Posts in: CO200
As we rapidly enter into fourth week, brains full of newly learned information and minds looking forward to break, I would like to take a moment to reflect upon what I believe to be the largest discovery our class has realized thus far. Although I mentioned in my last blog it seemed an unspoken understanding of relation to the material was present among the class, it was this past week when these unspoken sentiments became shared. Bringing these previously unsaid connections to the table created a sort of ‘relatablility’ to the text we simply have not yet encountered within our discussions. All of the sudden these highfalutin, distant ideas became graspable. Every single one of us could pin down exactly what the theorists meant, which was evidenced by our ability to provide countless personal anecdotes.
On Monday, we came into class having read Winnicott’s theory on the transitional object. However, it was not by lecture that we all came to solidify this theory in our minds –it was through the heartfelt descriptions of each and every one of our classmates’ own transitional objects. The transitional object is comprised of many elements, however, in short it is an object the child possesses that paves a smoother path from one stage of their development into another. More specifically, it transitions them from a deeply subjective point of view, into a more objective one. That Monday we heard the tales of blankies, and teddies, and doggies galore. We even had the privilege of meeting some of these objects in person. Countless times Marcia asked the question, “Would anyone else like to share”? And, as she looked around there was always another eager hand in the air waiting to tell of their own beloved object that had aided them through their childhood. Marcia asked this question until, I believe, every last one of us in the class had shared their personal story of their transitional object with the rest of us.
Through the sharing of these intimate experiences, so close to home, we collectively began to realize the theories we are reading about do not simply pertain to ill people seeking out intensive therapy. Rather, these theories illuminate aspects of our selves that have, for years, remained unnamed, or perhaps just unperceived. After learning these ideas, however, we can now begin to identify them within our own selves. What happened this past week began the process of piecing together who we are on a more profound level by looking at our selves through a truly psychoanalytic lens. While this may seem like a terrifying process, the class never once seemed to approach a space of fright –we never backed away from what the theorists were beginning to reveal within ourselves. As this class is coming to an abrupt end, we are finally beginning to see how we, as individuals, might be changed for the better by learning this information.
I am writing to you from the end of the second week of ‘Discovering the Unconscious’. I think I may be able to anticipate your first question – have we delved deep into that mysterious thing locked within our selves and emerged alive gripping the slippery key which unlocks the rusty doors into the untapped regions of our rawest beings? Absolutely not. Even if that feat is possible, it would take one’s lifetime, not a matter of weeks, to pioneer into those recesses of our minds. We are, however, making strides in understanding how this impossible presence within us reveals itself in our conscious lives. Or rather, proves its existence through our inexplicable feelings, thoughts, and behaviors. Some neuroscientists may take issue with the idea of an unconscious, as it cannot be physically proven. There is no space in our brains we can point to and say, “There it is”! Perhaps, it is this elusive quality that magnetized so many students towards this class.
Regardless of the reasons that brought us all together, we are now aboard this ship and land is a far cry away. For the past two weeks we have been floating upon the words of W.R. Bion, Thomas Ogden, Hanna Segal, Melanie Klein, and of course Sigmund Freud. We have strained our brains over extraordinarily technical theories, clutched our knees against our chests while watching the multiple personalities of Sybil emerge, and relaxed into the dreamspace of our classmates as they recounted the details of their fantastic worlds while we furiously scribbled down their words in hopes of illuminating some kind of truth for them. However, the discussions, the readings, the films – they are not what have been of utmost significance for me.
This past week our class read an article by Thomas Ogden which discusses the presence of an “analytic third”in the room between an analyst and the patient. The “analytic third” is the idea that an interplay between the two individuals’ subjectivities begins to occur during the therapy session. They, the subjectivities, occupy the space between the patient and the analyst creating an intersubjectivity within the room. By tapping into this intersubjectivity, the analyst, and even the patient, is able to see and understand things that were previously inaccessible. While this may sound like it is some sort of sorcery that should stay within the realms of Hogwarts, Ogden assures us it is simply tuning one’s self into, “the most mundane, everyday aspects of the background workings of the mind…” (4).
