Eleven minutes passed without my eyes leaving the words. The number eleven came to me first. I could’ve imagined any number of minutes that the letter and I communicated with each other. I have no idea for how many minutes or seconds I was able to read this letter written one hundred and seven years ago without averting my eyes from the text. Perhaps the colleague of Sigmund Freud who wrote it would’ve been pleased to know that more than a century later someone would refer to these paragraphs of his personal correspondence as a text. I imagine that I’ve been studying it as a source of a writer’s subjective reality on the page. I probably could’ve chosen any one of the hundreds of books on the shelves in this room and found the same kind of material. So why have I spent x number of minutes with sentences that I imagine Ernest Jones wrote late one night before going to bed? He was around thirty years old and would live for another forty-eight years or so. A thought comes to me: when he died, in 1958, psychoanalysis was alive and well. When he wrote this letter to Freud, in 1910, he was just starting to work as a psychoanalyst, or so I imagine. He hadn’t yet experienced psychoanalysis on the couch himself, which he would a few years later. This has been a new kind of reading and writing experience for me. Hopefully the letter will let me know when it’s done with me.
My imagination wouldn’t leave the words on the page. I read one sentence, two sentences, and I was far away, in my mind, both times. Reading each sentence became an imaginative experience. As I read the first sentence, I found myself on a small island in a Norwegian fjord. As I read the second one, I imagined myself on another island, in the San Juan Islands, grasping a tree during a storm. The sentences themselves were written by Carl Jung over a hundred years ago, in which he said that fantasies were important, and that historically they’ve been an integral part of how the human mind has worked. I enjoyed experiencing that the words left the page. I became a creative reader. I was studying Jung’s words, and my imagination seemed to study me, as if it were creating mysteries about me in my mind. It’s a collaborative effort, mind and imagination together, an inner voice said. Aren’t they the same thing, I imagined myself asking this inner voice. You’re learning, it responded.
I observe myself watching him read a page of text. I wish I knew what he was reading. It doesn’t matter since I can read his mind. Then I realize where he is, which helps to explain the mental turbulence that seems to take over his thoughts as he reads particular sentences. The word fragmentation comes to mind. Whatever the book is, it’s difficult reading, and I know from personal experience that reading on the bus can cause confusion and anxiety. What city, which country, is he in? Wherever he is, I imagine that he’s seeking answers to unanswerable questions in a text that welcomes limitless interpretations. The bus keeps moving. Mental moments pass, in both of our minds, as the bus nears its next stop. His workday has just ended. This must be his time to unwind. Another possibility emerges: maybe he’s not interested in relaxing; maybe this is his time to immerse himself in words, images, and ideas that the text presents him, sentence by sentence. He might be afraid of where his mind will be when he reaches home. Or maybe his mind isn’t creating confusion. Maybe the confusion involves more than the mind. Maybe I’m observing him read a sacred text. If only the words on the page would reveal themselves to me, maybe my own mind would no longer feel fragmented. Fortunately, since I can read his mind, I know that the bus will soon reach his stop. Then we can both go home.
My mental home seems far away. I know it’s right here, right now. A week has passed since I wrote down a dream and allowed it to speak to me through the day. Minutes pass. Work and the rest of daily reality don’t understand my inner time. Inner time equals subjective life. To remain in contact with my own body and my own mind often feels impossible to achieve for more than minutes at a time. I’m trying to do so as I do two things simultaneously: write these sentences and imagine myself on the couch in my psychoanalyst’s office, where subjective life becomes life. I imagine myself uttering the following words on Sarah’s couch: uncertainty overwhelms me, which is crazy because the specific uncertainty is a small matter. Words keep coming as I imagine myself in her downtown Seattle office, a block from Pike Place Market, struggling to say whatever comes to mind, and I continue, the feeling of being alive growing with each sentence that I utter. This subjective experience feels as if it were a dream, as if I were asleep and having the psychotic experience that is a dream. Craziness has brought me home. I can tolerate subjective life, for minutes at a time, sometimes for much longer, sometimes for seconds. In my imagination, seconds remain of my time on the couch, and before getting to my feet, I hear myself say that on some days making contact with my subjective life is much harder than I realize. Fortunately, today my imagination has made such contact possible.