Tag Archives: Freud

Of Psychoanalyrics and Psychoanalyrism…

I do have quite a -proven- record of linguistic maverick-ism, to the sometimes loudly outspoken frustration of some of my fellow writers, critics and others (writers and critics maybe in their own right, but not mine).
Convinced NoamChomsky-st, applying his

“Language is a process of free creation; its laws and principles are fixed, but the manner in which the principles of generation are used is free and infinitely varied. Even the interpretation and use of words involves a process of free creation.”

to “the letter”, I sometimes pride in “assembling” (all right…, have it your way: “coining”… duh…) novelty concepts mirroring needs risen amidst my own creative storms…
That’s exactly how the title giving weirdos have… how should I say… come up, while -recently- attempting to explain a very promising writer why the “smaller” details of his texts reveal about -both- his writings and his very own self, much more than any other, “bigger picture” of them.
Yes, from my very deep personal point-of-view, poetry is -or at least should be-, lyrics to the sweet whispersome song-child of a writer’s known or unknown wandering, with his known or unknown daimon / daemon…
Having said that, I should proceed to explaining my newly discovered concepts, asking myself nevertheless the reason(s) for doing so, because you see, psychoanalyrism is the new “science” of critically understanding a writer’s art from the personal angle of his own thoughts, against the twilighted canvas of his personality, regardless of ALL known standards, except for -of course- the standard need that these be expressed in a language available to the critic’s comprehension, anything else mounting to dictatorial censorship.
So, is there any other reason to explain?
Well, yesno, because while psychoanalyrics should be understood, their understanding is as multidimensionally vast as the uniqueness of every writer’s writing fountainhead, making therefore any such attempt(s) psychoanalyrically futile…

Oh, do I hear well the slowly emerging choir of merciless voices accusing me of bookish insanity and grand Freudian theft?

Yes I absolutely do, and from the heights of my cervantesque saddle, I foolly agree!

Suicide from death to life…


It’s a lie,
our birth into this world…
Mourning should have welcomed us,
but perfect companion
for all
sweat, tears, blood and
“doctor, doctor, the baby’s not crying…”
tube in, suck, “slap”, “slap”
“-frail, agonising human meowing…-”
Blood all over,
with our hideous, blueish
cut away companion swimming in a pathetic plastic bowl…
“What is it nurse?”
and the embarrassing silence
following a sobbing;
dad wanted “something” else…

When in distress,
or asleep,
humans have an instinctive reaction:
we curl back
in foetal positions…
Assembled into existence;
tiny atomic conglomerates of material memories,
embraced in a lightless quest for temporary shelter,
growing, dreaming…

Something’s wrong outside,
in this limitless dimension of suffering,
where we are denied even our thumbs ’cause
“it’s childish, you silly…”
It’s not what I’ve mindlessly dreamed of…
Ladies and gentlemen, comrades, brothers, sisters,
we’re all dead;
wretched food for the all-devouring chronos…

Can’t you see, you, miserable clients
of Freudian stock,
that life is just the opposite
of living?

I’ve had enough…

I’ll close my eyes -again-,
pretending to be functional(ly):
And tasteless,
and breathless,
and heartbeatless,
mindful nevertheless…

I’ll stay calm, still,
all material memories of my
mothers and fathers
shall force my withheld senses
to return;

If life’s the opposite of living,
what’s death?
The opposite of dying?

It’s just the recipe for it…

Dreaming’s our continuous suicide
from death,
to life…

* – photo from cover of Joel Arnold, “Fetal Position and other stories”