Pasha, I remember your room full of suitcases, wigs manequins and – what the heck else? One of 7 rooms. Was your mum's spirit in there? . I remember they were made of leather, not plastic, and one of them said 1956? I remember the photos from Cambridge. How did you get through there as … Continue reading Found in one of the suitcases
I walked out into the woods talking with you one the phone until darkness fell and I had to find my way back with the deer crossing. . So you say you've been a man, just like I've been a woman. Sometimes you still are. I know, I see that duality, although I'm not sure … Continue reading Sabbath of the (trans) witches at the red river
/*this is a mild article on trauma related to cultural alienation from the perspective of someone whose migration experiences weren't dramatic or violent thank God, so no trigger warnings. Brief and non-graphic mention of a friend's refugee camp story*/ This morning found myself looking at the signup information for a professional course in trauma therapy … Continue reading Language and trauma
After a very happy time (during which I usually don't bother to write 🙂 ) followed by a short, sudden, abrupt, and fairly visceral episode of depression that lasted just a few days, I came up with the project of writing about depression while my head is above the water – to write an article … Continue reading Why invite depression for a chat when not depressed?
[continued from Ships & lighthouses after interruption and a bit random] * If loss is delusion because possession is delusion (at least of some abstract "things" like time) ... what about the abrasiveness of interpersonal pain? The jarring headache of mismatch, miscommunication, my old friend the glass wall (whether it's autism, depression, emigration, queerness or … Continue reading Interpersonal pain, Frankl’s dread of ageing, and Momo
You are beautiful. there's some beauty, fragile like snow in between gestures and silence. your presence absorbs screams and grating sounds like sand absorbs raindrops. you lead me back to zero. . you lead me back to your zero. i hook my psi radar to it and i am calm or happy for a few … Continue reading snowflakes in august, springs of the clockwork
as they do in Romania, a pig probably has to be slaughtered. the question is in the choice of pig. some good candidates are pride, identity, comfort, psychological defences, love, money, career, or perhaps home, childhood; the past, the future, memories, or hopes. it's a good menu. apparently slaughtering nothing leads to nothing to eat … Continue reading Berlin mon amour, migrant dilemmas