Monday, 12 November 2007

the window to the bottom of the ocean/ psychologist on Ventura Boulevard

The man born from the boy above is not up late reflecting on his life. He has not been a Psychologist for several years. He has not earned a private practice, a nice office on Ventura boulevard, a receptionist and a view of the cars whizzing past the courtyard. He has also not had those nightmares. He does not dream of others moments that he can not speak of or of drowning slowly in storms at sea. He did not take the ability to interpret symbolism, body language and personalities and behavior and make it his career all this time.

He did not carry the ballast of other's pain. At least not this way.

He changed his major back to English after that one semester nearly 20 years ago. The decision came oddly out of a clear blue day of calm sitting on the campus lawn eating a salad. His mother was dying. She had attempted suicide just 2 years before. This brought many dreams of winds blowing out windoglass into snow in slow motion onto her...he unable to stop it.......of her mouth that for many years could not say words speaking.....saying short phrases that made him awake cold and in tears.

The office thus untethered, is divorced from gravity and atoms. This moment now floats in a trillion particles in the ether, gnats from what might have been.

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