Oh, bring my baby back to me . . . I’m bluer than blue can be and though experiments in flapjackery set my mood right for awhile, their reefer butter has made the past two days catastrophes of hovering up every scrap of the delicious food that crossed my path and viewing the world from the interior of a calm, lazy, pretty glass box. Yesterday I burst into an uncontrollable giggling fit that ended in a wheezing fit of choking in front of the company director when I found this little exchange. You know how I feel about Noam Chomsky so it came very close to killing me, getting me fired, and making me pee myself all at the same time. Multi-tasking.
I’m trying to rabidly dislike Noam Chomsky less. Figaro is a fan – ah, you know, I’d promised myself to not waste vacation time arguing about something we evidently inextricably disagree on, but you know what happens when you get an Aries and a Sagittarian into a political discussion in a galley kitchen after they smoke hydro. More importantly, though, since people generally disagree about things even if they adore each other and that’s fine, is that the lovely book I’m wrapped up in now, the Singing Neanderthals, mentions Chomsky’s linguistic ideas calmly and undismissively, which is making me think I should look at them more and not just be pissed off by what a dick he is. The more I read this Mithen book the more enchanted I am. I'm glad I only got it after going on a little psycho-linguists kick to help put all the terms into context but everybody would like it, I bet. Particularly if thier short term memory is uninhibited.
Last night I talked to my analyst about how I might want to be an analyst, which hadn’t come up over the twelve sessions preceding last night or on the sheet he’d had me fill out at the beginning of analysis about why I wanted to be in analysis. He didn’t give me shit about not telling him, though he did write it down in his little book and say 'Fair enough', which is one of those phrases that can mean anything from smothered rage to pleased indifference. While I won’t tell you the rather startling conclusions we came to about it, I’ll tell you we discussed a dream that had me as part of a band of mindless vampires armed with acid-filled waterguns on the prowl through an old warehouse, stalking two men who turned out to be Trey Parker and Matt Stone. When I realized it was them we were hunting to the death, I threw myself between them and the guns, and then in the next scene I was being baptized by a street-cleaner in a hospital bed. All good fun.