Return of the Native

April 18, 2005

Brian--

Hey, buddy.

Well, we met again on familiar territory on Friday April 15, 2005. I returned to the library. It wasn’t all I expected. It was really rather depressing, actually. I felt nervous and agitated. I experienced a bemused alienation and disconnection from what had been a second home for me these many – perhaps, too many years. Maybe I had spent too much time in the library in years past.

In any event, on Friday, you may have noticed that I logged on to the computer, but I left before my computer time arrived. I just couldn’t stand being in those surroundings anymore. I felt, perhaps, the way Captain Dreyfus might have felt upon his return to France after years of tormented exile on Devil’s Island. It was all too, too much.

For the last year I had arrayed myself as comfortably as possible like Robinson Crusoe on my lonely island. When I look back at that lonely year from the perplexities and pressure of the present, it seems to me like a beautiful and heroic era, oddly enough. The splendid isolation was not lacking in advantages and in charms; I was free to do as I chose; I read what I fancied in bare feet; and I didn’t have to put up with the blare of screaming children, as one must in the library. I was subject to no influences, and no pressure was brought to bear on me. I learned to feast on my solitude and I honed my skills as a letter writer.

If the truth be told I am not suited for the practicalities of life; my mind floats in otherworldly dreams, more preoccupied with the potential of the spirit than with everyday vicissitudes. I love language, books, and music, and the most splendid moments of my uneventful existence have been the few operas I have attended, or the books I have perused in isolation from my fellows. I treasure every detail of the times I have spent in isolation. As I read I imagine every sentence, every page and every chapter as a mirror of my life, my passions and my afflictions. I take refuge in this extravagant, romantic atmosphere whenever I feel weighed down by the vulgarity of life.

I am an artist, really. Or at least I am an individual with an artistic temperament. My moments of highest joy are those I have spent alone. And that is the triumph and tragedy of my existence. Despite the gratifications afforded by my splendid isolation I still long for the Other in my loneliness: the Other who might complete me. Failing to find that Other I live in perpetual disillusion and frustration.

I am a rebel individualist divorced from established dogma and institutions, a lonely incorrigible seeker of new norms. For me life presents itself as a struggle for individualism; I experience my life at times as humorously petulant and at other times as a mystically yearning estrangement from the world and the times. I sometimes feel, in my grandiose moments, that I belong to the highest and purest spiritual aspirations and labors of our epoch.

My spiritual and emotional struggles can be traced to my alienation from my family in childhood. The roots of my estrangement from established institutions and settled norms began in the peculiarities of my early family life. Like most parents mine were no help with the new problems of puberty to which no reference was ever made. All they did was take endless trouble in supporting my hopeless attempts to deny reality and to continue dwelling in a childhood world that was becoming more and more unreal. I have no idea whether parents can be of help, and I do not blame mine. It was my own affair to come to terms with myself and to find my own way, and like most well-brought up children, I managed badly. My parents seemed wedded to some vague suggestions of old-world, Victorian morality with its belief in the inherent sinfulness of man, in the necessity of breaking the will of the individual, and with its uncompromising renunciation of all that is of this world. My family was the first of many social structures which were to rouse the rebel in me.

I was a hypersensitive, imaginative, lively and extremely headstrong child, and proved to be a constant source of despair and annoyance to my parents and my teachers. School held as little attraction for me as it did for any incorrigible. Hardly had the fourth year of high school begun before I became delinquent and was almost dismissed.

College and law school were meant to end the morbid estheticism into which I had allowed myself to drift. I hoped thereby to become an established, respected member of society. This hope was never realized. Except for the first few years, my law school education did not alleviate my feeling that life is essentially meaningless, nor could my idyllic retreat into academia long contain my inherent restlessness. By 1984, upon completion of my LL.M. program at American University, the life in the law had lost any meaning at all. It had become quite apparent to me that I could not be both a creative dreamer and a "solid citizen," a Phantasiemensch and a Burger, as the Germans would put it.

I am but a gifted misfit. My life has long been restive and discontented. I am unable to bear a comfortable, established mode of existence for any period of time. My life is grim and I live in endless mental agony.

I live the life of a romantic vagabond, forever exhausted and distraught in my quest for solitude. Before life can ever become meaningful for me, I must find and come to terms with myself. I am forever taking painful stock of myself and devote myself assiduously to solitary pleasures. I live like a hermit in my emotional and financial poverty and for years now, I have rarely left my apartment for more than routine outings.

In 1993 I began a writing that was to occupy me for the next ten years. That writing would be my autobiography, “Significant Moments.” The writing reflected my relentless quest for my self, and it assumed a fresh impetus and a new stylistic direction from my restless spirit during those years. I became an uninhibited and exciting innovator. The autobiography was really a tense psychological study and reflected the intoxicating emotional release of a Buddha-like search for the basic unity and meaningfulness of life. I am sure if it were ever to be published it would be greeted with a curious mixture of awe, bewilderment, antagonism, and disgust. My own uninhibited self-exposure would no doubt trouble even the staunchest of my supporters. I must remind you, my friend, that my new literary venture was not an irresponsible deviation but a necessary culmination in my self-quest. It has always been my belief that repressions had to be exposed, even at the price of unpleasant notoriety.

The letters I have written to you, my friend, are actually an article of faith and not a document of despair. Yes, I wallow in despair but I live in faith, a faith in the ultimate meaningfulness of life. For me, life has never become the perplexing absurdity it was for Franz Kafka or the Sisyphean monotonous senselessness it was to become for Albert Camus. As I like to say, there is always tomorrow.

I am oppressed by my personal life, but also by the times we live in. Our era is for me one of moral depravity and intellectual mediocrity; of surface glitter, smug comfort, sham conventionality, and foolish optimism. Man has lost his soul in the world of money, machines and distrust. He has exchanged his spiritual peace for physical comfort. All vital rapport with God and nature has been lost, reason has supplanted faith and society has forgotten the individual. I’m starting to sound like His Holiness, the late Pope John Paul II!

But the fact remains that the middle-class core of our civilization has never ceased to be the butt of my ire. The bourgeois represents all that is negative. A stalwart and stodgy nonentity, he is governed in all his ideals and pursuits solely by the impulse of self- preservation. He fears individualism, and deliberately sacrifices the precarious but precious intensities of life for comfort and security. He is the characterless Philistine who epitomizes mediocrity, cowardice, compromise, irresponsibility, and servility. He is the strapping, insensitive, physical specimen who enjoys health and wealth but lacks all culture. He has a sound appetite but no taste, a good deal of confidence but no ideals. He possess a surfeit of zeal and diligence but has no lofty aspirations or worthy goals. It is to him that the world belongs, while persons like me -- the sensitive worshippers of beauty and the earnest seekers after truth and the meaning of life -- are misfits and outcasts.

Every day for me is an effort. A seemingly senseless effort to survive. So much of my day is marked more by strained effort than by spontaneity, more by futile persistence than by passion, and more by recollection than by new horizons. I relive the past day-by-day.

There has always been a very close relationship between the circumstances of my life and my artistic aspirations. Each represents a different stage in my struggle with myself and with life at large, and each reflects a correspondingly different phase in both the substance and the form of my art. My writings are replete with uncertainty and vague presentiment. I live as a sensitive outsider who cannot cope directly with my particular problem of existence. I resort instead to fantasy and withdraw into the realm of beauty there to indulge in the extremes of late esthetic gratification. My world is one of perfumed melancholy. It is characterized by exclamatory remarks and rhetorical questions, by sensuous adjectives and adverbs in languid cadence.


The form of my autobiography is loose: a random succession of vignettes and dramatic monologues, held together primarily by their common spirit of decadent romanticism. A Hoffmanesque fusion of fantasy and reality, which is both cynical and morbidly intimate. You, no doubt, would call it the work of a talented beginner whose world of experience is still too limited, and whose imagination is entranced by the facile flow of beautiful language. In the absence of discipline and restraint, I fear that the whole is sacrificed to the part, and what is meant to be art fails to become more than picturesque patter.

In the last year, in my extreme isolation, my writing has become more human and less shadowy; inertia and desperation yield to movement and humor. My prose has achieved a more narrative style, and my language has become leaner, crisper and more forceful.

And yet, despite the emotional gratifications of my splendid isolation in the past year, I was forced to face the overwhelming accumulation of tensions. I was compelled to realize that in my desire to make existence less painful I had been avoiding a close look at the true nature of my inner discord, and had blindsided myself to the morally and spiritually impoverished world around me. In my imagination I left the comfortable fold of the bourgeois world, which had never afforded me the security I had hoped it might, and accepted the more difficult existence of an outsider. Did I have a choice in the matter, my friend? In a desperate and determined effort to find myself, I began systematically to diagnose my inner conflicts, to go my long-shunned inward path. Only now did I finally come to grips with the intrinsic problems of human existence -- and of my place in the human world.

In my isolation escape became quest, and in quest my inner problems resolved themselves into the basic malaise humain, into the tension between the spiritual and the physical. For the past year I oscillated between these poles, acclaiming first one, then the other, then neither. I never ceased hoping for a harmonious accord, though well aware that for me this was impossible. I acclaim spirit, stressing self-knowledge and self realization with a Nietzschean emphasis upon the superior being. But spirit as a guiding principle of life can only mean greater individuation and more painful isolation. I still lack the firm conviction and the inner fortitude necessary to endure these consequences. The immediate reaction has been as extreme as the initial impulse. My assertive Nietzschean activism has yielded suddenly to a Schopenhauer-like passivity, a restless quest to a quietistic acceptance, and self-realization to a yearning for self-obliteration.

In the sober tone of acceptance which is evident in the present letter, I realize that despite all efforts to the contrary, my existence will probably continue as a restless tension, a constant oscillation between life's opposing poles.

My path to myself has reached its climax in a fascinating confusion of symbol and irony, fantasy and realism.

It is only now that I at last have found the peace of sincere self-affirmation and life affirmation. The individual must take and continue along that path which the predominant aspect of his nature impels him to choose. Each, whether given to the senses or to the spirit, must be prepared to suffer the lot of his kind; to attempt in curiosity or desperation to do otherwise is to foster a perpetual dissension of the divided self.

My center is the individual, opposed to society, its mores, and its institutions. And that individual is myself. I recall, nostalgically, the simpler years of childhood. I re-experience youth with its excruciating years of awakening. I think about modern man, the intellectual and the artist in particular, within the framework of a declining culture.

It is in this, its intimately egocentric nature, that my artistic temperament bears the stamp of its age, an age of cultural decline, of spiritual and moral distress, and of extreme loneliness.

I am predominantly an esthete who lives only in dreams, hopes, and anticipation, and who shrinks before realization. I am a self-preoccupied, temperamental artist who vainly seeks a kindred soul. I am paralyzed by chronic indecision and indulge in romantic morbidity. I am an outsider consumed by my own hopelessness and loneliness -- a misfit, to whom the art of life and the art of love are foreign, a timid soul who asks too little of life and expects too much of it. I live in perpetual frustration and disillusionment.

