Emotional Insecurity Alarm (Batteries Not Included)

Burglar alarm
Car alarm
Smoke alarm

False alarms?

So precious is our property.
This God-forsaken society;
Driven by insecurity.

But, it's the emotional,
Not the material,
Attachments that concern me.

An aside:
I confess
It's quite disarming
To discover
Time's alarming.

To be woken from my dreams
And things.
A plastic clock:
Vibrates and rings

Reminds me
That it's time for work.
Work like a Turk.
(A Capitalist quirk.)

Alarming, Darling.

Now

There's a strategy
Not yet patented.
Indeed, I have
Created it.

It delivers us
From psychic harm.
Permanently levelled,
Balanced and calm.

Whenever I am feeling blue
Tired and depressed.
When bed's my only sanctuary;
When I just can't get dressed,

I tend to have
A little bounce.
It cheers me up,
Helps shed an ounce

Or two,

Too.

Yes, there's nothing better:
A skip and a jump
To overcome
That melancholy hump.

But what society is lacking
(Beyond compulsory slacking)
Is a mechanism
To read the signs;
The furtive onslaught
Of those desperate times.

I offer that, when once made
It's as essential to the modern home,
As was the Teasmaid
For those who live alone.

It should need no batteries,
Gas or electricity.
Be informed by Mindfulness
(Buddhism combined with CBT):

The Emotional Insecurity Alarm.

Being Boring

'I'm trying to sort out my nomenclature; I'm determined to determine from what it is I suffer. I thought it was boredom, but it may be from torpor. I'm currently skimming the literature.

'I read Bertrand Russell in a fit of idleness; an excellent essay free from any kind of dullness. To appreciate it required that I lie in repose. (My preferred position when it comes to good prose.)

'I tackled Adam Phillips from the psychiatrist's chair, where the unconscious and subconscious were gradually laid bare. I learned a Ms Spacks links the novel to tedium; a pertinent discovery for one who loves the medium.

'Carol Mavor's Reading Boyishly is a damned good book. I flicked through the index and then took a look at the pages that referred to boredom and labor [sic]. The stuff, apparently, that made Proust and Ackerman tick.

'It was in a state of ennui that I yielded and gave in to the knowledge that my accidie was, in fact, a cardinal sin. I renounced the modern, espoused Medieval scholarship. Believe me, it's hard to beat self-flaggelation with a horse-whip.

'But, my lassitude's flagging; I'm beginning to get lazy. My aversion to working is driving me crazy. My apathy is starting to make me feel weary. If I don't engage soon, life might begin to get dreary.'

From No Id To Just Say No

The Id is driven by the pleasure principle, which strives for immediate gratification of all desires.

If these wants are not satisfied, a state of tension and/or anxiety results. 

A baby's impulse to cry when its needs are not immediately met ensures -  in the right (mother's) hands - survival. 

In time, the young child develops the Ego (the reality principle that enables the individual to attempt to obtain what it needs by means which are deemed socially acceptable); and, later, the Superego (a sort of moral map, gauge or guide).

In adulthood, the Superego can become highly-developed, usually as a consequence of childhood needs being ignored, or of some terrible trauma. The adult no longer screams and wails (as a baby would do); instead, she may become pathetically compliant or mute.  Simultaneously, she loses touch with the Id, except through nightmarish dreams where death and destruction reign.

Despite the chronic condition (both causes and symptoms) of an over-developed Superego, the disease is neither progressive nor terminal. Indeed, an external trigger (such as a sympathetic, long-term companionship or collaboration) can jolt the Ego back into action and within months, the individual will find an increased ability to articulate, once again, her desires and wants.

The subsequent articulation of what is - to all extents and purposes - self-presevation manifests itself in numerous ways, according to various controlled experiments and psycho-analytic case-studies.

The Ego may speak eloquently and subtly or more bluntly and simply; expressing itself by a vehement 'no' to all unreasonable and selfish demands. This act of defiance further enhances the Ego's growth: a pleasure in itself.

In The Psychiatrist's Chair

'So . . . ,' she said. It was her opening gambit. But the shrink remained silent, just continued to sit.
'Well then . . . ,' she proffered, trying again. Still no response, so she started counting to ten. She shifted on her seat and looked at the clock. She counted the seconds: tick-tock, tick-tock. She had yet to swear on a Bible, but she felt she was in the dock. Evidently, it was cards on the table if she were going to take stock; of the feelings she avoided because they filled her heart with dread. All the stuff she had buried in the hope it would lie dead.
'Ok,' she conceded. 'Guess it's up to me to proceed.' (Privately, now, she hoped the shrink would take pity, would take the lead.) But the shrink just sat, a blank expression of his face.  Until, suddenly he spoke:
'This is your time, your space. But, your time, by the way, is ticking away.'
And, that was the truth; they didn't have all day. Although she was expected to come back next week, there was no point just sitting here; she was obliged to speak. But while the thoughts in her head went round and round and round, she seemed - inconceivable for her - quite incapable of uttering a sound.

Suture

'So,' she said with a sway, as she surfed the Zak-line. 'I was right, can't you see, when it came to eBay? Just auction your stuff, and all will be fine. Abandon materialism; just live for the day.'

'But, don't you regret that you're selling your past?' He was drinking again; he'd forsaken his fast. He'd forsaken the regime that ensured he stayed stable. He was downing the vino and feeling less than able; to maintain his equilibrium in meetings and crits. If he were honest, he'd admit he was losing his grip.

'Losing my past, well there's certainly something to ponder. But my family history's so dysfunctional that I'm tempted to wonder. To wonder if I need to dwell on what's done. In terms of our surname, I am now the only one.  My father is gone, and so is my brother. My mother remarried; swapped our last name for another. So I'm thinking of choosing a name of my own. A name that I like; one that has a nice tone. A name that reflects what's essential to me. You can do it by deed-pole, for a nominal fee.'

'Yes, you can change it by deed-pole, I've seen the brochure.  But, listen, if you don't have a past, can you hope for a future?'

'Yes, you can if you take on the notion of suture. A psychoanalytical term, but it seems to make sense, whether you're inhabiting the past, present or future tense. Suture's about failing to notice the 'seams' that stitch together one's belief in certain realities and dreams. I guess you could call it a suspension of disbelief. Now, if you steal someone's name, are you considered a thief?'

He was no longer listening; was uncorking some wine. As for her, she had just stepped off the Jibline. And, quick as a flash, she jumped onto the Chill. As with suture, maintaining one's balance on a slack-line was a matter of will. For a second she wobbled, and looked ready to fall, but she lifted her arms and suddenly stood tall. The tension was perfect; the line was quite still. Like eBay, this slacking was proving a thrill.