Confessions of a Liberal Puritan

Since Eunice and Miss Murchison from "Band of Buggered" strongly encouraged me to start a journal (there were no actual brass knuckles involved, but I'm a coward and easily swayed by vague threats and lavish praise), here goes.

This is my first attempt to process my grief over the ending of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" last month, using a facsimile of Sigmund Freud (minus the Victorian misogyny, I hope) to try and work through the writer's block I've had ever since.


Freud: So, tell me about your dreams.

Me: Uh, . . . no.

Freud: Resistance may not be futile (thank you for loaning me your 'Star Trek: First Contact' tape last week, by the way), but it is always significant. Why do you think you resist telling me about your dreams?

Me: Probably because I don't want to know. And anyways, I can't remember any dreams this week. Can we just talk about the reason I'm here?

Freud: Which is . . .?

Me: I'm feeling stuck, as I told you. I can't seem to find the energy or interest to work on my dissertation proposal, or clean house, or do anything except sit around and watch re-runs of favorite TV shows all day -- even though I've seen most of them many times before and even have them on tape already. It feels like I'm trying not to be conscious, awake, or in my own life any more than I absolutely have to be. Only the fear of completely wasting my day gets me up and on the walking trails by 6:30 AM, and when I get home I end up flipping channels between re-runs of "Buffy," "Lois & Clark," and "Babylon 5." I can stay there all day, through "Xena," "MacGyver," or whatever the Sci-Fi channel is showing, if fear of being shamed in some major way doesn't force me to do some work.

Freud: The word "fear" seems to play a large part in your story.

Me: Gee . . . ya think? Fear is the engine which drives my life! I thought we'd covered this already!

Freud: That's interesting: you say that fear is the engine which drives your life, and yet you come in here complaining that your life is stalled, stuck, not going anywhere. Why do you think this is?

Me: Am I really paying you for this? Okay, well . . . It might be that something, somewhere in my baroque construct of fear and shame -- the framework for my life -- is starting to break down in some way. Vague enough for you?

Freud: Actually, I think we're making progress. But our time is up for today.

Me: What, did you invent the cliff-hanger season finale or something? That's really annoying.

Freud: That's just the transference talking. See you next week.