This is what the past year has taught me about myself. The past twelve months that I spent in exile from the library were not wasted months. I learned many things about myself and in these letters I have tried to memorialize my discoveries and share them with you, my friend.

Check you out next week, buddy.

Who's On First?

(The following letter is a parody of a New York Times Op-Ed piece, written by the novelist Michael Chabon, about baseball legends Jose Canseco and Roberto Clemente, published in March 2005.)

Brian—

March 21, 2005

Hey, buddy. Are you ready to step up to the plate? Not a lunch plate or home plate, but the plate of the Game of Life. Do you consider yourself ready? Do you have the guts and the will to expand your awareness of yourself and your world?

I believe I do. I believe I can look dispassionately at who I am. I fancy that I am able to assess myself and others objectively and with insight.

But what of my writer's block, you ask? Do I still struggle with that epistolary malady? Indeed I do. In fact, during the past week I hit a real slump of inspiration: not a batter's slump, to be sure, but a writer's slump. I thought long and hard about the problem, and I could see only two alternative solutions. Either I throw in the bat, so to speak, or resort to performance enhancers. I took the latter course. Yes, I confess, I use performance enhancers: the occasional plagiarized idea or borrowed phrase is better than no idea or phrase at all. Would it surprise you to learn that I've even been known on occasion to resort to assorted thesauri (if you'll pardon the term)? Well, in fact I do. But hey, at least I'm honest and out front about it.

In the spirit of openness and disclosure (as is ever my way) I offer the following portrait of myself -- warts and all, so the saying goes. In the words of Jeremiah (the soothsayer, not the bullfrog), I trust that the Lord will heal my "backsliding."

Confessions of a Roguish Schizoid

In a book "The Moral Society: A Rational Alternative to Death," John David Garcia presents a revolutionary ethical theory much in the spirit of Spinoza. The author shows that through the ethical development of art, science and technology man can achieve far more than the advocates of supernatural Utopias ever imagined.

What is the "Game of Life?" According to the author it is a game in which we are the pieces as well as the players. It is a game in which the stakes are ever-increasing awareness. The Game of Life is the pivotal point between good and evil, life and death. The Game of Life is the basis of all evolution. To play the Game of Life is to increase awareness. To deliberately play the Game of Life is to increase awareness as best we can for the rest of our life.

Is there another Game? The author would say yes, and point to the Game of Pleasure. The Game of Pleasure is a game which serves only to increase happiness, never awareness. Persons who play the Game of Pleasure are the major source of entropy (disorder and chaos) for the human race. Players of the Game of Pleasure make themselves and others increasingly unethical until they become immoral.

Apparently, the author, John David Garcia, is a lot of fun at parties.

In the author's view, the philosopher Baruch Spinoza is the ultimate player of the Game of Life. Indeed, "Spinoza is the ultimate Jewish philosopher. In Spinoza Judaism reached its logical conclusion by becoming totally abstract and depersonalizing God into the cosmic force. The philosophy is devoid of ideology and attempts to prove everything deductively from axioms and scientific laws. Spinoza's philosophy is a logical failure that was ethically successful. It freed ethical behavior from supernatural imperatives. Like Maimonides, Spinoza was not readily acceptable to the Jews because he was extremely radical. Indeed, he was so much more radical than Maimonides that Spinoza was excommunicated by the Jewish community and is still considered an apostate by the orthodox. However, Spinoza laid the philosophical basis for Reform Judaism and the Reform Jews have almost completely incorporated the ethical teachings of Spinoza, Most of the Jews in the world today are de facto Reform or agnostics."

Be that as it may.

Before I start arguing that it's muddleheaded, and misses the point, to disparage the greatness of a great and noble thinker for his want of goodness as a man -- before I rise to the defense of myself -- let me begin by offering one example of my own muddleheadedness in this regard.

A big part of what I have always admired about Baruch Spinoza as a master of the Game of Life is what a good, strong, thoughtful man he seems to have been -- his stoic dignity in the face of the ignorance and bigotry of the Orthodox Jewish community of seventeenth-century Amsterdam, for example, and how he died penniless in a rented room in pursuit of the ultimate axiom, and so forth. I choose to view Spinoza's grace on the field of the Game of Life as reflecting and being reflected by the graceful way in which he conducted his public life (when one has demonstrably nothing to do with the other), and both together as lasting proof of some private gracefulness as a man, when I have no way of ever really knowing what form the true, secret conduct of his life may have taken.

I have no idea what Spinoza's feelings would have been about academic performance enhancers like slide rules, pocket calculators, Cliff Notes, assorted varieties of thesauri, and Bartlett's Quotations, not to mention paraphrasing and outright plagiarism, but I would like to think that he would have viewed them with disfavor, and that -- had he married -- he would have been faithful to his wife, temperate in his habits and modest about his accomplishments. Yes, I would like to think that -- because instinctively, I'm just foolish and mistaken enough to think that great philosophers must also be good men.

There is no question that sometimes I myself have approached greatness as a thinker, that I have even brushed greatness as a player of the Game of Life. If you have any doubt about that, you weren't paying attention to me on the days, during the years I used to visit The Cleveland Park Neighborhood Library, when I paid attention to the Game -- and that's hard to imagine since, like Spinoza, I arrested the eye of The Powers that Be, held their attention like a shard of mirror dangling from a wire in the sunshine, even when I was just standing around waiting to get onto the public access computer or just waiting for something to happen next.

But I'm not going to get into that here. The question of my greatness or lack thereof can be debated endlessly, with statistics, such as SAT scores, IQ scores and the like and assorted anecdotes to support both sides.

And God knows I have no intention of claiming that I qualify as a good man, according to the conventions of my own garden-variety standards of morality: consistent effort, altruism and personal integrity defined as the keeping of one's promises to other people. My want of goodness on those terms is also arguable, I suppose, though not by me, of course.

But I will go out on a limb and venture that any list of the 100 greatest players of the Game of Life who ever lived would conform to the pattern for our species, and therefore contain a sizable number of men who spend most of their lives fumbling with an inherent tendency to slack off, ignore the sufferings of others, tell lies and evade responsibility. Playing the Game of Life well does not make you a better person, any more than writing well does.

The illusion that lures us into the error of confounding Spinoza's goodness as a man with his greatness as a philosopher is that when a man is playing the Game of Life well, as when a man is writing well, he seems to himself, in that moment, to be a better person than he really is. He puts it all together, he has all the tools, in a way that is impossible outside the lines of the playing field of the Game of Life or the margins of the page. He shines, and we catch the reflected glint, and extend the "shining one" a credit for overall luminosity that almost nobody could merit. Spinoza, I think, did; he shone with the grace and integrity of his thinking even when he was not on the field of the Game of Life.

Permit me to digress at this point and venture into the realm of myth and symbol. For the ancient Greeks who depicted abstract concepts in the persona of their gods, the gloriously divine figure of Apollo was said to embody a special radiance, as Nietzsche says in Section 1 of "The Birth of Tragedy." "Apollo, the god of all plastic energies, is at the same time the soothsaying god. He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is 'the shining one,' the deity of light, is also ruler over the beautiful illusion of the inner world of fantasy. The higher truth, the perfection of these states in contrast to the incompletely intelligible everyday world, this deep consciousness of nature, healing and helping in sleep and dreams, is at the same time the symbolical analogue of the soothsaying faculty and of the arts generally, which make life possible and worth living." Thus Spake Friedrich Nietzsche.

In any event, Baruch Spinoza was a hero, in other words, and I, by the above definition, am not. By my own admission, I have slacked off and hurt people and lied and broken a lot of promises, large and small. And used performance enhancers: paraphrasing and plagiarizing with wanton abandon. And therefore, many people seem to feel, I am not to be admired -- neither in the past, during my brief heyday, so that you must retroactively rescind your delight in my style and your amazement at my prowess, put an asterisk beside your memory of the pleasure of my company over the course of a few long years; nor in the present, not even when I step forward to tell the truth, a big, meaningful dolorous truth that most of you, measured by your own standards of heroism, would have a hard time bringing yourselves to tell.

I can't possibly be a hero to anyone -- I laid down that burden many years and near-arrests and screw-ups ago -- and furthermore (goes the rap) there is nothing remotely admirable about my allegation of widespread, inveterate use of paraphrasing and plagiarism, by myself and by other players of The Game of Life, like the historians Stephen Ambrose or Doris Kearns Goodwin, who have a readier claim on our admiration, and shoulder more naturally its weight.

I, we are informed by psychiatrists, by former employers, and former coworkers am only looking to turn a buck by my confessions past and present. If lying would have paid better than telling the truth, then I would have lied (and some have suggested that I have). I am greedy, faithless, selfish, embittered, scornful and everlastingly a showboat. I am a bad man ("a very, very bad man"), and that makes me, retrospectively (except among those who claim always to have felt this way) a bad player of the Game of Life. Not to mention a bad writer.

I don't know what is to be done about the mess I have made of my life, and neither do you. At times I even wonder how I can still live with myself.

And yet, and yet . . .

I find myself admirable. Not in the way I admire Spinoza -- not even remotely, which says something about what an ambiguous thing admiration can be. Like all showboats, I court the simpler kind of admiration, starting in the mirror each morning. I am slick (I drive other people mad with my slickness), I am nine feet tall and four feet wide and walk with a roosterish swagger. But there has always been something about me, about my style of play, my sense of self-mocking humor, my way of looking at you looking at me (Remember: "When you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you"), that goes beyond vanity and self-aggrandizement, or being a world-class jerk.

I have been described as a charmer, and a clown, but in fact I am a rogue, a genuine one, and genuine rogues are rare, inside the Game of Life and out. To be a rogue, it's not enough to flout the law, break promises, shirk responsibilities, cheat. You must also, at least some of the time, and with the same abandon, do your best, play by the rules, keep faith with your creditors and dependents, obey orders, and speaking metaphorically (but not only metaphorically), throw out the runner at home plate with a dead strike from deep right field. (Bob Strauss detests sports metaphors, and my resort to one in this instance is itself an act of roguishness, I suppose). A petty consistency (it is said) -- whether it be the consistency of the consistently virtuous or the consistency of the consistently miscreant -- is the hobgoblin of little minds. And the genuine rogue is anything but small-minded (at least not in his own mind).

Above all I must at times be less-than-virtuous, just as at other times I neglect to be less-than-virtuous, for no particular reason, because I feel like it or do not, because nothing matters, and everything's a joke, and nobody knows anything, and most of all, as Rhett Butler once codified it for rogues everywhere, because you don't give a damn.

As for claims that I lie: give me a break. I don't need to lie. What would be the point? I don't care what you think of me; if anything, I derive a hair more pleasure from your scorn and contumely than I do from your useless admiration. It's not that I have nothing to lose, as some of my critics have claimed, by coming forward now to peel back the nasty bandage on my writerly conscience. A man like me never has anything to lose, or to gain, but my life and the pleasure I take from it.

I have style. Yes, I -- unlike most people -- have style. Only people who don't give a damn have style.