I brought up Ogden, and the “analytic third,” because I believe it sheds light on what has been of utmost significance in this class. Every morning, as I sit down within the circle of chairs and look around at my classmates I feel as if an understanding is occurring. Each of us, having read the intensive material the night before, cannot seem to help but connect to it on a personal level. I know, for me, much of the material from this week has been quite close to home. Carrying with us these personal connections into the discussion, even if they remain unshared, create a space in which valuable class time is constantly occurring. There are a multitude of unspoken, yet felt, “Amens!” Fervent nodding is a common sight. Attentive eyes watch the speaker as they delineate a specific theory from Freud. It is a time of engagement supported by the understanding that we all have maybe ‘been there’. While it has already been a long two weeks aboard this psychoanalytic ship, I feel that none of us believe it is quite yet time to dock.
Ogden, T.H. (1994). The Analytic Third: Working with Intersubjective Clinical Facts. Int. J. Psycho-Anal., 75:3-19
The first few days of this class were absolutely nothing like what I expected. I signed up because I’d been flirting with the idea of majoring in classics, and loving classical mythology is the reason I started taking Latin in the first place, so a class structured around the study of homeric epics sounded right up my alley. I’ll also admit to a healthy curiosity about what taking a class with Owen Cramer would be like.
So far, this is what I’ve come up with:
Owen has forgotten more about the ancient world than I will probably ever learn in my lifetime. That isn’t me being modest- the man just knows about a billion more things than most people I’ve met. And that should be intimidating. (Okay, in all honesty, it IS a little intimidating- was he just born knowing things? How does one obtain encyclopedic knowledge? I WANT THE SECRET.) But it’s also incredible. He probably doesn’t actually know everything, but it often seems that way because he knows pertinent information about pretty much anything you ask him, and he’s honestly interested in exploring whatever topic you bring up. Class is tangential, but it all feeds back to the original topic. Trying to figure out how to organize my notes was interesting, but i’ve never been much of a note-taker anyway. I just wish I knew more things- today he asked if there were any botanists in the class who could talk to us about something that related to our discussion.
Also, he’s a Downton Abbey fan too, and references it in every class at least once, which makes me rather giddy with joy.
At the moment we are reading the Iliad, which has never been my favorite. It’s pretty graphic, and pretty much everyone you like is dead by the end. I always preferred the Odyssey- give me a roguish liar who uses all his wiles and cunning to get back to his wife over war and death and slavery any day. (If you couldn’t tell, I’m sort of a happy ending kind of person.)
There is incredible beauty in the Iliad (although Homer’s simile’s crack me up- their descriptions are always about four times longer than whatever situation they are supposed to clarify) but it keeps coming back to the inevitability of fate, even when you have gods on your side. Stories about war aren’t supposed to be uplifting, i guess, but it’s difficult for me to tolerate. Homer doesn’t pull any punches- when people die here, it’s not Tarantino-style- he details where they are pierced by the spear or how the helmet sounds when it rolls under a passing chariot after it’s wearer is killed.
I don’t know what it is exactly- something about these descriptions feels so real to me. So often i feel like the books I read or the shows I watch are manipulating me- either killing off the most strategically acceptable character (so that I won’t give up on the story altogether) or setting someone up as the one who absolutely won’t die, and then killing them for shock value. I read a lot of science fiction and watch a lot of Netflix, so I often feel pretty desensitized. I’ve watched Saving Private Ryan, and I’ve read All Quiet On The Western Front, yes, I cried, but I got through them. But this is the third time I’ve been assigned to read the Iliad and I just DON’T WANT TO. I don’t know if it’s the relentless barrage of men killing each other in the most painful ways imaginable for no real reason (Pride? Greed? Lust? No one is justified in this war! It’s infuriating! No one is trying to save anyone, they’re just killing each other and killing each other. For NINE YEARS.) but I find the story unendurably frustrating and upsetting. Good job, Homer, I guess, you made me care in the same hopeless way as everybody actually fighting in the war. (Perhaps my literary optimism is the result of too much Harry Potter? What do you mean the hero dies in the end? Isn’t he coming back??)
The thing is, I know at the end Aeneas will lead the battered Trojans remaining on a journey that eventually leads to the founding of Rome, so maybe I’m just looking at this in entirely the wrong way. There isn’t just one hero here: there is a succession of heroes, and when one dies, the others weep for him, seeking revenge if they’re into that kind of thing, and then they keep going, trying to fill his shoes as best they can. It’s not a snapshot story, but rather an embellished history lesson.
Okay, rant over. Blog Post #1 COMPLETE.