i attend a counselling session over the phone and talk to this really nice guy on the phone. he’s got an australian accent and he asks me about my writing as he tries to get inside my mind.
i tell him that i write everyday and he’s surprised.
he asks what i write about and i say that i write about myself and my life, i take photographs and scan images, i talk about music. he’s surprised at this, my counsellor.
he asks me to describe a blog post and i tell him about this one. he thinks for a moment and asks me if i am the bridge or the river.
i am the river, always and i say this immediately.
he agrees. he asks who my bridge is and i tell him.
i tell him about my young lover with his crooked eye.
i hang up the phone from the session with healing homework, and more cognitive tricks like witchcraft to calm my restless mind that churns like the river’s inky black water.
sometimes, i churn, just like that water, too.
i go walking after the session, my blundstones taking me through the winding streets of the downtown, past shops and stylish women who are dressed alike, like visions in cream and tan.
they all want to be jillian harris.
there’s a guy on bicycle yelling. there’s a homeless girl shooting up.
the italian deli smells delicious and i think about food and fucking as i walk past.
i walk to my favourite thrift store downtown. i browse a while, taking a breather, thinking thinking.
always thinking.
i find this pamphlet at the thrift store in a pile of paper ephemera.
it tells the story of st. dymphna, which is interesting.
i guess it makes sense if one is afflicted with something, there’s always a saint or a voto or milagro or a herb or candle one can turn to for relief.
i guess next time i’m feeling anxious, i’ll have to think about this virgin martyr and see if it helps.
hospital vespers 