There was a time, though, when men like me, without taking anything from the luster of men like Baruch Spinoza, could also be accounted as heroes. They were the ones, the Ulysses and Sinbads and Raleighs, who sailed to places we couldn't imagine and returned, after a career of wonder and calamity and chagrin, not one whit better as men they were when they left. And no better, surely, than we -- possibly worse. And yet, in the end, they were the only ones fit to make the voyage, and when they came back they were laden with a truth that no one else would be clown enough, and rogue enough, and hero enough, to speak.

Yes, men like Ulysses, Sinbad and Raleigh wore the sign of distinction; they were the ones who might justly be considered "odd" by the world -- yes, even crazy, and dangerous. They were AWARE or in the process of becoming aware and their striving was directed toward achieving a more and more complete state of awareness while the striving of the others was a quest aimed at binding their opinions, ideals, duties, their lives and fortunes more and more closely to those of the herd. There, too, was striving, there, too, were power and greatness. But whereas we, who were marked, believed that we represented the will of Nature to something new, to the individualism of the future, the others sought to perpetuate the status quo. Humanity -- which they loved as we did -- was for them something complete that must be maintained and protected. For us, humanity was a distant goal toward which all men were moving, whose image no one knew, whose laws were nowhere written down.

Check you out next week, buddy. "Bliss in possession will not last; remembered joys are never past." Another quote, my friend. Sometimes you just can't kick a habit.

Crimes Against the State: The Autobiography of Brian P. Brown

February 21, 2005

Brian—

Hey, buddy. Que pasa? Have you ever had paella? I mean good paella? Ooo paella! Have you ever had really, really good Paella? Oh it's an orgiastic feast for the senses. The want and the festival, the sights, sounds, and colors and mmmummumm mumm!! It's a Spanish dish. It's a melange of fish, and meat with rice. Very tasty.

They say it was The Grand Inquisitor's favorite non-Lenten meal.

I cooked up a paella of literary quotes. It's a feast for the eyes and mind. I've tried to make the quotes as cohesive as possible, so that the writing reads like a uniform narrative. The writing is a fantasia on my relationship with you, buddy, vis-a-vis The Powers That Be.

In a certain sense the writing is a parody of Gertrude Stein's biography, "The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas." That work is actually Gertrude Stein's autobiography written in the third person.

I call my narrative --


The Autobiography of Brian P. Brown

To begin with I wish to disclaim the possession of those high gifts of imagination and expression which would have enabled my pen to create for the reader the personality of the man who called himself Gary Freedman.

If I have ever had these gifts in any sort of living form they have been smothered out of existence a long time ago under a wilderness of words. Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality. I have been for many years a librarian. It is an occupation which at length becomes fatal to whatever share of imagination, observation, and insight an ordinary person may be heir to. To a librarian there comes a time when the world is but a place of many words and man appears a mere talking animal not much more wonderful than a parrot.

This being so, I could not have observed Mr. Freedman or guessed at his reality by the force of insight, much less have imagined him as he was. Even to invent the mere bald facts of his life would have been utterly beyond my powers. But I think that without this declaration the readers of these pages will be able to detect in the story the marks of documentary evidence. And that is perfectly correct. It is based on a document, or more precisely, those portions of a document of which I have a certain knowledge: all I have brought to it is my knowledge of the human species, which is sufficient for what is attempted here.

"Words, words, words," so Hamlet said.

Mr. Freedman was a lover of words, a lover of language. We spoke to each other infrequently. But those few exchanges we had were enough to convince me that he was always happy to talk; he was a "word-child," hyperarticulate. Fully formed paragraphs issued forth in conversation with a hypnotic, limpid ease. Sooner or later, his would-be debater would be charmed and silenced.

There was an element of the demoniacal in his tireless search for just the right word to round a sentence into its proper unity, for the exact juxtaposition of words and movement that would slyly lead the reader or listener along the periphery of a story to its turning point and then propel them effortlessly to its climax. . . . No moment, however small, seemed unimportant enough to escape his almost fierce attention, and his grasp of a social situation's latent values was immediate and complete. My eyes and ears were opened anew each day to the thousand-and-one endless details that go to make up the subtle and infinitely fragile clockwork of an anecdote's interior mechanism, and to the slow cultivation of its subsoil that gradually makes it blossom into something vital and alive. I watched and listened with the consecration of a yogi.

Early in our relationship I sensed that Mr. Freedman was a lonely man, an isolated man. He seemed desperate for a kind of friendliness that he could not achieve naturally and spontaneously and he found that closeness -- or at least he imagined that he found that closeness -- in the person of his local librarian. On occasion he shared with me his views on the world: he talked about politics, literature, the arts, and science. It was his gift for language that held my interest, no matter what the topic. His knowledge of these various fields was not remarkable. Yet with his gift for words he could turn the most commonplace observations into arresting remarks.

I can give you an example. "Every man is born a Faust," he said, "a Faust with a longing to grasp and experience and express everything in the world. Faust became a scientist thanks to the mistakes of his predecessors and contemporaries. Progress in science is governed by the laws of repulsion, every step forward is made by refutation of prevalent errors and false theories. Faust was an artist thanks to the inspiring example of his teachers. Forward steps in art are governed by the law of attraction, are the result of the imitation of an admiration for beloved predecessors." Well, I ask you: is there anything novel in that observation? Not in the least. But what Mr. Freedman managed to do was to get to the core of the matter: the structural dialectic inherent in the Faust story was laid bare by Mr. Freedman's use of an appealing, aphoristic turn of phrase.

Mr. Freedman was an eccentric (I don't think he'd mind my saying so) and a self-styled genius.

He spent much of the day, every day, at the library. I didn't know how he subsisted, and I never inquired.

Mr. Freedman used to sit in the reading room of the library, where he perused newly-arrived books and magazines. He read the newspaper everyday. The reading room had several windows and could seat about a hundred people. Long tables stood in rows that ended by the windows. The library closed at sunset; in the spring Moscow had no lighting. Mr. Freedman left before dark. Of his life before he began visiting the library I know nothing.

I wish to state quite definitely that it is by no means out of any wish to bring my own personality into the foreground that I preface with a few words about myself and my own affairs this report on Mr. Freedman. What I here set down are my impressions of Mr. Freedman. I intrude myself, of course, only in order that the reader -- I might better say the future reader, for at this moment there exists not the smallest prospect that my manuscript will ever see the light of day unless, by some miracle, it were to escape the scrutiny of the party and bring to those without some breath of the secrets of our prison-house (for has not our entire country become a kind of prison?) -- to resume: only because I consider that future readers will wish to know who and what the author is do I preface these disclosures with a few notes about myself.

I have been employed, since the Revolution, as head librarian of Public Library no. 18. The work has been agreeable. From time to time party functionaries visit to inquire about a specific patron. "What does he read?" "Does he follow a set routine of arrival and departure?" "Does the patron speak to you?" "What about?" I never fail to provide information that might be useful to the party. It has not been an infrequent occurrence that after speaking with a party official about a patron, I would never see that individual again at the library. Yes, I have been useful to the party and to the work of social reconstruction that the party has been carrying out.
God Bless the Communist Party of the Soviet Union!

I and my two assistants sit on a dais in a recess in the wall opposite the window, separated from the rest of the room by a high counter. From this vantage point little that goes on in the reading room escapes our attention.

From the outset, Mr. Freedman's demeanor set him apart from other patrons of Public Library no. 18. During the early years of his daily visits he read quietly, and but for the fact that he took a seat adjacent to my post -- which occasioned a good many chance encounters, we should have remained practically unacquainted. For he was not a sociable man. Indeed, he was unsociable to a degree I had never before experienced in anybody. He was, in fact, as he called himself, a real wolf of the Steppes, a strange, wild, shy -- very shy -- being from another world than mine. How deep the loneliness into which his life had drifted on account of his disposition and destiny and how consciously he accepted this loneliness as his destiny, I certainly did not know until I read the records he left behind him (that is, the documentary evidence to which I referred above). Yet, before that, from our occasional talks and encounters, I became gradually acquainted with him, and I found that the portrait in his records was in substantial agreement with the paler and less complete one that our personal acquaintance had given me.

He gave at the very first glance the impression of a significant, an uncommon, and unusually gifted man. His face was intellectual, and the abnormally delicate and mobile play of his features reflected a soul of extremely emotional and unusually delicate sensitivity. When one spoke to him and he, as was not always the case, dropped conventionalities, and said personal and individual things that came out of his own alien world, then a man like myself came under his spell on the spot. He had thought more than other men, and in matters of the intellect he had that calm objectivity, that certainty of thought and knowledge, such as only really intellectual men have, who have no axe to grind, who never wish to shine, or to
talk others down, or to appear always in the right.

What I know of him is little enough. Indeed, of his past life and origins I know nothing at all. Yet the impression left by his personality has remained, in spite of all, a deep and sympathetic one.

I mentioned that Mr. Freedman's conduct in the library set him apart from other patrons. For years I had observed him retrieving books from the shelves. He read these books, or passages from them, with a special intensity of expression. In truth the intensity of his emotions while occupied in this fashion, the exquisite sensitivity of his face, far exceed what I had ever experienced while talking to him. He appeared to reserve his deepest emotions for books, ideas, and the act of writing. Mr. Freedman took copious notes as he read. He appeared to be working on a kind of manifesto -- well, that's what I imagined. At times I feared for his personal safety. I knew many intellectuals. I knew how easily it was for intellectuals, for writers, to fail to heed the boundaries of conformity set by the party. As a class, intellectuals tended to be rebellious nonconformists who, not infrequently, seemed oblivious of the consequences of their independent spirit. After all, there exists a certain Communist style. Few people measure up to it. But no one seems to flout that way of life and thought as openly as do intellectuals. Why they have to flirt with danger, I can't imagine. The free thinker is a mockery of the whole world of conformity, a walking insult to it. If at least one's past is one's own secret -- but, as is often the case, there are people in the party who know such renegades inside out.

For many months, Mr. Freedman had been working ferociously on the manuscript that he hoped would finally make his literary reputation, or so I imagined. From what I could gather, both in my brief conversations with him and from my first-hand observation of him at work, he appeared to have grand visions for his manifesto. But I must say, I never really became acquainted with the content of the document in its entirety. My knowledge of the text was limited to what I gleaned from occasional scraps of notes that he discarded, from chance comments Mr. Freedman made, and from the books he borrowed from the library.

I got on well with Mr. Freedman. As is sometimes the way with men whose natures are really quite opposed, we got on very well. During our brief exchanges I would hold forth gregariously on topics that interested me: German Romanticism, the state of the poor, the struggle to find one's own private truth consistent with the common good, and so forth. Mr. Freedman, thin, angular, and restrained, listened more than he spoke, and when he talked -- of contemporary politics, or social reform, or the importance of education -- he did so with Euclidean clarity and a modesty that tended to obscure the firmness of his convictions.

