On the Surface of the Moon

On the Surface of the Moon

My name is Jay Stober, and I am 65 years old. I live in a town north of Fargo. Yes, we have a lot of winter here.

By trade I am a self therapist. That is, I clock in every morning and, for about eight hours a day, I work at bringing myself into mental well being. I have been doing this now for almost six years. The results are gratifying.

I'm good at my job. To be a good self therapist you may or may not need to be intelligent and knowledgeable, but you will definitely need humility. It has to be the right kind of humility -- humility without contrition. Contrition messes up humility something terrible. Sucks the therapy right out of it. Strive for humility. Forget contrition.

Hey, Jay, this is Anut Kase in Nebraska. Not to compete with North Dakota or anything, but winters aren’t so pleasant in Nebraska either. Great blog may I say! “Humility without contrition” is fantastic.

But can anyone become a self therapist? What's your take on drugs? Are there really neuro-chemical imbalances? How do you handle information glut? Psycho babble. There are so many people out there saying so many things.

Personally, I am at the end of my rope. No time for details, but that’s why I’m writing. What should I do?

The nice thing about being a self therapist is that I don’t have to have answers for other people’s problems. However, I guess I can share experiences. Once, when I was at the end of my rope, I just let it go.

Yeah? Cool! What happened?

This was at the end of the sixties. I went into free fall actually. I was twenty-six at the time. I had been clinging to the end of that rope for more than twenty years. I spun out into a psychotic episode that lasted about five months.

Wow! So? You’re still here. Do you recommend that route? What finally happened?

Well, as the poet writes:

In Beulah some say
the daughters of Albion
weave spaces for men to fall in

Hey, that's pretty! It's Blake isn't it? Sounds like Blake.

It’s Blake. My point is, if you are going to leap into the Void, you might first want to make sure the daughters of Albion are in place to catch you.

I take it you had failed to take that precaution?

The only daughter of Albion I knew back then had memorized all the witch’s speeches from Macbeth. "Double double, toil and trouble."

Oh-oh! Bummer. I think maybe she’s now moved to Nebraska.

It’s true. She’s currently in Lincoln and practicing psychotherapy, if you can imagine. Bald-faced therapy of others too--not the kind I practice. I could give you her address.

Thanks, no.

Anyway, as for what happened, as I say, I went free falling. Finally I landed on the surface of the moon.

Since the surface of the moon and parts of the Dakotas are not all that different, it took me a minute to figure out what had happened. But then I heard a guy from Houston who was radioing me.

"I got good news and bad news,” he said, his voice crackling the way radio voices did in those pre-digital days. “The good news is that you are the seventh man ever to step onto the surface of the moon.”

“What’s your bad news?” I asked.

“The bad news is that they just cut our budget, effective immediately. New administration. The sixties are finished."

I pondered this information.

"Does that mean you can’t tow me home?" I asked.

"It means I am no longer paid to answer your questions," crackled the guy from Houston. "Over and out."

That must have been a bad moment for you, Jay, stranded up there on the moon and no line home. Thanks for sharing.

Hey, wait. There are more prosaic details. Hopitalization, shock therapy, consulting with people... Hello?

Writing in the Cloud

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Friday, February 5, 2010
12:11 PM


Writing in the Cloud

A few days ago I went online to find the source of the expression "writing in the cloud." In the process, I came upon an engaging web page produced by a young woman named Beata Martins.

Beata appears to be a teacher of English as a Second Language. Hey, I used to be a teacher of ESL!

Beata recently cut back her hours of gainful employment so that she can spend more time “writing in the cloud,” that is, develop her writing by posting to her blog and other virtual places short of actually publishing in the traditional manner. (She’s not a hundred percent sure of her talent.)

Wasn't that at least one rationale for my cutting back my hours years ago?

While sitting at the front of her classroom supervising university entrance examinations, Beata sometimes does creative writing exercises. So did I. Her results (“500 Wrong Words”) may be happier than mine...but let me not pick up on every opportunity to sell myself short!

I appreciated a dream Beata shared. She had it just after deciding to teach less, write more.

In this dream, her husband wakes her earlier than usual to share a discovery. He puts his finger to his lips as he moves to the wall and draws aside drapery. Lo, there is a window neither of them previously knew existed. Nothing spooky. The new window opens onto the same garden the two already know and love.

That was enough to move me to write Beata. I told her she was lucky in her husband, and, by the by, gave her the story of my life and hard times.

She replied too.

This experience got me back to working in “the cloud.” I started posting to my blog again after a seven month absence.

It also got me thinking about dreams some more.

As it happened, Eugene Gendlin's Let Your Body Interpret Your Dreams came from the library again a day later. I had read it a couple of years ago. This time around, I find I am ready to identify with Gendlin’s characters as parts of myself, piggybacking on their therapy shamelessly. I agonize with them as they move forward—or try to.

So now I’m driving the freeways of Los Angeles with a young high speed courier named James. James came out to California a year ago in the hopes of becoming a star, but so far he hasn’t been able to line up as much as a single audition. Being a high speed courier isn’t just poorly paid, it’s damned stressful. When, if ever, will it be time for James to give up and go back to Kansas?

(The original dream is discussed the book by Gendlin as “Mark’s Dream,” pages 62-68.)

An Encouraging Voice

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Thursday, February 4, 2010
12:37 PM

So I’m in my skivvies doing housework. I can get away with that because my daughter, Tara, isn't around. She started back at school today. The second term at her high school has just begun. I’m not likely to be interrupted for a few hours.

I’m down on my hands and knees on the floor vacuuming. I told you before that’s the only way it works for me. Otherwise the carpet doesn't know I mean business! While I’m making like a living shuttle brush—one two three four, one two three four--I’m thinking of what I’m going to write in my blog. It will be my first entry in seven months.

It suddenly occurs to me that my blog is the record of a guy coping with failure. I hadn’t thought of it quite that way before. I wanted to think that it was just the blog of a guy who hadn’t quite got engaged with his life yet but was making progress day by day.

Not just progress, but heroic progress. Wasn’t initiating self therapy back in the summer of 2004 a big step forward? Yes, it certainly was a big step forward.

Yet there it is. Failure. I’ve got it. I’m living it. It is in my bones. And I don’t like it. It makes it impossible for me to do my church work.

I don’t understand that. I don’t understand why I can’t just do that work, failure or not. That yoke is light, eh, as they say in the church business. I'm supposed to type up the minutes of a board meeting. It is half done. I could finish it in less than an hour if I could get around to it.

So why can't I?

Could it be my fucking unconscious refusing to do what I’m supposed to be doing on principle, just as, sixty something years ago, I refused to ride the horses on the carousel? That was at Winnipeg Beach back when I was four, or maybe five or six, or seven even. It’s hard to date. Anyway, I wanted to ride the horses, but I wouldn’t. I refused. Nobody could make me. I couldn’t make myself either.

Now I figure that my unconscious back then was sending a message to Mother, some kind of hellish message to her. Take that Mommy, you lousy slut. You’ve plucked my power from me and driven me back to something weaker than infancy. So take that, and that, and that. I’ll hold my breath until I die, or until history turns round. That’s your job, Mommy; turn history around for me. History as it presented itself to little Jay Stober in 1950 anyway.

But, hey, that reading of my situation is pretty strong as they say in the lit crit game these days. There's a lot of intellectual oomph behind that formulation. A guy who can see things that clearly is hardly my idea of a failure, Jay. (“Huh? Where’s that voice coming from? Who’s talking now?") Maybe you shouldn’t be wasting your time on church work. Oh, I know you need the association with people you get through that work. That part of you is also strong, the part which recognizes your need for people and does something about it...