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The problem with our approach to racial violence is that we have misunderstood the problem. Saying that black lives matter is completely, self-evidently, irrefutably, 100% true and indisputable. It is, unfortunately, also completely irrelevant. It is an attempt to logic people out of their emotional behavior. It is attempting to change a behavior with logic that has absolutely nothing to do with logic and everything to do with emotions that, evolutionarily, have had all logic bred out of them. Also unfortunately we in the western world have all been lied to for nearly 2000 years. The truth will not set us free. My hypothesis is that we need science, not truth. Fortunately a science of emotional change has already been well validated in individual and small group contexts. What we need  is a global version of this science. And we need it now.

 



When a friend dies, how does it make you feel? Incarcerated by the instant, for me it is like writing a poem or taking a picture. I have to enlist every detail compulsively–to ensure I got it. And I wish I could stop breathing. Or I had Hermione’s time turner. I wish my father were still alive.




Recently I recalled a memory of attending a conference on mental illness led by two prominent members of the local mental health community. One of the speakers asked a question about the classical Greek mythology of Asclepius, the god of medicine. I raised my hand and answered the question based on my memories of reading (when I was 17) Plato’s Phaedo, in which Socrates mentions his debt to Asclepius just before drinking the hemlock. After my comment, the other conference leader responded by observing “Wow, you really have to get out more.” The memory to me is a token emblem of what I think we daily face: an environment that immediately punishes exactly what it previously evoked. Invites followed by un-invites. In group seduction and out group derogation. Baits and switch, teases and feints. Ridicule, the normal reward for the curious. Invalidation upon invalidation upon invalidation, creeping along its persistent pace to some final bastion of double binds and a limit of infinite dismay. Is it any wonder then that we are all completely insane?





Against my very will I find myself for home again
trending beyond the river’s expired month and hoping, panicked,
to somehow see again the ocean of my youth. Behind me
my years a dried up whisper, and you my bones in the yard.

Newly dead and with no history I lie face up to an unwashed desert
while a flight of tarnished wings, meaning nothing to my story,
line themselves across the atmosphere

to empty the day at the end of the day. That being said, your

voice in my innocent ear was such that I slid easily
down a waterfall of lies, and saw time as it walked
away from its partner of many years.

Tired work days often end like this:
my sun words dance prayer-like along a beam of light.

And blinded I can barely see the mercy that sends me back
released from a life the moment of pain flanked
on either side by silence. I would
wait up for you nights.

But you’re never coming home are you?



9-25-15


Dad, everything I see these days seems to remind me of you.
I guess it’s just because at this time last year you
were still alive and I was in Spain wasting what days
I had left on rules and seduction.

Or maybe it’s because I’m spending all this time now
watching your grand-daughter grow up. I wish
I could tell you again and again about how she’s
learning to say my name—you know the one
you picked out for me forty eight years ago.

And though

I can think of you when I want to I still scroll through
saved messages on my phone hoping to hear
your voice out loud once more. I don’t know why
anyone would ever do that. Suppose I could

see you like you were before, I’m thinking you’d
probably seem too distracted—as if you can’t
quite grasp what to say to me and I have
to make my plane or waste a lot of money—

whose sadness were you telling me about? Whose death?
Yours or mine.





All that can be judged must be given in experience. Theory without sensation is empty.



These days I’ve been wondering: if light cannot be a part of the universe we live in, how can we see it so easily?




There is one thought that is often a harbinger of disaster in therapy: “This patient is too fragile for therapy.” Many variations are expressed: “too much resistance,” “too fixated,” “too much unconscious hostility,” “too manipulative,” “no motivation,” etc. I find it interesting that I can remember only 1 or 2 patients about whom I’ve had that thought, but countless colleagues and professional peers about whom I’ve had that thought. As if we reserve our special words only for the “other,” and never for ourselves.




Oughts, being derived from is’s, are just as contingent as any is that is or may be. It seems to me.




It seems to me that many modern psychologists (Freud, Beck, Chomsky, Hayes) have done what Descartes did: they have started looking for causal powers in something that is manifest to humans and not to animals. These authors have also, like Kant, renamed the name of the given and transferred its home to the mind, to the social order, to language, to cognition, etc. They want you to believe they have climbed a new mountain, returned with a new in-sight, or dis-covered a new rule. But a relational frame is no more interesting, as a cause, than the id, original sin or a dream visited demon. All are events given in experience, none more or less real than my computer or the hills outside my window.