As I say, I knew little of the content of Mr. Freedman's manifesto, and it was not in my power to verify the truth of the experiences related in his manuscript. I have no doubt that they are for the most part fictitious, not, however, in the sense of arbitrary invention. They are rather the deeply lived spiritual events which he has attempted to express by giving them the form of tangible experiences. The partly fantastic occurrences in Mr. Freedman's fiction come presumably from the later period of his patronage of the library, and I have no doubt that even they have some basis in real occurrence. At that time Mr. Freedman did not in fact change very much in behavior and in appearance.

Overall I had a favorable impression of Mr. Freedman. Many held contrary views. Mr. Freedman was not universally loved. In truth, Mr. Freedman presented layer upon layer of difficulty to disentangle. His neighbors said of him that after an hour you love him, after a week you hate him, and after ten years you start to understand him. One of the local shopkeepers said that if you didn't have a personality conflict with Mr. Freedman, you didn't have a personality. Those who had known of Mr. Freedman's past said that he was a combination of Machiavelli and Mr. Rogers: "The conventional image of an engaging man is one who is hard on the outside and soft on the inside. Mr. Freedman is just the opposite." Part of his mystique for some was his careful and successful positioning as someone "above the fray." He gave off an air that he was too good for others, or certainly better than the rest of his peers.

According to some he was a maddeningly-contradictory figure. An avatar of morality and truthfulness, Mr. Freedman bent the truth and had a singularly nasty side to his character that ultimately contributed to his difficulties with other people. One patron warned me: "Despite his intelligence, he has a vindictive streak, a mean streak, that surfaced frequently and antagonized people." Another patron said that Mr. Freedman liked to carve up an opponent, make others laugh at him, and then call it a joke. He stretched the truth to the point where it became dishonest to call it exaggeration." I heard someone say that Mr. Freedman was "a hyperbole addict." I must confess that generally not a week would go by when I didn't hear some criticism of Mr. Freedman. "He usually claimed the moral and ethical high ground" but "practiced an interpersonal style based on exaggeration, disingenuousness, and at times outright deception." It was said of Mr. Freedman that he seldom, if ever, repented of his nastiness or asked forgiveness. Instead, when called out for an egregious personal attack, he displayed the advanced skills of evasion that made him such an effective manipulator. All in all the picture that emerged was one of "narcissistic loner." Mr. Freedman was never a regular guy, the sum of his parts never quite added up to that. He talked his way through life, yet in some profound way he never learned the language of men.

Small wonder that friendship -- lasting and meaningful friendship -- eluded Mr. Freedman. He seemed, as I've already said, desperate for a kind of friendliness that he could not achieve spontaneously and naturally. He once asked me: "Are you familiar, Comrade Brown, with the small German ceremony called 'Duzen'? The ritual calls for two friends, each holding a glass of wine or beer, to entwine arms, thus bringing each other physically close, and to drink up after making a promise of eternal brotherhood with the word Bruderschaft. When it's over, the friends will have passed from a relationship that requires the formal 'Sie' mode of address to the
familiar 'Du.'"

I recoiled at Mr. Freedman's remarks. It was as if Mr. Freedman were making a personal proposal of some kind to me. I must admit I found Mr. Freedman's innuendo revolting. That degree of closeness between two men seemed to me unnatural. I ended the conversation abruptly.

My impression of Mr. Freedman was that of a man who was desperately lonely, who lived in deep emotional pain, and who lacked the means or motivation to change his life.

I often wondered: "What must the sleepless nights of such a man be like? What occupied his thoughts?"

Be that as it may.

I will now tell you about the significant and fantastic events that transpired on an early spring day in the year 19--. Mr. Freedman -- or Comrade Freedman, as he had been known (as we all had been known) officially since the Revolution -- had set out alone from his house in Prince Alexei Street, Moscow, for an extended walk. It was a spring afternoon in that year of 19--, when Russia was just beginning to emerge from the ravages of the Great War and the Revolution and its aftermath. He was overwrought by a morning of hard, nerve-taxing work, work which had not ceased to exact its uttermost in the way of sustained concentration, conscientiousness, and tact; and after the noon meal found himself powerless to check the onward sweep of the productive mechanism within him, that motus animi continuus in which, according to Cicero, eloquence resides. He had sought but not found relaxation in sleep -- though the wear and tear upon his system had come to make a daily nap more and more imperative -- and now undertook a walk, in the hope that air and exercise might send him back refreshed to a good evening's work.

April had passed its midpoint, and after weeks of cold and wet a mock summer had set in. Mr. Freedman had barely begun his walk when he was accosted by two uniformed men. The two men stopped Mr. Freedman and inquired of his identity. It was a mere formality; they knew it was Mr. Freedman. The two men were party functionaries: pallid and plump bureaucrats in the employ of the governing regime.

"Tenth-rate old actors they send for me," said Mr. Freedman, glancing round again to confirm the impression. "They want to finish me off cheaply." He turned abruptly toward the men and asked: "What theater are you playing at?" "Theater?" said one, the corners of his mouth twitching as he looked for advice to the other, who acted as if he were a dumb man struggling to overcome a stubborn disability. "They're not prepared to answer questions," said Mr. Freedman to himself and walked on with the men. "Just follow us," said one officer. "And remain quiet," said the other. "Nothing will happen to you if you cooperate with us. No harm will come to you if you follow orders." Mr. Freedman accompanied his two warders in
silence.

Someone must have traduced Mr. Freedman, for without having done anything wrong -- as he saw it -- he was arrested on that fine morning in April 19--, as the noon hour approached.

Mr. Freedman, a 50-year-old unemployed attorney, was eventually brought to the maximum security ward of the Moscow Central Institute for Forensic Psychiatry. I later learned through my contacts in the party that four months earlier, while searching the house of an acquaintance, the KGB agents discovered a book -- or rough draft of a book -- written by Mr. Freedman, that was critical of the Soviet social system. In this book Mr. Freedman defined himself as a "Marxist partisan" and a patriot of his country. He used language indistinguishable from that of the "official" and "approved" concepts current in Soviet social and political thought. However, the book was an impassioned argument for reform of the state in order to bring about greater prosperity and free expression in the country.

Mr. Freedman was arrested and charged with "antigovernment propaganda and agitation harmful to the interests of the Socialist state." Because he was uncooperative during his detention, he was referred for a psychiatric evaluation by a KGB investigator, who wrote in the referring document that "There are strong reasons to suspect that this detainee suffers from chronic mental illness, which is responsible for his behavior and has resulted in serious crimes against the state, with which he is charged."

The prisoner arrived in handcuffs, looking anxious and fearful. At the beginning of his admission report, the forensic psychiatrist, Comrade Dr. Martin, took note of "burning and penetrating eyes and an unearthly calm."

During the interview the prisoner insisted on his right to take notes and to write down the questions asked him; when this was denied, he refused to participate in the evaluation interview. On the ward, surrounded by seriously ill offenders, he kept to himself, and was described as "withdrawn, with long staring spells, and persistent refusal to discuss his thoughts and feelings." The ward staff was puzzled by his "excessive wariness, and his belief that something had been put into his food was described in ward notes as 'paranoid.'"

By the end of the first week, the prisoner was demanding to see the medical director of the hospital; when the director obliged, the prisoner confronted him with an accusation of "collaborating in crimes against humanity." The prisoner categorically denied the criminal nature of his activity and claimed that he pursued his chosen profession in writing a book about legal guarantees for freedom of expression.

From the information provided by the secret police investigator and summaries of treatment obtained from the local health center and the district mental health clinic, the forensic psychiatrist learned that the patient had "a stormy adolescence," during which he pursued, with abandon, the study of his country's history, literature, and art. He was described by his teachers as "stubborn, oppositional, and obsessed with his ideas." His principal wrote: "This young man is far too sensitive and intense for his age. He is negative about everything our country stands for and his tastes in art and music are bizarre. However, he is a highly intelligent young man, and with proper guidance and education, can be an asset to our country."

The records of the local employment board revealed that the prisoner was relieved from compulsory employment because of a diagnosis of "psychoneurosis" established by a psychiatrist at the district mental health clinic. The records from the clinic described a man who was "moody, preoccupied with his interest in history, precise and compulsive in his habits with some excessive concern about his health."

By the end of the third week, the prisoner was forcibly given small doses of a medication. He became weak and apathetic, complained of dryness of the mouth, increased appetite, and grogginess throughout the day, and an increasingly troublesome tremor. This was described in the record as "paranoid refusal to believe in the good intentions of the medical personnel, and inability to develop insight into his condition and his own needs."

When medication produced no change in the prisoner's attitude except for obvious side effects, it was discontinued. One week after this, the prisoner was looking more cheerful, and finally agreed to cooperate with the expert committee, consisting of three forensic psychiatrists. When the committee saw the prisoner, none of its members had had a chance to read the manuscript that brought the man to the attention of the authorities. During the interview, the prisoner was attentive and guarded, and later was described by one of the members as "hypervigilant" with obvious "ideas of reference." The committee unanimously agreed on the diagnosis offered by the forensic psychiatrist: schizophrenia. The committee recommended compulsive psychiatric treatment for Mr. Freedman "because of his inability to have a critical attitude toward his own condition and circumstances and failure to cooperate with necessary medical treatment."

The KGB investigator knew that the state world have considerable difficulty in prosecuting Mr. Freedman since it would have had to prove that he had a malicious intent to "undermine and harm the interests of the Socialist State." Because Mr. Freedman is articulate and persuasive, a public trial would have been embarrassing to the government. Knowing that Mr. Freedman had been given a psychiatric diagnosis that exempted him from compulsory employment, the KGB investigator reasoned that a trial would be unnecessary and that the credibility of Mr. Freedman's ideas would be undermined if his behavior could be attributed to a mental disorder.

The forensic psychiatrist was given inadequate and biased information, had no access to his "patient's" family or former colleagues, and had to deal with a frightened and unwilling man. Practicing within a social system with an extremely narrow range of "permissible" behavior and within a profession that uses an extraordinarily broad concept of schizophrenia, the forensic psychiatrist could very well have been sincere in considering Mr. Freedman mentally ill. It is also possible that the psychiatrist was cynically using his power to make diagnoses, hospitalize, and treat in order to satisfy an implicit request from the KGB to take this "troublesome" man off their hands.

Whether or not the forensic psychiatrist actually believed that Mr. Freedman was ill, he probably justified his diagnoses as follows: The onset of Mr. Freedman's schizophrenia was, as is usual in this illness, at the time of adolescent transition to adult life. He exhibited overvalued ideas, instability of mood, inappropriately intense and single minded pursuit of interests unusual for boys of his age, and obsessive compulsive personality traits. He developed a system of rationalized obsessive preoccupations with seeking reforms in Soviet society. His tragic world view is evidence of chronic dysphoria and anhedonia. His belief that he can make a contribution to the social theory and well-being of his country is evidence of an overvalued idea that has progressed into a fantastic delusion of reform. His cautious attitude toward authorities and state-appointed physicians is an expression of paranoid and self-referential perceptions.

