Getting a big boost out of reissuing of my 1997 volume in paperback that respectfully disagrees with Professor Freud over the central position of Sex and Aggression in human emotional disturbances
The back of the book has a picture of M and I taken by our youngest. The picture of the hunk on the front lower-left -- contrary to rumor (that I began) -- is not me. The idea for such an image of Adam confronted by a multiplicity of gods or influences was first shared with me by a student (Matt Dalberto) in a Mathematics and Art class that I taught at Tyler School of Art some many years ago. It captures, for me, the situation that humankind inherited when it evolved into a self-aware being ... a being that could reflect on multiplicity ... a being that no longer would simply follow its singular instinct in the pursuit of some goal but had a complexity of desires that wove themselves in almost-infinite-variety into notably distinct tapestries. As I once noted in a footnote somewhere in my scribbles: I've never know a cur who needed either candle-light, soft-music or the assistance of Secrets from Victoria to, as they say, get it on. No. For GuntherDog, it's nothing more than his nose that is necessary for him to be sexually inspired to initiate the choreography of sexual desire.
Which gets me to a picture from this morning walking down the stairs. It was a morning like others. I stirred in bed and immediately heard Gunther groaning like an old man from his nearby oversized chair. M, still recovering from the barbaric replacement of her knee-joint with an aftermarket knee likely produced by a shop left over from the days of the booming US auto industry ... there was M ... My stirring ... GuntherDog's kvetching ... and M's quietly expressed knee discomfort. There are rituals, too. Unless it's an emergency, I get to pee first and then Gunther kvetches off his chair, shakes off sleep and leaves our bedroom for the upstairs hall. He walks over to what once were the kids' bedrooms, smells no one and walks to the top of the stairs and sits. As his Sancho Panza, I sit next to him for all of thirty seconds and scratch his head ... he makes loving little noises and when he's prepared to do so stretches and does the four-legged dog-walk down the stairs. I follow and walk towards the back door with him. He walks out without showing the least bit of urgency ... Gunther has his pride and I swear that I can almost hear his words:
"Hey, Old Man. I coulda held my pee for a long time.
Not like you, y'Old Fart."
The Last Quarter has much in it ... many opportunities ... much camaraderie ... and, yet, in some profound way, it's "Just Us Chickens" ... M, GDog and Me ... each in our own way trying to make sense, even as we attempt to maintain relevance in the lives of the kids and grandkids who'll visit with us, tonight, and with those others who choose to hang out with us in Q IV.
Did I maybe hear GDog just quietly query:
GD: Hey, Old Man. Why am I not on the back cover of yer Scribbles?
HC: Sorry, Guy. Guess I forgot where I hid the Ginkgo Paloba (& how to spell it)
