt displaced from its proper source. It’s saying it’s that time of year, to sacrifice pleasure and observe pain, and then feel its grim satisfaction. There’s justice to be served here of an ancient kind, plus an old penance to be paid. The church is only blocks away. Still time to turn on the ignition, back out of this space, and have no one mortal be any wiser except yourself. That curtain will stir and those waiting eyes will watch you back away, and tsk in stolid disgust, but you have blessed comfort and sanguine wishes awaiting. The incensed ambience, seminarian dignity, and fraternal order is welcoming, and promissory of sanctum. The glances there will be modest and kind, not cynical, opportunistic, and there will be no crud gathered in the corners of a doorway, and no acrid taste in my mouth. So, I’ve made a decision. The desire for this other thing is gone now, for now. I feel its leaving, like it might as well have absented itself days ago. There are weeks left in Lent, and maybe I’ll face this battle again before the season’s over and the feast begins anew. I get out my phone and text, “sorry, can’t make it”, with no explanation, knowing it wouldn’t matter. Minutes later I’m at the church, feeling like I deserve to be there, and there’s no pause between my turning off the car’s engine and opening the door. As I exit, I feel the buzz of my phone and glance down to see the terse reply of my disappointed date. “You’re an idiot”, she writes.

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February 1, 2024 · 5:05 am

No one wants to see a sad animal

What happened? It went away, my last essay. I didn’t even say goodbye. It just disappeared, vanished into the cloud, it promised, only it didn’t settle there. Why? Because its keeper, its God, the internet, was not turned on. It had turned a blind eye, so the elegiac missive was gone, now shut behind a door (or “window”), that read something like, we’re not sure what happened—did you delete? It was my fault, basically, said the computer. And so, it was my fault, this unnoticing of detail, my inattention to detail. Pity, I thought, not angrily, more forlornly. Oh well, more thoughts down the drain, rather like the residue of a dream. But there is continuity, I’ve thought in the hours since. There’s continuity in similar problems arising, with similar underpinning themes: I missed a box here, having not checked something materially important. I didn’t dot an I; I failed to reset a password. As a result, there will be no access to pragmatic life. Problems, like deaths, happen in threes, and nothing gets sent to a heavenly cloud for safekeeping. Rather, I am stuck here on earth amongst the weeds and the glitches, contemplating something…something like the links between happenings.

              I mean, it is at least apropos that the lost essay had something to do with death, and in particular, a good-humored, if sardonic look at death. It featured a not-quite dream but written rather something like a dream story about a figure who is announcing their forthcoming death to a group of half-attentive friends. They are getting messages about a memorial date for a passing that hasn’t yet happened; a passing that, by implication, will occur suicidally, hence the precise anticipation. The responses of the friend group are variably confused. Their text messages were really funny, I can tell you. I know because I wrote the lines and then sent them to the cloud, thinking it would keep them safe—that it had a hard and reliable foundation. A cloud holds, I believe, but it also releases in rain. And I’d missed something important about how that works. Anyway, back to those friends and their funny if dispiriting reactions. They would not make it to the memorial because they weren’t given the proper notice. They need a week, they were consistently saying. And that was the joke, the central gag: people aren’t there for the big stuff, the death stuff; they are elsewhere, busy with their lives, but often pretending they are there for one another, like my essay was there for me fleetingly, and promising to stick around. It would catch me later, it seemed to say. It would never—what’s the term— “ghost” me.

              My protagonist, my guy, Jim, was set to ghost people, first by dying, but then, even before that, by not talking to them anymore. That’s how pissed he was by the half-hearted and therefore heartless reaction to his admittedly desperate memorial ploy. Only one person gave him the time of day. Rachel, a one-time crush and then heartbreaker, had always cared enough to appear out of thin air from her own itinerant life to come save the day or do something decisive and right. She’d act the angel, I thought, now thinking she could emerge from the same cloud in which the previous essay was buried. What’s the problem, she’d chide, though she knew really what was up. She’d gotten news through a sparse grapevine that my guy was in despair over an illness that was tying the hands of doctors. Oncologists, I called them, alluding to the specifics but dodging the C word. Jim never liked that word. Doesn’t like the way it sounds, the way its cadence spreads. Let’s cut to the chase, past the unmentionable pain, and then get to an even less mentionable pain: whether people in his life will show up for him, actually make an effort and care.

              “That sounds like self-pity”. Good old Rachel. Not angelic, but always cutting to the chase in another sense. Straight to the point. Good stuff. In fact, Jim never liked this side of Rachel. It’s the reason he got over the crush. He wanted softness in her to match the softness in his own belly. He wanted to lie on his back and have her rub his, ya know, belly.

              “And that’s bad, I guess?” That was about the memorial, not the belly.

              “Well, what did you expect? And I’m not talking about how gruff and clueless Paul is, or how preoccupied Jane is with her life. But…a memorial, really?”

              “What?”

              “Kinda creepy. I mean, is that a joke? Are we meant to say, oh sure, go ahead and kill yourself, we’ll be there on Saturday”

              “Well, no one even mentioned that part, it was—”

              “It’s hard to know when to take you seriously on that shit. You have a dark humor. It’s not the first time you’ve made a sideways suicide threat, plus it sends people into denial. They don’t know what to do”.