In any event, we heard about Mr. Freedman's arrest at the Public Library. I, for one, was not surprised. For years I had feared for Mr. Freedman's safety, given the unusual nature of his ideas and his passionate investment in the act of putting his ideas in writing. But was Mr. Freedman truly mentally ill? Is it possible that the decision to arrest Mr. Freedman was unjustified? Is it not possible to view his difficulties as the result of the interaction between his personality traits and the prevailing political and social norms? Perhaps in another society Mr. Freedman's personality traits might not cause any particular difficulties -- indeed, might even be rewarded. Of course, I dare not make these sentiments public knowledge. The party deals harshly with those who question the correctness of its actions. Still, one wonders.

I have not seen Mr. Freedman since the day of his arrest. No, I am sure he has not taken his life. If he has been discharged from the hospital I am sure he still goes wearily up and down the streets somewhere in Moscow, sits for days in libraries, or lies on a hired sofa, listens to the world beneath his window and the hum of human life from which he knows that he is excluded. But he has not killed himself, for a glimmer of belief still tells him that he is to drink this frightful suffering in his heart to the dregs and that it is of this suffering he must die. I think of him often. He has not made life lighter for me. He had not the gift of fostering strength and joy in me. On the contrary! But I am not he, and I live my own life, a narrow middle-class life, but a solid one, filled with duties. And so we can think of Mr. Freedman peacefully and affectionately, William and I.

Mr. Freedman belongs to those who have been caught between two ages, who are outside of all security and simple acquiescence. He belongs to those whose fate it is to live the whole riddle of human destiny heightened to the pitch of a personal torture, a personal hell.

I neither approve nor condemn Mr. Freedman. Let every reader of these notes do as his conscience bids him.

/s/ Comrade Brian P. Brown

Check you out next week, buddy. Give my regards to The Ambassador.

An Enemy of the People

Brian--

January 31, 2005

Hey, buddy. Or should I say "Hi, Brian!" Or High Brian, perhaps. What was college like for you? Did I ever ask you that question? Was it a transforming experience -- socially and intellectually -- or was it a wasteland? Not that the two conditions, desolation and transformation, are mutually exclusive. They say that if you are going to inhabit a wasteland, you might as well be thoroughly wasted, which is itself a transformation -- transcendental or otherwise. One can be both wasted and transformed. Were you prone to transformed states in college? Put another way, did you -- shall I say, inhale? Or was your preferred intoxicant contained in a bottle?

Today I am perched somewhat precariously on a high tower. It is my refuge, my retreat. From my height -- on a cold winter's day -- I inhale the chilled but bracing air that surrounds me. From my bird's eye view above the city, I observe the hubbub below, which enlivens my day. My tower provides sanctuary and protection. I have removed myself from ordinary life. It is a precious and solitary moment. I am by myself and beside myself in my exhilaration. I stand like a puppeteer above his puppets, and in my imagination I manipulate the people I see below me, like a puppet master who animates the passive instruments under his control. I stand alone and disturb the people below me, or so I fancy.

Words, words, words . . . on some days, I have the gift . . . I can make love out of words as a potter makes cups out of clay, love that overthrows empires, love that binds two hearts together come hellfire and brimstone . . . I can cause a riot in a nunnery -- a disturbance not to be dismissed . . . but on other days . . . I feel that I have lost my gift. It's as if my quill had broken. As if the organ of the imagination has dried up. As if the proud tower of my narrative talents has collapsed. Nothing comes. And my spirits suffer.

I live to observe and to express. My capacity for vigilant scrutiny and my talent for words, for felicitous locution, enlarge my inner repository of sensual experience and permit me to make that repository accessible to my audience.

Whether my published communications unite me with others or disturb the equilibrium of their world, my own inner states are transformed thereby.

Today I am in a reflective mood. I've been thinking about desolation and transformation. I have been thinking about my current condition: my lone battle with the people, the critics, in my environment and beyond. I think about my loneliness, which rises to the level of despair at times, but, fortunately does not defeat me. I revel in my lonely struggle. I revel in my ability to disturb my immediate environment and the world beyond my imagination. I view my isolation and my defiance as virtues, the tests and marks of a higher morality. My emotional inertness pains me, but my capacity to endure my suffering and my ability to transform my distress by means of expression, by means of words, emboldens my spirit.

Something in my past must have disposed me to suffering, but at the same time prepared me to endure that very torment.

Like the proverbial professor in an academic ivory tower I have probed my problem in isolation for the past several days, ruminating about its meaning. And with the professorial pretensions that are ever my wont, I now share with you -- proud didactic adventurer that I am -- a distillation of my current thoughts.

A measure of a person's creativity, so the psychoanalysts say, is the ability to transcend the slings and arrows of outrageous critics. To be able to form a work of art out of the rubble left by such an attack is, of course, not the only way in which creative abilities can show themselves, but it is one way. I chose my view of creativity, the capacity to turn a humiliating rebuff into a triumph, for two reasons. First, it has been proposed as a developmental ideal in that it signals one of the transformations of archaic narcissism. Second, it is of particular relevance in providing a glimpse into my creative process. Specifically, I refer to my response to the criticisms and rejections of my former employer, the law firm of Akin, Gump, Strauss, Hauer & Feld, by writing my autobiography, which I titled Significant Moments. In focusing on this view of creativity, I necessarily ignore other factors that contribute to artistic creativity.

I transcended my reaction to the devastating job termination and its aftermath by creatively transforming that experience in Significant Moments. At Akin Gump I confronted central themes that had been haunting me since childhood, ghosts from the past in their purest, boldest form: my search for an idealizable father-figure (in the person of Robert Strauss), social rejection, the jealousy of coworkers (symbolic siblings), allegations that I posed a physical danger to others, the lack of empathy of peers and superiors, the appearance of anti-Semitism, and the vague impression of a corrupt organization. Having suffered for three-and-one-half years in a difficult job situation, I was in a particularly vulnerable position when attacked by the employer and ignored by potential supporters. In Significant Moments, I depicted my outrage at my former employer and coworkers, redressing the narcissistic injury I had sustained. I triumphed over my detractors through a complex self-restorative solution. I argued for an extreme, defiant, uncompromising stance through which the artist can defy social pressure and withstand ridicule and isolation; in my creative transformation I displaced my personal conflicts -- both intrapsychic and interpersonal -- onto societal conditions.

True to the best in the Jewish tradition, the conscious acceptable "enemy" for me -- as it had been for the American playwright, Clifford Odets -- would become an impersonal set of unjust and corrupt societal conditions, and the means of battle would be waged largely in words within the controllable arena of social conscience within a work of art.

My thesis is that one function of the creative process is to transform one's depleted self-state in response to a narcissistic injury. I propose that my own self-state transformation was based on motivations encapsulated in a model scene, which I inferred from a selection of recollections. A discussion of self-states and model scenes follows. The model scene links organizing themes inferred from my life and my book with the self-state I attempted to recapture after the narcissistic injury incurred by the job termination.

SELF-STATES AND THEIR TRANSFORMATION

My use of the term self-state draws on contributions from several sources: Stern's and Sander's discussions of state transformation and the self-regulating other and Kohut's discussion of self-states as noted in self-state dreams.

When used by infant researchers, state refers specifically to variations in sleep and wakefulness that occur as the infant passes between crying and alert or quiet activity, drowsiness and sleep, wet discomfort and dry discomfort, hunger and satiation. Different states affect how things are perceived, how those perceptions are integrated, and how such information is processed.

State transformations in early life accrue to both the child's self-regulation and to the expectation that mutual regulation with the caretakers will facilitate or interfere in regulating one's affects and states. Thus, early state transformations are associated with mastery or control over one's own experience, and expectations that affect regulation can (or cannot) be shared with the self-regulating other.

With the advent of symbolic capacities and increasing elaboration upon one's subjective experience, self-states in the child and adult include the domain of the self in a psychological sense. Post infancy self-state transformations may increase a sense of control, mastery, or agency, but in the case of traumatic self-state transformations, such states as devastation, outrage, or fragmentation may become dominant.

The subjective discomfort of painful self-states provides an impetus for finding means by which such states can be transformed. A creative endeavor, one means of transforming one's self-state, enhances the range of the self-regulation. Furthermore, in the context of mutual regulations, expectations of a responsive environment shift the state of the self along the dimension of fragmentation-intactness toward greater cohesion and along the dimension of depletion-vitality toward an increased sense of efficacy.

Kohut described self-state dreams in which the imagery is undisguised or only minimally disguised, depicting the dreamer's sense of self. Kohut likened these dreams to Freud's discussion of dreams in traumatic neuroses, in which a traumatic event is realistically depicted. For example, a self-state may be depicted in a dream as a barren countryside, reflecting a sense of devastation and such self experiences as depression, despair, or hopelessness.

My use of self-state is broader than Stern's since I extend my perspective into adult life, and my use of the term is not confined to the dream imagery described by Kohut. Dream imagery provides a glimpse into a person's feelings of devastation and outrage, but the imagery of narratives can also convey self-states.

MODEL SCENES

To construct the model scene that depicts the self-state that I attempted to recapture after I was subjected to devastating criticism in the form of job harassment and job termination, I combined facets of my life history.

For the first several years of my development, I experienced a childhood characterized by an overprotective but unempathic mother and a distant, but at times harsh, father. My father was a highly-intelligent man who settled for far less in life than he was capable. He had quit an academic high school restricted to college-bound students in the tenth grade, and worked at a factory job. Though he was raised in a strictly Orthodox Jewish family, he was the only one of seven children to marry outside the Jewish faith, in 1946. My mother was a Polish-Catholic whose father, an immigrant coal miner, died in the great swine flu epidemic following World War I. My father suffered both overt and covert anti-Semitism from my mother's family during the marriage -- itself a form of criticism. My father coped with the attacks directed at him by relying on a deeply-rooted sense of his cultural and religious superiority.

My mother doted on me, but paradoxically, had a tendency to negligent, even reckless, caretaking. At age three I developed scarlet fever, an unusual bacterial disease. I was late in being weaned from the bottle. Though I ate solid food by age three, of course, my mother indulged my desire to drink milk that had gone sour in the bottle. The pediatrician, Dr. Bloom, who diagnosed the illness attributed it to the sour milk. "And why is he still drinking from a bottle? He's too old to be drinking milk from a bottle," the doctor said. (Dr. Bloom! "Just who does Dr. Bloom think he is?"). My father was very angry, and chastised my mother bitterly for "spoiling" me, in the doctor's presence. I felt humiliated and helpless in the face of the charges leveled at me. My secret oral perversion had been discovered! The secret was out! The doctor advised my parents that scarlet fever was considered a serious public health concern, and that he was bound by law to report my illness to the city health department. Several days later, the health department posted a quarantine notice on the front door of our home (1957). My private act led to unforeseeable consequences in the form of intervention by a government authority. In effect, at age three the government had determined that I was already "potentially dangerous."

