#movement ii

[madwickedawesome]

dont call me a nerd for this but today i had to run a mile for pe and beethoven came on the playlist i was listening to and i got so pissed off

[sairceketli]

Fırtına ve bulutlarla uyum içindeki duygu ve özlemlerim de, kendilerini yaman ve coşkulu bir akışa kaptırarak başlarını almış gidiyor, uzaklardaki karla örtülü sivri tepeleri kucaklayıp, gölün açık yeşil kayalarında kaçamak dinleniyordu. Gezilerin baştan çıkarıcı duyguları, bulutların gölgeleri gibi değişken ve renkli, ruhumun üzerinden kayıp gidiyor, elden kaçırılan fırsatların içimde doğurduğu hüzün, yaşamın kısalığı ve dünyanın zenginliği, bir yerde yurt tutamayış ve kendime bir yurt arayış mekân ve zamandan tümüyle bir kopuşun gönle dolan duygusuyla yer değiştiriyordu. Dalgalar yavaş yavaş silinip gitti, ezgi çağırmayı ve köpürmeyi bıraktı; bir sessizlikten içeri yuvarlanan yüreğim, çok yücelerde devinimsiz bir kuş gibi dinlenmeye çekildi.

Hermann Hesse - Gençlik Güzel Şey (Güz Mevsiminde Yaya Bir Gezi)

[greemuel]

Vito Acconci, Notes On Movement II (Body As Place) 1972.  |  @greemuel

[pa-ad]

[deathofthefatherofpsychoanalysis]

Papa was never a conventional father. I don't suppose I know what that really means. Perhaps there isn't any real meaning to a conventional person besides the idea that each person imagines them to be. Still, with Papa, he was more of a teacher and a mentor to me than a father who loved me. He didn't like doing anything impractical with no return. And yet, I still loved him. Being the youngest of six, it was always difficult to get his attention. He had dreams for us, aspirations that were never fulfilled. So I fulfilled them. And it became fun. At first, we would just talk, and then, once I started to get older and dive deeper into psychoanalysis with him, I developed a sort of connection with him. A love for him and for his passion for his work, rather than the sullen, dejected feeling that I used to get when he wouldn't talk to me as a human being, as his daughter. And now, seeing him need me for once, even if he refuses to admit it, is a sort of satisfying feeling. I feel as though I can finally do something for him and that I am a necessary part of his life, and yet it is strange. Taking care of him has allowed me to see him as not only my father, but now as a person as well. It is frustrating to deal with him sometimes, with his whims and his unwillingness to admit the need for help, but it has allowed me to see him more clearly, and even perhaps to understand him, if only a little bit.

[deathofthefatherofpsychoanalysis]

Being My Father's Daughter

If I wasn't an analyst, I don't know what I would be. It seems to me that my whole life has revolved around my father. I have always wanted to please him - to show him that I was good enough. And it has become who I am. I am Papa's daughter. Even now, though I am respected in my own right, I still feel so very much under his shadow and weight. It is rather difficult for me to admit what I feel to myself, for I can analyze my own mind. And it is frightening both to realize the kind of person that I am, and to watch myself becoming just another object to analyze. Sometimes, I am afraid of losing myself in the work. And then there's Papa. When he looks at me, I can see the thoughts in his mind. I can see him watching me watching him watch me. Sometimes, it feels like it is a game between the two of us. One that is so ingrained in us that other people cannot understand. Most days, I feel like I am winning the game. I used to lose all of the time, but now, with Papa's health... but he won't admit it, and takes to thinking. It seems to me that he will think his way to death. That one day it'll all become too much for his mind to handle. And yet, if he does leave me like that, I don't know what I'll do. I am my father's daughter, but if my father is gone, where does that leave me? He has always seemed so smart, so strong, knowing everything. For a long time, all I wanted was for him to love me. After all, isn't that what some children do? They believe that there is something wrong with them, and that they are bad, to explain why their parents do not show them affection. It is much easier than believing that their parents do not love them. I have tried to get Papa to read my paper, to tell me if it's right or wrong, to praise me, or help me. I feel that if I can only get his approval, then my work will have some meaning, and I will know that I am doing something correctly. I think that at some point, I have forgotten how to be independent from him. And the question that I now have to answer is whether I am okay with that, and whether I will be able to move on.

[deathofthefatherofpsychoanalysis]

What I have always wanted for myself is much more primitive. It is probably nothing more than the affection of the people with whom I am in contact, and their good opinion of me.

[deathofthefatherofpsychoanalysis]

Being here with Papa is hard. Sometimes I wonder why I do this to myself. Even knowing what I am doing,  repressing and denying everything that has happened is  I am always so afraid that he is just going to slip away without me even noticing it. That one day, I'll say something to him, and he just won't respond. But he has to. He barely allows me to help him. Looking at him, in pain, and still not showing it to everybody around him. He knows that he's doing it, and I can't help but to try to pretend along with him. But he is a better pretender than I am.