              “Well, they could do something, not just not say anything”

              “They did. They texted me, asked me to call you, and yes—part of that is not knowing how to deal with it—the other part was thinking I could”

              Jim wasn’t sure he agreed with that assessment and felt like saying so, but Rachel brooks no cheap jokes when she’s in her righteous stride, so he thought the better of it. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, he reflected in a protracted, silent pause. Rachel was silent also, waiting for what she figured was Jim’s sulking to pass. This wasn’t even how this author figured this would go. My head was in the clouds, chasing lost words. Originally, this was a surrealist skit about deadness in society dropped into a little mischief about deadness. The lost script featured quips about whether the memorial could be re-scheduled for another day; whether refreshments would serve Vegans—that sort of thing. It was dually designed to lighten people up and yet make them feel uncomfortable. What Jim truly wanted he couldn’t ask for, but he could allude to it by speaking on behalf of his German Shepherd, Beowulf. He wanted someone to commit to taking care of the dog: to feed him, adopt him, whatever. He figured that would touch everyone’s heart, stir some action upon the loss of the master. The reasons would touch upon Rachel’s critique of Jim, which no one would direct at Beowulf. They’d all want to see his tail wag. No one wants to see a sad animal.

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November 16, 2014 · 8:51 pm

Full Metal Self

Had a few ideas recently, after watching the film Whiplash; made a few links, reignited certain determinations, sighed and resigned to my fate on a few other matters. The film stirred hope and–dare I say, inspiration–on many levels: firstly, I learned that the film had been out for nearly a year already, though it was only recently making a splash in theaters. I am reminded that promoting a film, like promoting a book, takes time, hard work, and no little amount of salesmanship. This parallels the story of Whiplash somewhat. Miles Teller plays Andrew Neyman, a young would-be jazz prodige, a drummer in a prestigious music conservatory band. Scouted and then selected by the school’s jazz maestro, Terence Fletcher, he joins a band that is further elite, and is initiated into rehearsals in a manner that is at once predictably brutal, yet also fascinating and entirely gripping. Actually, more so than any thriller or action flick I can think of, this film had me gripping my seat for almost its entire length, such was the tension created between the quietly narcissistic hero and his near sociopathic mentor. In scene after scene, I watched with mounting angst as Fletcher alternately seduces and then terrorizes the naive yet ambitious Neyman. He flatters him, telling the class he’s found his Buddy Rich; then, minutes later, he is tossing cymbals at Neyman’s head, mocking him for not keeping tempo, threatening to “rape him like a pig” if he fucks up his band. For my part, as non-musician, I had no idea drummers were this important.  Meanwhile, the Fletcher character brought to mind a few teachers from my past, sort of morphed with that terrifying drill sergeant character from Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket.

About two thirds into the story, we get Fletcher’s rationale for being the way he is: modern jazz, like modern society, is in a sorry state, he says. The words “Good job” constitute the most harmful phrase in the English language (I’m paraphrasing). He’s an advocate of tough love, obviously; of the belief that teachers must push people beyond expectations in order to get the best out of them. The ends, as in the preservation (or growth) of standards, justifies the brutal means. The film’s counterpoint is to indicate casualties: a former prodige whom Fletcher had allegedly driven to suicide; the girlfriend whom Neyman dumps so as to focus on his drumming. Neyman’s father, a loving but feckless man, voices opposing values, decrying Fletcher’s abuse, challenging his son’s obsession, imploring him to slow down lest he (literally) die on the drumstool. Ultimately, the story seems a celebration of going for it; of not compromising standards. It’s just that it doesn’t ignore the costs.

Again, the film brought up a lot for me. I wonder how much of Neyman and Fletcher’s drama is transferrable to the world I inhabit. If you’re a would-be client of mine reading this, don’t worry. I have no plans to emulate Fletcher or the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket. However, I reflect on the opinions I expressed in Working Through Rehab, my book about adolescent drug treatment; sympathetic views about the dinosaur-like, similarly tough-love ethos of the much maligned Therapeutic Community Model. This week, I shall be teaching a short-term class on the Masterson Model at a community service agency in Marin, and espousing the value of, among other things, therapeutic confrontation, the importance of having boundaries, a therapeutic frame in which consistency, self focus–striving beyond expectations–are at least analogously observed. The dialectic I anticipate will mirror the drama of Whiplash, and maybe FMJ: principled agreement about driving people to their best, tempered with compassion for those who, for a variety of reasons, fall short.

As for myself, I go for it in my own way. Inspired by Andrew Neyman and the indelible image of his blood-stained drumkit, I might stay up late tonight, working on my latest manuscript: tightening the prose, adding pieces of subtext, changing a character or a plot point, correcting sundry mistakes in punctuation and spelling. I am well read with respect to my own books. I read them over and over again. It’s like combing the text, looking for tiny bugs. Sometimes I am satisfied; more often, I am not. Figuratively, I bleed. I have expectations.

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