The scarlet fever incident contributed to the centrality of solitary self-experience for me. From an experience of pleasure (in drinking sour milk from the bottle), I was suddenly transformed to a state of loss and an inexplicable sense of guilt. I felt like a felon and, if you will excuse the hyperbole, "would hide when the constable approached the house." The illness ushered in transformation from a positive, pleasurable, self-absorbed state to a secret state marked by guilt and a personal blame for wrongdoing. I did not find solace for my loss. On my own, I bore both my guilt and the surprising, disturbing impact I could have on others in my immediate world and beyond: indeed, reaching out to a world beyond my imagination, in the form of governmental authorities. The illness also signaled another transformation in the direction of having to regulate painful states on my own without the support of others. Both parents were concerned with public embarrassment, rather than with the state of their child. I propose that the model scene I have constructed organized my experience as a solitary, impactful onlooker: someone whose private actions could even trigger the intervention of government authorities. It is an experience that few three-year-olds have. An emotionally porous three-year-old who is "hypersensitive to the goings-on in his environment," cf. Freedman v. D.C. Dept. of Human Rights, DCCA 96-CV-961 (Sept. 1998), will be affected by that experience.

This letter, and particularly the above anecdote, is a metaphorical bridge of speculation that connects mystery to mystery, the known with the unknown. That bridge is like a single plank that requires the support of others to form a firm foundation. I offer the following thought. My age upon contracting scarlet fever, which resulted from my mother's indulgence of my dependency needs -- age three or three-and-a-half -- is the same age my mother was when her father died of a communicable disease, influenza: in an influenza epidemic that, because of its magnitude, had evoked a vigorous public health response by government authorities nationwide. Is it possible that my "good" mother was instrumental in setting me up for serious illness? Was my mother's seeming indulgence really an expression of a strong unconscious ambivalence toward me that was a derivative of her emotional reaction to her own father's death?

Incidentally, the anecdote above parallels themes in several plays by Henrick Ibsen. In Ghosts a mother provides poison to her son to enable the son's suicide in expiation of his father's sins; An Enemy of the People pits a truth-fanatic (who discovers that the waters of a spa town are polluted) against the town's mayor and its citizens; and in The Master Builder a mother, out of a perverse sense of duty, kills her twins -- she contracted a fever because she could not stand the cold, but, despite the fever, she insisted on breast-feeding the twins, who died from her poisoned milk.

Note that I was the only male child in the family. Oddly, when I was a young boy, my older sister created the fiction that my middle name was "Stanley," my mother's father's name. I actually came to believe at one point in childhood that my name was "Gary Stanley Freedman."

Be that as it may.

My mother had a passionate interest in motion pictures and, in childhood, was fond of playing with dolls. I picked up on these interests in a way. In early adolescence I developed a fanatic attraction to the Wagner operas, and I had an interest in the craft of play writing. In high school and college I took elective courses in drama and theater. At age thirteen I staged (after a fashion), in the basement of our family home, a highly-abbreviated version (to say the least) of Wagner's four-opera Ring Cycle for the entertainment of my parents -- though, in reality, my parents were uninterested, if not hostile to my effort.

My father was subject to bouts of depression and sometimes became bitter and brutal toward my family, but he took no steps to change his situation, other than threatening, from time to time, to leave my mother. He was frequently morose and withdrawn. I reacted to my father throughout childhood with a range of irreconcilable emotions: idealization, sympathy, anger, and fear. Sound familiar, buddy?

Taken as a unity, to be spelled out below, these accounts suggest that, for me, self-states and affects had to be regulated alone, by myself. In later life, I transformed my despondent state after my critical rebuff at Akin Gump by drawing on the themes encapsulated in the model scenes.

In psychoanalytic treatment, analyst and patient construct model scenes to convey, in graphic and metaphoric forms, significant events and repeated occurrences in the analysand's life. The information used to form model scenes can be drawn from a variety of sources, including a patient's narrative and recollections. Model scenes highlight and encapsulate experiences at any age, not only early childhood, and are representative of salient conscious and unconscious motivational themes. The concept of model scenes is broader than and includes screen memories, which Freud equated with the manifest dream content dream, in that they point toward something important that they disguise. The memory itself and its "indifferent" content are to be discarded as the analyst recovers and reconstructs the significant, concealed childhood event or fixation. Whereas screen memories focus on reconstructing what has happened, model scenes pay equal attention to what is happening, whether it is in the analytic transference or in the person's life. For me, the model scene is based on recollections that capture my solitary self-regulation, self-restoration, and my triumph over my detractors.

MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY: SIGNIFICANT MOMENTS

The book is unusual in structure. It is drawn exclusively from published literature -- it is a collection of quotations, really -- with the quotes woven together to form a cohesive narrative, comparable in a sense to the structure of T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland." A single, cohesive narrator or hero does not appear in the book. Rather, the author manipulates the quotations; he hovers overhead, as it were, like a puppet master, pulling all the strings. I am represented, through my identification with various literary and historical figures, by identity elements or identity fragments, which are the quotations. The themes of the book are numerous and diverse. The themes include anti-Semitism, the craft of writing, opera production, communicable disease, genetics, inheritance, the discovery of a secret that brings ruin on the discoverer, scientific discovery, truth seekers, critical response by peers, defiance of peers and authorities, banishment and social isolation, the absence of an empathic or supportive environment, the self-regulation of affects, the death of fathers, the intervention of government authorities into the private domain of citizens, the seductive or destructive mother, alleged corruption and cover-up, among other topics.

CRITICISM AND RESPONSE

The negative response I received upon my job termination and its aftermath was diffuse. It came from the employer, psychiatrists (doctors), and government authorities. If I were asked why I began to write my autobiography in April 1993, four months after I had received the employer's responsive pleadings in a legal action I had initiated against the employer, I would have said: "I had to write my autobiography."

In Significant Moments, "the hero" (who appears in various guises, or is represented by various identity elements) makes a discovery that results in his being pitted against "the powers that be." The detractors of "the hero" are mocked and exposed as mean-spirited and unprincipled. I thereby expressed my distrust of the capacity of the "majority" to discriminate the "true" from the "false" and to exercise sound judgment. I showed "the powers that be" to be swayed by self-interest and incapable of distinguishing scientifically backed findings from self-serving rationalizations.

There is no decent, supportive public in Significant Moments. "The hero" naively values the support of "the powers that be" at the opening of the book. He believes that they will be responsive to truth and evidence. Before the book's end, "the hero" could rightly say that the most dangerous enemy of truth and freedom amongst us is the solid majority. "The majority is never right! . . . The minority is always right!" The minority to which "the hero" refers is himself. By the end of the book, he can trust nothing but his own values, perceptions, and beliefs.
Wounded by the shortsighted managers at Akin Gump, I asserted that the creative artist stands alone, a minority of one, to maintain his integrity and the purity of his vision. In Significant Moments I spoke with one uncompromising, solitary voice clearly depicted in "the hero," who loses all support and ends alone. "The strongest man in the world is the man who stands most alone." Increasing isolation drives "the hero" to proclaim, "I want to expose the evils that sooner or later must come to light."

To explore and to react aversively are dominant motivations for "the hero." He is uncompromising to the end, a man who does not mean to settle for rapprochement with the majority. He was ready to bring ruin upon himself and others rather than "flourish because of a lie."

In my response to the critics, I presented my hero as totally decent and honest, but naive with respect to political wheeling and dealing. His decency and goodness are contrasted with the narrow-mindedness of the majority. They are devoid of a sense of morality of their own and led by authorities who are rigid, unimaginative, self-serving, and bureaucratic -- banal at best and corrupt ("poisoned") at worst.

CREATIVE TRANSFORMATION: FROM JOB TERMINATION TO SIGNIFICANT MOMENTS

I had to write Significant Moments. The themes of that book, father-son tensions (real or symbolic), living a lie, the effects of learning "the truth," inheritance (in my case, the transmission of parental strengths and weaknesses), all manifestly rooted in my early life, are taken up in my book. In so doing, I addressed my compelling, burning, residual issue from my past and depicted it as a metaphor for my society as well. Significant Moments thus combines painful memories with a devastating social critique. Personally, I expressed my disillusionment at my father's legacy of academic, occupational, and marital failure, as well as my quest for an idealizable father of whom I could be proud.

Apparently I felt compelled to bare myself in a barely disguised form. I gathered together my past grievances and projected them on to "The Freud Archives Board." In them I embodied the lies, hypocrisy, deception, and duplicity that I hated in society. So long as they typified "the powers that be" and its "opinions," there could be no compromise. My uncompromising depiction of the "sins of the father," the "ghosts" that demand placing duty and public appearances above self-expression and individual freedom, expresses my long-held convictions in the purest, boldest form.

At the center of Significant Moments lies my determination to explore two sides of deception. Some self-deception is held necessary to maintain hope and to survive, yet there is also a pernicious self-deception that erodes ethics and undermines morality. Both Nietzsche and Jeffrey Masson were compelled to counter, respectively, Wagner's and The Freud Archives' deceptions of themselves and others. "The Heroes'" (Nietzsche's and Masson's) duty-bound rejection was felt by "the powers that be" (Wagner and Dr. Eissler) as both a rejection of their ideals and a personal betrayal.

I was shocked by my sudden job termination in late October 1991; but later (in April 1993), within four months of receiving the employer's responsive pleadings in the agency complaint I filed, I began work on Significant Moments. With my self-confidence shattered, if there was a moment when the capacity to transform shattered narcissism into artistic creativity was called for, this was it. The book became my response to the devastating experience of my termination and its aftermath. Note that it was only upon my receipt in late December 1992 of the employer's pleadings that I learned that the employer had allegedly determined that I was potentially violent -- that is, a physical danger to others: an allegation that must have resonated with my memory that at age three I had been determined by a municipal authority to pose a public health risk.

In Significant Moments moral integrity on one side is pitted against deception, greed, and narrow self-interests on the other. The battle lines are drawn clearly. Perhaps in outrage, all gloves are off. I myself step upon the stage and drag my enemy, conventional wisdom, front and center with me.

The hero pays the price for his naive belief in truth; he is socially totally isolated, but he remains undaunted. Throughout the book, he remains loyal to the idea that truth will win the day. He utters the line (through playwright Arthur Miller) that embodies "the hero's" defiance of the "majority" and defines the state in which he feels himself to be: independent, invulnerable, and exquisitely self-contained. "The strongest man in the world is the man who stands most alone!"

To me, the artist's strength lays in an undaunted capacity to maintain a vision in the face of opposition and to "cleanse and decontaminate the whole community." I must disturb, be perpetually misunderstood, and walk alone. Yet I would call Significant Moments an expression of the "comedy of life" in that it expresses my recognition that the creative artist cannot totally stand alone. Ultimately, he needs an audience to respond to him.

CREATIVITY IN SELF-STATE TRANSFORMATION

The artist accepts isolation as a consequence of his superior, unique vision of the world. He depicts his ideal, to follow the dictates of his artistic integrity, irrespective of the consequences. Compromise means accommodating to societal pressures, hypocrisy, and deception.

In Significant Moments the tyranny of conventional wisdom, the legacy of father to son, and the strength inherent in one's solitary loyalty to the "ideal" of truth appear on an unadorned stage.

