Woody Allen–who is a talented but awful human being–once quipped that “I’m in very traditional Freudian therapy. Very traditional. In fact, my therapist died 6 months before I noticed.”
There is something about telling our stories, even if no one responds.
This blog, as I recall saying in some form or fashion, at some point, is my Freudian therapist.
And I really crave, really need, really have an emotional desire for, intelligent conversation. Deep conversation. And I often do have emotionally deep conversations with strangers, drunk in bars. But never intelligent conversations. Nobody who would have anything intelligent to say about, say, Albert Camus (I am reading The Plague right now).
My oldest, particularly (although both are avid readers) works hard to read good books, and of course I indulge this. We were at Barnes and Noble a few years ago, and asked the gal behind the counter where we could find Thoreau. She said “who?”. Oi. (in Classics, then).
So this is my intelligent conversation, the one I have with myself. And I missed it, so here I am again. I feel better for some reason than I did just a few days ago, though.