I’ll have to interrupt in about half an hour; I have to go down and take dinner out of the oven. I’ve spent all day cooking for our neighbors. I’m half tempted to call it a waste of time until I realize that the only other thing I’d be doing is chasing Burt around. He’s gotten, is getting, more and more…or rather I should say less and less manageable by the day. I decided today that I can’t go grocery shopping with him anymore. The ambit of our “permitted” activities is steadily shrinking , until one day perhaps all we will have left to do together is sit at home and wait until he hits adolescence. The dinner fixing…I’m not sure if this is all really on point, but it’s swirling through my head right now. That’s one of the drawbacks of this format: you don’t have the time to sit and focus on what’s going on, or allow the exigent circumstances to fade in importance and instead to journey deeper into one’s own psyche. I just came up from the kitchen, I’m going back to the kitchen, and there you have it. But while I’m on the subject of kitchens, things between me and Persis have gotten better. I think I finally scared her into being nice. But anyway…I could go into what happened. Basically I got really mad at the way she was treating me and I declared that I was done trying to be a team, and made a lot of noises that were not …that were post-ultimatum, and rightly or wrongly I think that made her pay attention (FINALLY!). By “post-ultimatum” I mean that there was nothing she could do anymore. Anyway, where conflict is starting to arise today is that I’m doing this cooking largely for her. I mean, it’s our neighbor’s birthday and all, but it’s really she (Persis) who wants to put on this…well, not necessarily put on, but have them over for dinner and make our neighbor’s favorite soup: avgolemono. So I figure why don’t we make it a Greek theme, and so I get this idea in my head that I was going to make moussaka…which really would have been a disaster. Fortunately I settled on a similar recipe (pastitsio) that only…or that could be crammed into the time allotted…all for Persis. And then I intended to clean up the kitchen after I was done cooking, because there’s a lot of mess, and she’s usually the kitchen cleaner. So I wanted to do this for her, too. But as she and Burt are about to go out for a walk she says, “Make sure to do your Goldberg soon,” and I got mad because she was planning my day for me, but I really was surly because here I was trying to do things for her, and instead of acknowledging that, she ignored it and instead told me to do something else. That’s the sum-up. As I said, I don’t want to dwell on getting the tone of everything right…it’s just what’s in my mind.

So I called Dr. Reinhardt. I have an appointment with her on Wednesday. I’ll update you next weekend.

I’m torn about something. I really felt pumped after our session last week, when you encouraged me with respect to my writing. That night, coincidentally – I had some friends over and I was griping to them about my life, blah blah blah – my friend Roger suggested that I start a blog. Then I told him about these missives I’ve been writing, and I got some encouragement to post them in the blog, which is an idea that really excites me. The idea of having my innermost thoughts plastered on the internet for anyone who wants to to come look at is really exciting. It’s a fantasy that I’ve talked about: living a wide open life that people would take as an example. Of course, I have no control about how people respond to what I wrote, but I think on the whole I’m more typical than I’m afraid I am...I mean less fringe-y than I’m afraid I am, and that a lot of people out there would in theory get something out of what I write, even the dark and…the underside of me. But it brings up a couple of issues, one of which is what this blog would really mean to me, and I think that’s something I need to think about a little before I jump into it. The other issue is confidentiality. I would change the names of everyone, and I would very likely not tell the people closest to me that the blog was out there because – I’m thinking of my dad, here – there’s a lot of stuff I’m not so sure it would be good for him to read…and I’m not sure I want my mom poking around in my psyche, regurgitating bits and pieces of these pieces to me. But I think of Persis, and I’ve told her about this possibility, of the blog, and I am sensitive, even changing the names, to how she would feel having some of the things I’ve said about her on the internet, the name change notwithstanding, as I said. And then there’s what you would think, which unfortunately I can’t really find out until our next meeting, which is likely to be in November. I would also change your name, and I wouldn’t say anything that would cause anyone to think you sanctioned the blog. But then there’s the issue, should I at some point get into any legal trouble where for some reason people wanted to get into my shrink files, Daniel Ellsberg-like; and I wonder if my breaching the presumed confidentiality of our written sessions would open the door to everything I have ever told you. I don’t expect it all to come back to haunt me, but I think a measure of care is appropriate here. Anyway, all that said, I would really love to see what came back to me as a result of putting the stuff out there. I look back on some of it, and it makes me a little nervous, which is actually a good thing; it means I’m on the edge…my edge anyway.

It’s started to rain. So we’re hunkering down for a long insular gray winter. I’m looking forward to it. I hate it when it’s sunny.

See, but here’s the other thing… I’m now a little self-conscious because I’m aware that you have “blessed” my writing here. And I’m a little more conscious of how I’m doing it. Perhaps that’s not necessarily a bad thing as far as allowing my subconscious to come out (for example, the image of you blessing me…). But then if I’m blogging, the awareness of the publicness of what I’m writing necessarily alters the content, even if unconsciously. On the other hand…and I just thought of this. Blogging would be a way for me to continue this habit – writing to you – without having to send you the pieces. I could give you the blog address, and you would go look if you wanted to, you’d always be able to check up on me if you wanted to, but I would never know when you did. I’d fantasize about it, though, and maybe that’s something I bring up with Reinhardt. Doesn’t fall off the tongue like Goldberg.