It is always risky, when discussing an artist, to draw inferences about his life from his creative output. Nonetheless, parallels do exist between the artist's life and his creative work.

Traumatic, painful, or humiliating life experiences sometimes provide the context for an artist's work. To some extent, the creative product is the transformation by the artist of the effects of his painful past and narcissistically injurious experiences. Here, transformation refers to self-regulated alterations, the capacity to alter one's self-state, when, for example, it is characterized by guilt or shame, stirred by feelings of defeat and, when exposed to contempt, derision, or ridicule. To turn painful self-states into a sense of triumph requires transforming narcissistic injuries, often though not invariably, via narcissistic rage, into a sense of having righted a wrong, avenged a slur, or seized self-"intactness" from the jaws of injury.

Significant Moments is a self-revelation. As the book proceeds headlong toward its tragic denouement, the passages that describe the weather and the lighting are psychologically revealing. Thus, the portion of the writing that describes the high point of the Wagner-Nietzsche relationship refers to the brilliance of the sun. While the last meeting of Wagner and Nietzsche takes place on a cold, drizzly evening -- the night of a dinner party. Artists, including myself, often depict self-states of the characters through, for example, reference to weather. Changes in the weather foreshadow, just as a dream of a barren countryside may reveal and foreshadow, the state of the self.

The book also contains numerous biblical allusions and quotations. In adult years I have stood alone against my critics, who have usually been stronger and more numerous than my defenders. The source of my strength -- my ability to stand alone, undaunted -- I believe, is ultimately a positive inheritance from my father: namely, my father's ego-strengthening identification with the historical struggle of the Jewish people for survival. My ambivalence toward my father now becomes more understandable. My "inheritance" did not only include my father's failings, but contained a substantial quantum of support from him as well. My solitary faith in myself and my eventual triumph, coupled with my memory of my father's loyalty to the best in the Jewish tradition, may have provided the strength that has enabled me to stand alone and continue my struggle without the aid or presence of another.

After my disappointing job termination in 1991, my self-state could be characterized as enraged by new disappointments, as well as the revival of the old hurts and disillusionments. I sought refuge through the transformation of my painful state to one that may also have been an enduring legacy of my childhood, a state devoid of impingements from others and free of the disappointment I felt in my father. I sought a sense of supremacy, alone and at peace. Akin to a puppeteer, I longed to be above the critics and the mundane world, without concern for social status, economics, or prestige.

In any event, that's the bird's eye view.

Check you out next week, buddy. You might want to look up Bruce S. Linenberg, who was in my high school graduating class. He was supersmart and supercool. He's now a psychologist.

P.S. This letter is, for the most part, a paraphrase of a technical paper: "Ibsen: Criticism, Creativity, and Self-State Transformations," by Frank M. Lachmann and Annette Lachmann, published in The Annual of Psychoanalysis, vol. 24, 1996.

Frank M. Lachmann, Ph.D., is a member of the Founding Faculty of the Institute for the Psychoanalytic Study of Subjectivity; Clinical Assistant Professor, New York University Postdoctoral Program in Psychotherapy and Psychoanalysis, and Training and Supervising Analyst, Postgraduate Center for Mental Health. He is author or co-author of more than 80 publications. His most recent works include Transforming Aggression: Psychotherapy with the Difficult-to-Treat Patient (Aronson, 2001); with Beatrice Beebe he is co-author of Infant Research and Adult Treatment: Co-Constructing Interactions (Analytic Press, 2002) and with Joseph Lichtenberg and James Fosshage he is co-author of three books, including A Spirit of Inquiry: Communication in Psychoanalysis (Analytic Press, 2002).

APPENDIX: Brief excerpt from Significant Moments, an autobiographical study.

Those with an intimate acquaintance of Hebrew texts will recognize immediately that this one is written entirely in melitzah, a mosaic of fragments and phrases from the Hebrew Bible as well as from rabbinic literature or the liturgy, fitted together to form a new statement of what the author intends to express at the moment. Melitzah, in effect, recalls Walter Benjamin's desire to someday write a work composed entirely of quotations. At any rate, it was a literary device employed widely in medieval Hebrew poetry and prose, then through . . .
Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Freud's Moses.
. . .the movement known as Haskalah, Hebrew for “enlightenment,”. . .
Herbert Kupferberg, The Mendelssohns: Three Generations of Genius.
. . . and even among nineteenth-century writers both modern and traditional.
Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Freud's Moses.
What is so special about this particular . . .
Adam Baer, The Music Language.
. . . literary device?
Ken Ham, Where are you, metaphor?
In melitzah the sentences compounded out of quotations mean what they say; but below and beyond the surface they reverberate with associations to the original texts, and this is what makes them psychologically so interesting and valuable. In the transposition of a quotation from the original (in this case canonical) text to a new one, the meaning of the original context may be retained, altered, or subverted. In any case the original context trails along as an invisible interlinear presence, and the readers, like the writer, must be aware of these associations if they are to savor the new text to the full. A partial analogy may be found in Eliot's use of quotations in The Waste Land.
Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Freud's Moses.
If he is successful in . . .
Donald P. Spence, Narrative Truth and Historical Truth: Meaning and Interpretation in Psychoanalysis.
. . . his use of melitzah, . . .
Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Freud’s Moses.
. . . the Author . . .
Bill Moyers, Genesis: A Living Conversation.
. . . will arouse in the reader a particular set of images and associations which will add a certain texture and tone to what is being described—the chordal accompaniment, so to speak, to the melodic line.
Donald P. Spence, Narrative Truth and Historical Truth: Meaning and Interpretation in Psychoanalysis.
_____________________________________________________________

I have resolved on an enterprise which has no precedent, and which, once complete, will have no imitator. My purpose is to display to my kind a portrait in every way true to nature, and the man I shall portray will be myself. Simply myself.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Confessions.
If I have written much of it in the third person, well, that is because such an obsessive account of . . .
Richard Selzer, Raising the Dead.
. . . my intrusion into this valley of suffering . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
. . . forces one, like Dorian Gray, to confront his own "devilish, furtive, ingrown" self-portrait. The pronoun he gives a blessed bit of distance between myself and a too fresh ordeal in which the use of I would be rather like picking off a scab only to find that the wound had not completely healed.
Richard Selzer, Raising the Dead.
In the career of the most unliterary of writers, in the sense that literary ambition had never entered the world of his imagination, the coming into existence of the first book is quite an inexplicable event. In my own case I cannot trace it back to any mental or psychological cause which one could point out and hold to. The greatest of my gifts being a consummate capacity for doing nothing, I cannot even point to boredom as a rational stimulus for taking up a pen.
Joseph Conrad, A Personal Record.
What kind of person am I? What is so special about me?
Richard Wagner, Letter to King Ludwig II of Bavaria.
I am an assimilated Jew, content to be assimilated, relieved to be religiously unobservant. I don't know any Hebrew, or have forgotten the little I once learned.
Wayne Koestenbaum, Listening to Schwarzkopf: The Reich and the Soprano.
Speaking personally, I find that the American experience of being an assimilated grandchild of Orthodox immigrants has tended to make me an ill-informed, nonbelieving, non-observant Orthodox Jew, haunted by nostalgia for the peculiar music of the shul, for the Judaism I do not practice. And this adds still another puzzling iridescence to my Jewishness and to the tantalizing opportunities of my writer's divided self.
Daniel J. Boorstin, Cleopatra's Nose: Essays on the Unexpected.
. . . since these pages, if they survive me, may be the last testament of my brief and insignificant passage through the world, let me scrawl out the main facts.
Herman Wouk, War and Remembrance.
"I come from an unbroken line of infidel Jews. My father was a Voltairian. My mother was pious, but one day my father took me out for a walk . . .
Sigmund Freud, Conversation with Thornton Wilder.
. . . a walk in a little neighboring wood . . .
Voltaire, Candide.
. . . I can remember it perfectly, and explained to me that there was no way we could know that there is a God; that it didn't do any good to trouble one's head about such; but to live and do one's duty among one's fellow men"
Sigmund Freud, Conversation with Thornton Wilder.
I know my own heart and understand my fellow man. But I am made unlike any one I have ever met; I will even venture to say that I am like no one in the whole world. I may be no better, but at least I am different. Whether Nature did well or ill in breaking the mould in which she formed me, is a question which can only be resolved after reading my book.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Confessions.
____________________________________________________________

We writers live in the limbo between expression and communication. And we do not need theology or metaphysics to remind us that as writers we cannot avoid the effort, or the temptation, to serve two masters—ourselves, what is within us, and our reader, our conjectural clients outside.
Daniel J. Boorstin, Cleopatra's Nose: Essays on the Unexpected.
I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me. Perhaps these pages are more particularly addressed to poor students. As for the rest of my readers, they will accept such portions as apply to them. I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to whom it fits.
Henry David Thoreau, Walden.
By an ironic twist in the history of western literature, in this very age of unprecedented temptations to literary populism, an age of the sovereign and increasingly demanding public, there developed a fertile new sense of Personal Conscience. The private consciousness took on a new life and became a wondrous new literary resource. In modern transformation, conscience, an ancient laboratory of theological hairsplitting and a modern arena of ephemeral public taste, became inward, experimental, and biographical.
Daniel J. Boorstin, Cleopatra’s Nose: Essays on the Unexpected.
But more. But infinitely more.—
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Case of Wagner.
As prophet and pundit . . .
Daniel J. Boorstin, The Creators: A History of Heroes of the Imagination.
. . . as devilish, dangerous, a rebel, and yet also a martyr and sacrifice . . .
Frederick Karl, Franz Kafka: Representative Man.
. . . the writer has become . . .
Ramakant Rath, Has Literature a Future?
. . . the bad conscience of our whole era, . . .
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (Monday, December 13, 1869).
. . . and in so doing indeed . . .
Henry James, Confidence.
. . . he has come perilously close to defining the modern . . .
Frederick Karl, Franz Kafka: Representative Man.
. . . antihero who rejects received tenets of behaviour and stays true to his individuality . . .
Youssef Rakha, Review of A Sun Which Leaves No Shadows.
. . . in an always alien society.
Frederick Karl, Franz Kafka: Representative Man.
To think of the writer as conscience of the world is only to recognize that the writer, . . .
Daniel J. Boorstin, Cleopatra's Nose: Essays on the Unexpected.
. . . as we shall see, . . .
Edward R. Tannenbaum, 1900: The Generation Before the Great War.
. . . is inevitably a divided self, condemned at the same time to express and to communicate, to speak for the writer and speak to others.
Daniel J. Boorstin, Cleopatra's Nose: Essays on the Unexpected.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and heart of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
Henry David Thoreau, Walden.
Western literature offers us countless different ways in which authors have dealt with this divided self. I will provide only a sample from some of my favorite writers that may suggest the perils that beset writers who pretend to be the world's arbiters.
Daniel J. Boorstin, Cleopatra's Nose: Essays on the Unexpected.
Like Jean-Jacques Rousseau, . . .
Richard M. Ashbrook and Michael W. Torello, Preserving Community in a Technological Age: Toward the Constructive Incorporation of Technology in Higher Education.
. . . Hermann Hesse . . .
K.R. Eissler, Talent and Genius.
—one of my favorites—
Christina Olson Spiesel, The One Who Loved My Work: A Meditation on Art Criticism.
. . . embodied those divisions of his age which have left their mark on our culture. . . . In a manner unique among writers, he wove his immediate experiences into his books to portray many of the dilemmas and historic crises of his time. . . . It was this finely tuned interaction between his psychological conflict and historical events that was to make him a poet of crisis. . . .
Hesse's stories—like the dreams he collected in special notebooks—are told from both conscious and unconscious experience and therefore reveal and conceal events, encounters, and feelings from himself, his friends, his public. The way Hesse lived and wrote about his life, constantly aware of his conflicting impulses as part of the tension of his art, made this revelation and concealment permeate all his writings. . . .
He made himself into an example for his readers, just as Rousseau, by no means a stranger to the art of disclosure and concealment, had presented himself in his Confessions. With its "pole" and "counterpole," Hesse's work became an ongoing act of instruction even as it took the shape of a continuous novel.
Ralph Freedman, Hermann Hesse: Pilgrim of Crisis.
____________________________________________________________

