Wednesday, October 9, 2024
A FOUND LETTER, AGAIN
Saturday, October 5, 2024
Friday, October 4, 2024
Tuesday, June 4, 2024
Monday, April 15, 2024
Sunday, April 14, 2024
Thursday, August 31, 2023
a note to readers
Dear readers:
There are about 107 "chapters" in this humorous partial memoir. In order to read the complete "book" you will need to open up "Older Posts" until you reach the epilogue.
I hope the pieces of my life in these short vignettes in the blog make you laugh. Please enjoy this (ongoing and very unfinished) project.
All my best,
Marjorie
Wednesday, August 30, 2023
Tuesday, August 29, 2023
Saturday, April 1, 2023
MY UNCLE ROBERT
Friday, February 17, 2023
sex, lies, and 50 years later... the internet
This was a "Happy Valentine's Day!" card from "Lou" in 1971. Who was "Lou?" The story will follow.
These greeting cards are pieces of a bittersweet memory from 1970 to 1973, and the messages are quite romantic. I saved the cards to always remember a man I loved named: Lou. But, this was a dark and layered and mysterious "love" because Lou was not just a man... he was my therapist.
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.
I had fallen deeply in love with my therapist. 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 smoking a nasty cigar. We went back to my apartment and well... anyway. 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. It is easy to fall under the hypnotic and seductive spell of transference.
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.
Lou passed away in 2014.
Tuesday, October 20, 2020
Thursday, August 27, 2020
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Thursday, January 3, 2019
Sunday, April 22, 2018
Citizenship Papers
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
Friday, January 5, 2018
I used to live here as a kid...
I took that ride today, back to the street and house where I grew up. I parked my car and walked up the same driveway I had walked up thousands of times so many years ago. I climbed the three front porch steps and I peeked in through the glass front door, but the interior was barely visible: all dark and muted. It was a different house, not my house. I rang the bell and nobody answered. I gathered nobody was home because the mailbox was still stuffed and full.
So, I turned around and walked down the three front porch steps and then turned around and looked back. It was almost dusk and chilly under a cloudy grey sky, and the wind rustled some long tall plants in front of the living room's bay window. They swayed back and forth, back and forth. I was overwhelmed with great and almost unbearable sadness. Nobody was home and nobody would ever be back home there for me. The street was bleak, depressing, and almost unrecognizable.... the houses seemed forlorn and like shadows of their former selves.
I used to live there as a kid but going back today was personally like visiting a cemetery. There was so much emptiness, such a great feeling of loss. The wind kept rustling the front shrubbery, rustling the shrubbery and I stood all alone on that sidewalk and for a minute it felt like nobody even lived on that street. Everybody was gone. The street was a gloomy ghost town.
I got back into my car and drove away, consumed with strange heavy emotions. And as Bobby said: "I lived on that street during the last of of my childhood." I will always think of that street. Always. I knew I would never go back there again... but as the view of that street disappeared in the rear view mirror, I remembered the time so many years ago when I drove away from that street into my future.