Control Option Command

I can’t quite remember who coined the term “Echoes” to describe those odd, sometimes puzzling or even spooky coincidences we sometimes experience.

You know what I mean. You meet a random person at a party who turns out to be your second cousin. You and your new romance discover that you were both following the same band on tour the same year.

—apparent non sequitur change of subject—

I’ve told you about my girlfriend Kaja. She’s an artist. Traditional; She paints pictures.

Me. I’m no artist. I used to do some illustration work though. I was never any good at finishing stuff unless it was paid work, but I did try to express some feelings now and then. Usually with crude and crass symbolism.

—another apparent non sequitur that actually reveals the punchline—

2005 wasn’t a real good year for Kaja. She was going through some pretty ugly personal problems and was troubled with anxiety and depression.

It was a pretty crappy year for me too. In fact, it marked a personal low for me. Never before, and thankfully; Never after have I felt so depressed.

So Kaja, visual girl, painted a painting that represented her feelings.

It’s pretty telling. A girl (the artist) crouched over in defeat with spikes driven into her back. “What is more noble…” She is trapped between light and dark. Roadkill between two states of being.

When I saw this in her portfolio, some 6 years later, I immediately started going through my old archived folders. Turns out that in that same year, before depression turned me completely incapacitated I made this (obviously unfinished) illustration:

That is all…

This is a shortie. I just want to tell you a couple of things pretty quickly.

1. One microgram is one millionth of a gram.

2. One microgram of certain stuff may make an enormous fucking difference in your brain.

3. Happiness is chemistry.

4. As is unhappiness.

5. This is Kaja.

6. These are some stats.

7. That’s all for now. I’m good. Thanks for asking. I hope you’re doing alright as well.

There’s been radio silence here for a while now, interestingly not because I haven’t had anything to share with you from my regular rambling repertoire of reprehensibly reckless recommendations. In fact I have quite a few posts I’ll be happy to perpetrate quite shortly.

No the cause of my negligence is that I’ve acquired a new affliction. Symptoms are pretty serious and include terrible insomnia, severe anxiety, sudden bursts of emotions and reoccurring nausea.

It’s a chronic condition, and only rarely does anyone get rid of it in their lifetime, and in those cases it’s always resulting in terrible depression (well… except in cases of people that are already severely suffering from disturbing mental issues).

I’ve already spent a fortune on different necessities to treat the condition in the proper manner and I can clearly see I’m not going to get rich in this lifetime.

The name of this curious syndrome? Let me present: Mathilde Trømborg Jacobsen.

That’s right. I’ve been fatherized, daddyfied and papa’ed and holy crap has my life ever changed. Firstly I’ve never been so much in love, and secondly I’ve never been quite so fucking tired before. (This from a man with chronic periodical insomnia. Not the kind you brag about. The kind that hurts.)

It’s been said countless times before, and it will be repeated to the end of time; Having a child is a crazy, lovely, terrifying, messed up experience. That part about it being a treasured and beautiful experience for the father to attend the birth? Bullshit! We will be there; but do not be fooled, prospective mothers, we are there for your sake. There isn’t one of us that doesn’t secretly yearn for the days when the mans role during child birth was to nervously smoke a lot of cigarettes in the waiting room.

Mathilde, being a daughter of mine, entered the world explosively and wreaking havoc and mayhem to all that beheld her. And, well… A hundred years ago I would be a single parent. Then again; A hundred years ago I’d be wearing my trousers pulled up to my nipples, probably worrying about the potato harvest and speaking in a weird staccato. The point is; It was dramatic. Very dramatic. ¹ But both lovely mother and lovely daughter are now doing well.

So we’ve established that I do love my sweet little imp, but boy does she ever scare the crap out of me some times. On the subway this morning after spending about 4 the last 48 hours asleep I had to distract myself and get an outlet, so these tweets what was I came up with:

• I’m sure I’m losing followers Like I’m spending money with all this spam, but so be it. The torture of parents by infants needs a voice.

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• FACT: an infants screams are designed by evolution to drive (grown-up) people completely bonkers. Much like the stench of corpses.

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• FACT: Depriving someone of sleep is a well known form or torture (or “enhanced interrogation” for you yanks).

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• FACT: The result of the two latter excrutiating experiences combined is far, far greater than the sum of their parts.

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• FACT: Infants have no wish to cause you harm. It is simply in their nature. Much like that frog-riding scorpion. This does not help.

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• FACT: Much like a camel can retain impressive amounts of water an infant can save up to three times its own weight in poop in its body.

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• FACT: Infants live by and enforce Murphys extended law. This is why they will strike exactly when you are about to enter REM sleep.

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• But she really loves me. I shouldn’t have made her so mad. It’s all my fault really.

Well. It says it all I guess. Still:

She is my sweet little princess (think Leia, not Cinderella), and I vow to spend my life protecting and supporting her, and make sure she has somewhere she can feel safe, no matter how crappy of a human she may turn out to become. “It’s bullshit to say that my life now has meaning”. It already seemed very meaningful to me, but it’s very much true that my life now has a slightly different focus, and yes, another meaning entirely. That, my friends, is all.

If this doesn’t mean anything to you, we are not sharing a childhood memory right now. On the other hand, if it does; Don’t you think Mother Rada ended up with old man Kostika Suru in the end? Let’s be honest here.

Freud, the father of the psychoanalysis, received a letter from a woman who was deeply worried about her son, describing what she perceived as his abnormalities and seeking advice. This is Freuds reply.

Dear Mrs….

I gather from your letter that your son is a homosexual. I am most impressed by the fact that you do not mention this term yourself in your information about him. May I question you, why you avoid it? Homosexuality is assuredly no advantage, but it is nothing to be ashamed of, no vice, no degradation, it cannot be classified as an illness; we consider it to be a variation of the sexual function produced by a certain arrest of sexual development. Many highly respectable individuals of ancient and modern times have been homosexuals, several of the greatest men among them (Plato, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, etc.). It is a great injustice to persecute homosexuality as a crime, and cruelty too. If you do not believe me, read the books of Havelock Ellis.

By asking me if I can help, you mean, I suppose, if I can abolish homosexuality and make normal heterosexuality take its place. The answer is, in a general way, we cannot promise to achieve it. In a certain number of cases we succeed in developing the blighted germs of heterosexual tendencies which are present in every homosexual, in the majority of cases it is no more possible. It is a question of the quality and the age of the individual. The result of treatment cannot be predicted.

What analysis can do for your son runs in a different line. If he is unhappy, neurotic, torn by conflicts, inhibited in his social life, analysis may bring him harmony, peace of mind, full efficiency whether he remains a homosexual or gets changed. . . .

Sincerely yours with kind wishes,
Freud

How come we still have people trying to “cure” homosexuality with therapy? And how come married couples in California are being divorced against their will?