Friday, December 14, 2012
The art of the counsel
I hate going to see my Dr.Kermit.
The waiting room is dark and cramped.
Sometimes there's a lady wearing clothes made out of trash bags sitting right by the window where you check in.
I sometimes feel Maude's eyes upon me.
Occasionally, I notice women of a certain age looking at me in a hungry way.
Not because I am particularly attractive, at all, but I think because I look well-fed, and seeing me reminds them that they are feeling a mite peckish, and perhaps it is time for tea and very small cans of corned beef.
One time I was in a dingy hotel bar and I made the mistake of calling the bartender "hon".
She was very old and sexual.
Apparently, my use of the word "hon" opened the door for her to tell me an extremely raunchy joke about intercourse.
I wanted to get away quickly but she seemed dangerous.
Actually, all I really remember of her is lightless black eyes set deep within a crispy white perm.
Her voice reminded me of World War 2 veterans being interviewed on public television; rough, cancerous, and not interested in having their naughtiness met with guff.
Dr.Kermit never lets me stew in my juices.
Long silence will pass while I squirm, and he will softy ask, "You're thinking.....?"
I do rather enjoy his blindess, but not in any cruel way, only because I can mess around with my body language and facial expressions and he cannot be made uncomfortable by them. I think of it as just playing the hand that God has dealt me.
I can talk about my problems and pick boogers at the same time, which is very regressing for me.
A confession: when I had that horrible internship at the public library, I once absently picked my nose in the mystery section. When awareness descended upon me, I shamefully scraped the waste from my finger and onto the under side of the shelving. Something about the secret dirtiness of it made me feel like the most dangerous man alive.
I have also noticed that when I retrieve the Swiffer broom from the trunk of my car and walk towards the shoe store with it, I feel strangely important.
Like people are watching me as they leave Target and are thinking how cool I am.
Sometimes, I even slow way down in my walking and pretend I am in the movie Reservoir Dogs.
Sure it seems stupid, really, really stupid, but I am supposed to be less disparaging of my own feelings so Bob's your uncle, judgemental jackass.
I think Dr.Kermit is a student of the Socratic method, in that he asks a lot of questions and has a beard. That is a really dumb joke to make. Rereading it just now made me feel bad about myself.
A typical exchange could be illustrated thusly:
A week ago I had an appointment with him but I was not feeling all that sad, so I kind of faked it.
All I remember is that I did a lot of sighing.
Yesterday I was feeling a little pleased with myself after drawing this picture:
and he made me describe the picture in detail to him because he wanted to understand the kinds of things that make me happy.
"Well, there are a couple lines about despair or something, can't quite remember, and then there is a picture of Santa on a rooftop, you know, looking all down and stuff, and um smoking and....its not really in color, its kind of all grey...and white..."
When I finished my description, he said, "Besides the Santa picture, what other things do you like to draw?"
I told him I had drawn pictures of monsters saying commonplace things to each other.
He then decided that conversations are scary to me, which I had already told him.
"In fact, you are so scared of socializing, you tend to dehumanize others. Almost like....like two monsters talking." He said this so sincerely, so full of well-meaning insight, that I had to bite my thumb super hard to keep from laughing.
It tasted kind of bad, and because I was thinking about that, I missed the rest of what he had to say.