fromthemouthofmoi

Snapshots In Transit A Bus I am on a bus going up First Avenue in New York City. I'm reading a book. I can hear, without looking around, that someone is sniffling up what sound like a lot of snot. I continue to read and the sniffling becomes regular, and begins to sound as though buckets might be needed. This goes on for about ten minutes. I look around to see who is generating such a factory of mucous when I notice that other riders have already spotted the culprit. It is a young man, late 20's, in a white T-shirt and khaki pants. His nose is a full blown scarlet coloured gin blossom. He looks as if he has had a cold since birth. His chest is concave and he is a healthy shade of paste. Just the way he looks causes those nearby to erupt in titters. The tittering, I have to assume, embarrasses him, and I imagine he interprets the laughter as a suggestion from strangers that he blow his nose rather than sniffle. So out he pulls a handkerchief with the dimensions of a twin-siz

I spoke to you yesterday for another two hours. My feelings went from upset, to calm, from loving, to: please, someone make an appointment with a neurologist and find a better cardiologist. I go to sleep waking frequently from the heat. Arlo begins his howl, begging for release of some kind at 4am. He is right on schedule. Never missing the times he has instinctively set up to punctuate the life he lives. I didn't have enough time with you. I've returned still unsettled. We are not done yet. I'm having a difficult time separating me from you. Maybe it is not me from you but rather we are in this thing together. All things are a form of life. I wake up with William Faulkner's, As I Lay Dying seared on my corneas, which instantly brings me back to Jim Case and his comment about Faulkner and the term stream of consciousness. I take the book off my shelf, thumb it, and place it back. I come to my computer and search the book title's meaning and, voila! A piece is

INTRODUCTION I have wanted to write this entry for years; I just never got around to it. When I toyed with it I just felt that I wasn't qualified to write about therapy. Too I felt that had I anything to say I should remain silent because I imagined my path shouldn't be pushed upon or cause influence to others. But I have come to the realization that too many people have no clue what the therapeutic process should look like so I write from a place that shares my own experiences in an attempt to inform those in need. The very real problem with finding a good therapist is that we seek help from a vulnerable, sometimes desperate starting point. We are troubled, depressed, or in some sort of crisis that can leave us blind to details that are crucial to finding a good therapist. So how do you find a therapist when you are not yourself, when you feel as though you are falling apart at the seams, when you're desperate to talk to someone, -- you imagine anyone- And there is n