<< Incoming ... >>

Though larval, or perhaps pupal, the revolutionary insight lies in the process, or adventure. The oscillation between analyst and analysand. Complex, messy, and most importantly connected. Networked even? The network metaphor is nice, but not nearly as nice as threads of string, which tracing, involves returns and repeated path finding.

So, for those who might locate "social construction" might otherwise locate and narrate the act/activity/process of knowledge. While they are constructed, they are constructed in a dialogue between observer and observed. The sum is greater than the parts, for a dialogue always produces something else, something which exceeds/goes beyond. As an analyst, one ought (that's a normative ought, and I mean it.) not read the dialogue poorly. On the other hand, even if one enjoys reading poorly, it only reflects poorly on their own subconscious desires.

Because, like Felman notes, "we can by no means take it for granted that Lacan's 'exemplary lesson of reading' has in any way been learned, let alone assimilated," (20) and many of us are still reading poorly. So perhaps more of us should be partaking in lessons rather than delivering sermons from upon high. (Un)Dialogues that end with, "try again."

It's what drives you.

I was sitting here thinking about analysts and analysands. I was thinking about patients and patience. I was also thinking about Tony Soprano. I was thinking about (un)dialogues, and patients without patience storming out of the room. I was thinking about ethics, and sex between analysts and analysands. I was thinking about the difference between interest and care, and attraction.

I was also thinking about dreams, and Mike's risk of putting one down. Dreams are kind of ethereal, much like the ghosts/spectres we encounter in them. The solidity of marking it in paper or text, the act of bringing ghosts into the world is a bit, like, personal psychoanalysis.

  • I was in the attic of an old house, looking for someone. My partner I think, because I think I was a cop, something I've never really wanted or tried to be. My partner was across the room staring out the window. From the other side of the room, a young girl entered the room. She looks a bit like Alice from wonderland...
  • ...though not quite so Disney. She looks at my partner, who is staring intently out the window, and slowly lifts her hand, palm up to her lips, and blows. A soft white light, or puff ball seems to float out of her palm, towards my partner. As it touches him/her (I cannot remember really) they fall the floor, at which time I rush over. They're already dead, though a small smile, or look of relief is on their face. I look back to the girl, with anger coursing through my body. She looks at me, knowing that I'm sad, and upset. She points out the window, which I un-reluctantly look out, for it means that I no longer have to look at the girls face. What I see before me is a city, one old and decaying, the other magnificent and beautiful. A single bridge, a collapsing bridge, connects the cities. I look back to the young girl. What does it mean? She smiles weakly, and whispers to me, "I am the apocalypse."
  • Now, I'm on the street, a street I've never been on before. The buildings are blackened and crumbling. Yes, this was the dark part of the city. The husk of a church to my right, and a single street-lamp lights the street. The light seems out of place, oddly beautiful, like I've never seen before.

"The unconscious, in other words, is not simply that which must be read but also, that which reads. The unconscious is a reader. What this implies most radically is that whoever reads, interprets out of his unconscious, is an analysand, even when the interpreting is done from the position of the analyst." (21-22)

"Krutch, in other words, reduces not just Poe but analysis itself into an ideologically biased and psychologically opinionated caricature, missing totally (as is most often the case with 'Freudian' critics) the radicality of Freud's psychoanalytic insights: their self-critical potential, their power to return upon themselves and to unseat the critic from any guaranteed, authoritative stance of truth." (35)

"For Lacan, what is repeated in the text is not the content of a fantasy but the symbolic displacement of a signifier through the insistence of a signifying chain; repetition is not of sameness but of difference, not of independent terms or of analogous themes but of a structure of differential interrelationships, in which what returns is always other. Thus, the triangular structure repeats itself only through the difference of the characters cho successively come to occupy the three positions; its structural significance is perceived only through this difference. Likewise, the significance of the letter is situated in its displacement, that is, in its repetitive movements toward a different place." (44)

The dialogue is analytical in that it is not equal to the sum of its parts; the knowledge for which the analytic dialogue is a vehicle is not reducible to the sum total of the knowledge of its two subjects. In Lacan's terminology, it is not a dialogue between two egos, it is not reducible to a dual relationship between two terms, but is constituted by a third term that is the meeting point in language between Lacan's and Freud's unconscious: a linguistic, signifying meeting place that is the locus of Lacan's insight but that Lacan does not master. Lacan's originality is thus the originality of a return in that it is irreducibly dialogic." (56)

"And there is only one method of knowing that one is there, namely, to map the network. And how is a network mapped? It is through the fact that one returns, one comes back, one keeps coming across the same path, it always overlaps and cross-checks itself in the same way;" (62)