July 22nd,
Maybe I should tell him.
Nah…
The irony would be lost on him, as would the humor.
Jaye would get it, although I doubt she is in any mood to laugh at present. As it is, the last time I spoke with her she nearly took my head off.
`Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'
Suffice it to say, I have no idea what I did. One minute I am her best friend and confidant and the next her claws are out and she is spitting like a rabid cat. Admittedly, I didn't help matters when I asked if it was `that time of month'.
I just don't know where this stuff comes from!
In any case, back to the matter at hand. The dreaded `journal'.
It seems that Psych Out, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that the Joes need to get in touch with their inner selves, the thoughts and feelings that are actively barred from access to consciousness. Freud would characterize this as the id, the repository of an individual's sexual and aggressive wishes.
And therein lies the irony, as for all intents and purposes MY id is right out there everyday…in your face. Our resident shrink likes to call me the `super-ego', a little Freudian play-on-words, and I think it has finally reached the point where the man cannot stand to see me anymore. In fact, when he first handed me this little book I assumed that I had finally driven him over the edge and he was relegating my therapy sessions to a poor, unsuspecting pen.
From the look on his face I knew he didn't expect me to take this seriously. Even Duke laughed when I showed him the notebook, commenting that I could always use the pages to clean my gun.
I wonder what Psych would say if I told him that I have kept a journal, on and off, for a good ten years now. He probably wouldn't believe me. No one would. No…wait…Jaye might, but then again she has been able to read me like a book from day one, a trait that fascinates as much as it frightens me.
No. I will keep this little tidbit to myself, as I do almost everything.
It has been a while since I have been able to write, and if anything this has given me an official excuse to start up again. I find it easier to express myself through the written word. Always have…since I was a kid.
To be honest though, as much as I love it I am not very good at it. As Flaubert would say `I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within'. I would much rather read than write, but everyone needs an outlet. This is mine.
Speaking of outlets, what does a guy have to do to get a little action around here? I don't like being idle...and I haven't seen much fighting since that last big battle at Benzeen. I wonder if Hawk needs a hand in Trans Carpathia?
Can't let Jaye have all the fun!
Maybe I should tell him.
Nah…
The irony would be lost on him, as would the humor.
Jaye would get it, although I doubt she is in any mood to laugh at present. As it is, the last time I spoke with her she nearly took my head off.
`Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'
Suffice it to say, I have no idea what I did. One minute I am her best friend and confidant and the next her claws are out and she is spitting like a rabid cat. Admittedly, I didn't help matters when I asked if it was `that time of month'.
I just don't know where this stuff comes from!
In any case, back to the matter at hand. The dreaded `journal'.
It seems that Psych Out, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that the Joes need to get in touch with their inner selves, the thoughts and feelings that are actively barred from access to consciousness. Freud would characterize this as the id, the repository of an individual's sexual and aggressive wishes.
And therein lies the irony, as for all intents and purposes MY id is right out there everyday…in your face. Our resident shrink likes to call me the `super-ego', a little Freudian play-on-words, and I think it has finally reached the point where the man cannot stand to see me anymore. In fact, when he first handed me this little book I assumed that I had finally driven him over the edge and he was relegating my therapy sessions to a poor, unsuspecting pen.
From the look on his face I knew he didn't expect me to take this seriously. Even Duke laughed when I showed him the notebook, commenting that I could always use the pages to clean my gun.
I wonder what Psych would say if I told him that I have kept a journal, on and off, for a good ten years now. He probably wouldn't believe me. No one would. No…wait…Jaye might, but then again she has been able to read me like a book from day one, a trait that fascinates as much as it frightens me.
No. I will keep this little tidbit to myself, as I do almost everything.
It has been a while since I have been able to write, and if anything this has given me an official excuse to start up again. I find it easier to express myself through the written word. Always have…since I was a kid.
To be honest though, as much as I love it I am not very good at it. As Flaubert would say `I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within'. I would much rather read than write, but everyone needs an outlet. This is mine.
Speaking of outlets, what does a guy have to do to get a little action around here? I don't like being idle...and I haven't seen much fighting since that last big battle at Benzeen. I wonder if Hawk needs a hand in Trans Carpathia?
Can't let Jaye have all the fun!