Anyway, so this idea is fraught. But it’s exciting.

And now I feel like I’ve wasted my time here. Five minutes until I check on dinner, then I’ll continue.

I feel like I don’t exist. This is what I told Persis a few days ago, and it goes right to the center of my difficulties here. I feel like my professional identity is my identity, and that if I am not working, I am faceless. I feel like the work that I do is this meaningless, boring, chasing a kid around, and I’m never acknowledged for that. I asked Persis this week if she’d…she was on Burt duty at the time…if she’d prefer to be doing what she was doing right then or be back in her office working. She said, knowing no doubt what I was getting at, that she wouldn’t mind doing what she was doing if…what was it?…something simple…I’ve forgotten. Anyway, but I’m sure that was just a rhetorical evasion and that like me she would have much rather been in her office. And I move forward so slowly with my script that it’s hard to identify myself as a writer, really. My life here feels very colorless. I feel like the only times I light up are when people ask me about TV or movies, or when I’m able somehow to contribute to a conversation about law, which as you know genuinely excites me. Like, I watch America and the Courts on CSPAN every week, and I like listening to Bar review cassettes in may car, when I get ahold of them. I feel like I’m trying endlessly to prove to people that I am not invisible, that I do have an identity…but of course I am just perpetuating that illusion…that illusory intersection between identity and one’s job. How can I find identity in what I am doing?

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Well, so much for realism. It is now six hours later, a dinner party having intervened in my session. You didn’t mind waiting, did you? You may have noticed that Burt made it to my laptop before I could, and I thought it would be a nice touch to leave his regards.

Now all I can think about is the eleven year old across the street, her lithe little body, just blossoming, and how she asked to help with Burt’s bath and ran her hands like a gentle breeze over his tush and his penis. I envision her curious, venturing timidly out from her Catholic family shell. Burt doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Persis and I are definitely getting along better. It’s as if we have finally internalized all of the “Let’s do this” ideas we’ve had about improving our communication skills but that never really took. I hope it lasts; we’re both clearly trying.

I still wonder at the wisdom of…I was going to say continuing to invest so much energy in my relationship with her, but that’s ridiculous, because I know why that’s wise. Perhaps I should say that in Burt I have finally found a reason other than inertia to want our relationship to work out. I just hope…and this is one of those things that I offer up as a prayer to let’s call it God…that somewhere along the line I am in for some more good nooky. I suppose that’s what it comes down to. I’ve said it before. That feeling that I will never again be cherished or desired, nor will I cherish or desire. I’m too young to have that all go away, aren’t I? I mean, I understand that there are certain sacrifices one makes as one moves into adulthood and, should one be inclined to do so, committing oneself to a single longterm relationship; but does one really accommodate oneself to giving up entire classes of emotion? That seems a bit much, even to do for a child.

Burt is unbelievable. He’s a firecracker, adorable, I want to eat him up and all those clichés. I want to meld with him. I want to curl up with him forever. That’s the kind of love that I would be willing to forego sexual desire for. When I’m curled up with Burt, desire evaporates. I become the Buddha. Except not really because I actually desire to be with him, to stay with him, to fuse with him.

I no longer give a shit about the cats. This is significant because – I don’t know if I ever articulated this to you – but there was a time that I worried that I would not love my kids enough because I couldn’t imagine loving a nonexistent thing like a kid as much as I loved Scram, our cat. Truly. I said this with a touch of irony, perhaps knowing that having a child was a galaxy apart from theorizing one, but still not being able to grasp the specific feeling that might exceed what I felt for Scram, which really was and is quite strong. Except now I, like, forget to feed them, find it too much of a burden, am content that they roam the neighborhood and eat the neighbors’ cats’ food. I forget to give Scram the fluids that are saving his kidneys and extending his life, because sometimes it would mean getting up out of my chair and going downstairs and opening the front door and whistling for him, which seems like something above and beyond the call of duty, given what I expend over Burt. I secretly find myself wishing they would just die, so I would have fewer chores to do. Persis doesn’t really help with the cats at all; except for cleaning up the bulimic cat’s vomit. That’s a whole other story, but suffice it to say that I finally about a year ago issued an ultimatum that either Persis would have the responsibility for cleaning up the cat’s vomit (this isn’t Scram; this is Regina, the one we inherited from the previous owners of our Belmont Park house…another story), or I was going to put an ad on Craig’s list: “Beautiful jet black cat. Binges and vomits regularly. Otherwise a princess. Take her, she’s yours.” Anyway, Persis can afford to moon over the cats because she doesn’t lift a finger.

My time is running down. I just wanted to add a few other things about Burt that have happened recently. He has started giving wanton hugs. It fills me with joy to see him do it; makes me want to cry. Occasionally, like on the playground the other day, he just turned around and gave a big hug to the kid, a little older than he, he was playing with. Or the time in day care when he was sitting next to another toddler and just lay his head on his chest. He hugs our neighbors who play with him. When they were here for dinner, he would just occasionally walk up to one of them as they were seated at the table and hug their legs. He is precious. I take pride in that. I figure he’s had to have learned that from someone; not all kids do that to the same degree. I hope he goes through life giving wanton hugs. I should stop now. Happy October. Fall has fallen here with a cold, wet squish.