I am still trying to work out what to do with ‘a book’, and i can’t. But i have had a different, related thought – i can’t seem to bear the idea of not being certain what it is – it must something so that it isn’t nothing.
This ‘blank page state’ reminds me of therapy – specifically the seemingly endless silences that would sometimes settle.
I remember that for the first few years, Marion’s silence would be so frustrating, so cloying and loud, that i would get agitated. I’d try to pick an argument with her, or ramble on about trivia, and so fill the silence with something, anything. Later, the thoughts that would pop up, unbidden, would become things of value – i’d have ideas and insights ranging from the spectacular to the banal. Eventually, i could allow myself to inhabit that space, unpressured by the need to come up with something. The equivalent of the artist prepared to waste a canvas in the pursuit of the truly original.
Once, and once only, i felt myself truly be in that silent time; I can’t explain it any other way. It was my existing for a moment (the most important 5 minutes of my life so far?) in that feeling, a relaxed, peaceful bliss, that led me to know i could end my therapy. I don’t remember exactly when it was, but i would think around Feb 02. Then i ended my therapy at the end of July 2002. (if only i’d been writing this then!)
I feel an urge for some sort of catch-up summary, but then, why should linearity be a virtue? I don’t remember my life like that. And such a summary would be impossible anyway. So i’ll stop now.