"Last night I did not dream I went to Manderley again, I dreamed I was a teacher again."
I entered the classroom of another teacher that was filled with young girls. The girls had on their desks the book "Madame Bovary." One child was crying and struggling to read the words as she was being scolded by a cruel teacher.
I removed the book from her hands and screamed at that teacher: "How do you expect her to read this book? She is eight years old!"
The young girl seemed calm knowing I was there and protected her.
I awakened disturbed, unsettled, and sad and I hoped that wherever that child was... she remained safe.
I have never read "Madame Bovary" and no teacher ever forced me to read a difficult book and as a teacher I never introduced books that were not on level.
Could it be we slip into alternate universes when we sleep and appear in strange places where we are needed?
LIFE IS A BLUR
"Photos like this make us feel something. I know it happens to me, anyway — the almost immediate sense of nostalgia when I see a photo that appears in motion, blurred, and indistinct. What makes these images beautiful? I’ve heard people say it’s because they symbolize our blurry memories: the blur of motherhood, the ineffability of life. I think it’s that, and more. It rejects form and in doing so, it becomes more than one form. It’s a photo and a painting and a poem. And it takes at least a photo and a painting and a poem to hold the complexity of the human experience. The only adequate container of truth synthesizes several forms at once."
"The blurred lines of an image help illustrate the questions that we all contain. What are we if we aren’t hard lines? How can these bodies hold the whole beautiful and ugly truth of what it means to be not just a family but a human being? A blurry photo communicates feeling in a language that perfection never will."
"There’s a happiness right here, right now — you just have to say yes to imperfection to let the joy in. And what better way to communicate the illusion of the finish line than with a mirage of truth, an in-between photo?"
Memories behind stained glass windows
Beckoned like some naked amnesiac
Who struggles to reach home.
from KIDDIE RIDES © 2010 Marjorie J. Levine
It was April 12, 1958 and there I was: in the audience of Saturday night's Dick Clark Show! I remember that is exactly where I sat and oh, the excitement when Dick Clark entered The Little Theater. What a joy to find this episode on YouTube!
Lou looked like Al Pacino in "Serpico." And he was married with several children. I'll be brief...
I began seeing a therapist in about 1970. His office was in Greenwich Village and after just a few sessions I came under the seductive spell of "erotic transference." I grew attached and I was dependent. I fell in love, or thought I had fallen in love. The feelings were not yet mutual. There arrived the day when Lou told me he was moving his practice to Staten Island. I was not ready at all for the separation and I was emotionally devastated. So, I followed him to Staten Island and became a twice a week ferry regular.
The longing for him until my sessions each week was unbearable. I was vaguely aware back then that transference was a common feeling when in analysis. And I had fallen deeply in love with my therapist. Lou sent a real mixed bag of messages; by turns flirting with me and allowing me to believe the feelings were becoming mutual, and at the end of each session he drove me back to catch the ferry. But, in the sessions he would emotionally push me away. He pulled me in and gave me hope and played with my desire, and then confused me by pushing me away with his mercurial whim. He vaguely promised to soon meet me for lunch in Manhattan and then in the next session he told me to find another therapist. I returned home filled with longing and I was confused and desperately unhappy. I was in anguish. I wrote him long love letters in which I poured out my heart.
He sent me greeting cards for Valentine's Day and my birthday... copies hang at this blog (configured with folds to fit.) The saga continued for several years and well.. as it goes with time, the hypnotic spell eventually broke and I ended the "therapy." One day, just like that.
About eight years later, in 1981... I tried Lou's old number and I called. I needed closure. Lou was very excited and happy to hear from me. He was now divorced. He started calling me twice a day. I had to tell him to calm down. So, we had dinner at a Manhattan restaurant. He sat there all pompous and clueless. We went back to my apartment and well... anyway, when he left he hugged me and I knew it was a good-bye forever. He had not changed. He had told me over dinner his experience with me took him to a place where he made a decision to never allow physical contact with a patient in a session ever again. The man was a fast and quick study!
I look back on this episode of my life now and it is totally meaningless. I am not angry. I feel nothing. I know this goes on. I watched "In Treatment." Lou was verbally unprofessional, unethical, and his behavior was inconsistent. He did not know what to do about me and he could not handle and come to terms with his own feelings. I hope in real life transference is being handled properly by those who have fallen under it's seductive spell. I am happy I saved all of Lou's cards because I am reminded of what I believed to be what Diane Keaton has called "the sweet anguish of love..." in my specific situation in all it's full-blown and enabled delusional glory.
