The Greek Chorus

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How hard do we want to look?  How hot do we want to burn?

Harder and hotter than before.  Even if we move by degrees, we are still moving.

Missing the M key tonight for some reason.  Feeling it in that particular fingertip.

Alright, the focus is that maybe the sky isn’t falling and maybe I’m not the worst of the worst and maybe my detachment this week is purposeful (of course it is) and maybe I don’t have to be written off yet.  One of the things I like best about going to therapy is eventually you say things that surprise you.  I think it’s just a token of developing a rapport with someone where you can reference your own isolation and hermitudery and there isn’t this backpedaling process of dialing it down so everything feels copacetic.  When it’s not.  I’m there because it’s not.  We don’t have to do that so I can say I feel like the fact that I’m so isolated in my day to day life has really caused me to generate this rich internal system of communication where everything gets batted around between these voices of self.  We talked about the Crone who has to be Mildred’s regretful mother or grandmother with this deeply aggressive passive-aggressive wisdom.  The oppressively sage voice that knows better whenever I make a proposal of any life consequence.  A voice that has not been lifted wholesale from my mother whose voice rattles around in there with the whole gang, too.  She’s her own thing, her own mythological archetype, she exists to keep tribes safe and not running off of cliffs and eating the wrong plant, but she also thinks she knows how much discomfort I can take or what I’m willing to do.  And that’s the Crone, there’s no surprising her.  If you fail, of course.  If you succeed, she knew it all along, but just couldn’t tell you and change your course.  There’s Mildred, of course, who is a bit like an overweight Samara from The Ring. Not Mass Effect’s blue-skinned Asari, I think I could clarify.  That would be a hilarious mashup.  She just moans and plots and bangs around and yipes with fear when you casually suggest you might want to have a kid or might want to go outside or might want, I don’t know, to not have to keep her in sugar water and stuffed animals the rest of your life.  Much better, much lovelier, but still insidious is the voice of the Femme Fatale.  If I could picture her, she’s in black and white, and she kind of looks like Paulette Goddard with Dorothy Parker’s wit.  Just sassy about everything I attempt.  Self-amused constantly.  A good friend to have when you need a laugh, less so when you need someone to take your earnest heart seriously.  She’s her own walking noir and where she spits, no grass grows ever.

And then, in its own category, the Faithful Light.  Who accepts the name I give her, accepts whatever femininity I assign her, but needs neither.  She so keenly understands me and is inherent in me that she ways for all the other voices to speak and waits a little longer, a little longer, until she knows that I am hearing her.  And then she says a true thing for me to take hold of and be helped by.

I was less detailed with her.  We only had an hour.  But there was good work done today.  I’m glad I went.

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