I was several thousand dollars into $125-an-hour, L.D.S.-centric marriage counseling before I realized that there was not a great deal of headway being made there. So this blog is less about fashionable, Dr. Phil-style exhibitionism than it is about therapy: My therapy, namely, since the only person with whom I can openly share these thoughts is deceased--which isn't to say that those occasional chats don't serve a purpose. But I have no confidante.
Flaubert said...or wrote, “The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” While I make no claims of artistry, here I can sort through influences, inclinations and effects, unencumbered by fear of impatience, boilerplate diagnosis and seminary prescriptions. There's a cathartic benefit, and the semi-public forum requires that the thoughts be articulated in semi-coherent form, albeit rife with contradiction, non sequiturs & pretzel logic. Bear with me there.
In short, this is by me, for me. I'm not promoting Killer Kalves (meaning, this blog, not the lethal limbs central to its meanderings) but if someone stumbles across it and can relate to something, somewhere in its wacky recesses, all the best. And while a predominantly unrepentant tone may puzzle, I'll try to keep things mostly PG13--this is not a guarantee--so as not to alienate via outright assault on the more delicate sensibilities.
No comments:
Post a Comment