The popular literary form . . .
Daniel J. Boorstin, Cleopatra's Nose: Essays on the Unexpected.
—as opposed to the sequestered academic one—is always straining at the inbuilt inertia of a society that always wants to deny change and the pain it necessarily involves. But it is in this effort that the musculature of important work is developed.
Arthur Miller, Timebends.
Hesse's literary career was closely interwoven with his personal fortunes as well as with his philosophical interests. His works before his disillusionment in World War I reflect the German literary traditions of romanticism and regionalism.
Encyclopedia Americana.
In this tradition, we are dealing with a line of thought that frames . . .
Ghent Urban Studies Team, The Urban Condition: Space, Community, and Self in the Contemporary Metropolis.
. . . clear-cut distinctions between good and evil, prudence and folly, reality and fantasy.
Edward R. Tannenbaum, 1900: The Generation before the Great War.
At any rate, in . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . accord with his original artistic nature, . . .
Paul Roazen, Erik H. Erikson: The Power and Limits of a Vision.
. . . and at a time when . . .
Michael Nightingale, Smallpox: Why All The Fuss?
. . . in his youth . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . he has not yet seen any of his illusions dissipated, . . .
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
. . . Hesse’s . . .
Ralph Freedman, Hermann Hesse: Pilgrim of Crisis.
. . . generally lower-middle-class heroes work hard, though rarely successfully, at adjusting to . . .
Encyclopedia Americana.
. . . the technological and social change . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . of urban industrial society.
Edward R. Tannenbaum, 1900: The Generation Before the Great War.
By the time . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . the Great War ended, however, . . .
W. Thomas White, Working Life: The Big Strike.
. . . the world had undergone a complete transformation . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . and the consequences for . . .
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
. . . Hesse . . .
K.R. Eissler, Talent and Genius.
. . . himself were far greater than he could ever have foreseen.
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
Somehow events in his life were coming to a head, but he felt that he was being lived by them, rather than living them.
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
He became uncertain whether good and bad, right and wrong, had any absolute existence at all. Perhaps the voice of one’s own conscience was ultimately the only valid judge, and if that were so, then . . .
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
Each man had only one genuine vocation—to find the way to himself. He might end up as poet or madman, as prophet or criminal—that was not his affair, ultimately it was of no concern. His task was to discover his own destiny—not an arbitrary one—and live it out wholly and resolutely within himself. Everything else was only a would-be existence, an attempt at evasion, a flight back to the ideals of the masses, conformity and fear of one’s own inwardness.
Hermann Hesse, Demian.
What more need I say?
Mohandas K. Gandhi, Indian Home Rule.
Beginning with Demian (1919), . . .
Encyclopedia Americana.
—if we may be permitted to anticipate our story . . .
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
. . . his heroes no longer try to conform but . . .
Encyclopedia Americana.
. . . force themselves almost against their own wills to insist, at the price of isolation, on finding an original way of . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . participating in . . .
H.G. Wells, The World Set Free.
. . . a new age of human involvement and commitment.
Encyclopedia Americana.

The Reflections of a Solitary on a Snowy January Day

Brian--

January 24, 2005

Hey, buddy. What did you think of that snowstorm on Saturday? Was Mr. Frost nipping at your nose? Did you even work on Saturday or did you have the day off? I heard that the libraries closed two hours early, at three-thirty. You were released from your workday chores prematurely, in mid-afternoon on Saturday, if indeed you were engaged with them at all.

On Saturday I occupied myself with Mr. Frost together with a host of other authors who populated my imagination as welcome guests: Jane Hamilton, Marya Hornbacher, Edith Wharton, Primo Levi, Boris Pasternak, Henry David Thoreau, and Margaret Brenman-Gibson. Stanley Greenspan was here too. But then, Dr. Greenspan is always here; he holds the key to my inner world, and he comes and goes at will. Oh, and lest I forget, Lord Byron visited briefly to convey a unique message "To Ellen."

In my loneliness I become a spectator. My imagination leads a procession of living creatures before me. I watch and listen to these guests of my imagination as I would a performance at the theater. And at times these fantastic creations of my inner world seem more real than reality itself. I may be affected by a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, I may not be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me much more. I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but a spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that is no more I than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned. This doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.

I came across a poem of Robert Frost's that seemed especially appropriate: "Brown's Descent." The opening lines read: "Brown lived at such a lofty farm that everyone for miles could see his lantern where he did his chores in winter after half-past three. And many must have seen him make his wild descent from there one night, 'cross lots, 'cross walls, 'cross everything describing rings of lantern-light. Between the house and barn the gale got him by something he had on and blew him out on the icy crust that cased the world, and he was gone!"

I hope you got home safely if you drove through the snow, Brian. My own life is like an unending slip and slide; I seem to be continually at the edge of an abyss, mere seconds and a few feet from swerving involuntarily into oncoming traffic. I fear crashing into the traffic in the opposite lane, hurling into the windshield -- hurting myself and damaging the rearview mirror.

My entire existence, in some sense, can be viewed as the lived aftermath of an accident, or series of accidents -- a fall from grace. I used to think if you fell from grace it was more likely than not the result of one stupendous error or else an unfortunate accident. I hadn't learned that it can happen so gradually you don't lose your stomach or hurt yourself in the landing. You don't necessarily sense the motion. I've found it takes at last two and generally three things to alter the course of a life: You slip around the truth once, and then again, and one more time, and there you are, feeling, for a moment, that it was sudden, your arrival at the bottom of a snowdrift.

That's the way I feel now. I feel as if I'm at the bottom of the heap, struggling to ascend from the snowdrifts that ensnare me in a winter wasteland.

At this moment, the problem is compounded by a writer's block. I feel I'm straining for something to say, something to express. I feel immobile, locked in the grip of a creative and emotional deep freeze.

There is a stillness without and a confused tumult within. I gaze out my window. I seem a part of the mute melancholy landscape, an incarnation of its frozen woe, with all that is warm and sentient in me fast bound below the surface; but there is nothing unfriendly in the silence. The silence is a balm for my inner disquiet. I simply feel that I live in a depth of moral isolation too remote for casual access, and I have the sense that my loneliness is not merely the result of my personal plight, tragic as it is, but has in it, as I've hinted many times before, the profound accumulated cold of many stark and harshly-demanding winters.

The night following the storm was perfectly still, and the air so dry and pure that it gave little sensation of cold. The effect produced on me was rather a complete absence of atmosphere, as though nothing less tenuous than ether intervened between the white earth and the gray sky above.

I let the vision possess me as I contemplated what to write to you, buddy. I am never so happy as when I abandon myself to these epistolary dreams. A wave of warmth goes through me as I think about the fact that for me the act of writing (not to mention paraphrasing, as well as outright plagiarizing) is the prolongation of a vision.

Saturday night. I set about to write. I scribbled some notes in longhand. What I wrote that night fell into two parts. Clean copies -- improved versions of earlier scribbling -- were set out in my best penmanship. New work was written in an illegible scrawl full of gaps and abbreviations. In deciphering these scribbles, I went through the usual disappointments. Last night these rough fragments had moved me, and I myself had been surprised by some felicitous passages. Now these very passages seemed to me distressingly and conspicuously strained.

The passages didn't flow. A clear and pleasing narrative did not materialize. I felt torn between a fevered urgency and a bitter languor. I cannot blame my inner censor for the block; that censor, like a good psychoanalyst, contemplated my outpourings with evenly-hovering attention. The ideas were there all right, but they failed to materialize into a cohesive communication. I not only feel that I am incomprehensible to others; I am sometimes incomprehensible to myself as well. There were many false starts -- and jarring stops. It was like driving through a winter storm. My thoughts made slow headway, and a vague fear gripped me as I envisioned veering off a train of thought or, alternatively, into a jarring wreck of incompatible ideas. The driver in a winter storm strives vigilantly for a commodious path, and is dismayed when he finds how far, after a seemingly interminable ride, he still remains from home.

It has been the dream of my life to write with an originality so discreet, so well concealed, as to be unnoticeable in its disguise of current and customary forms; all my life I have struggled for a style so restrained, so unpretentious that the reader or the hearer would fully understand the meaning without realizing how I assimilated it. I strive constantly for an unostentatious style, and I am dismayed to find how far I still remain from my ideal.

Saturday evening I had tried to convey, by words so simple as to be almost childish and suggesting the directness of a poem, my feelings of mingled idealism and fear and longing and courage, in such a way that should speak for itself, almost apart from the words.

Looking over my rough sketches now, I find that they needed a connecting theme to give unity to the lines, which for lack of it fell apart.

I take a break from my writing, and look out the window. I peer closely and inquisitively at the flakes of snow on the window ledge. Each crystal flake has an individual identity. Like a poem, each flake speaks of itself alone in a lyrical manner. Each six-sided flake expresses its own self in a broad, spacious hexameter. The regularity of the rhythm, independent of the meaning and inherent in the meter itself, does not strike me as doggerel; rather it contains a unique message expressed in infinite variety within a set form. Variety of expression within a strict form is difficult but engaging; the structural exigencies of poetry obviate verbosity just as nature imposes simplicity of form on the snowflake as a hedge against crystalline "windiness." The snowflake exalts in the concise and strong. It describes itself with the greatest rigor and the least clutter. The snowflake is compact, discrete; it is delineated by neat boundaries. Its individual identity is secure. The snowflake is a paradigm of firm, but precarious, self-delineation. Time and temperature will soon conspire to fuse the individual snowflakes into a crust amounting to a loss of individual identity.

Like the narrative of the psychoanalytic patient, every detail of the snowflake's form, however trivial, has a meaning. In the snowflake each crystalline projection has a structural function just as the analytic patient's outpourings follow narrative necessity.

The patient expresses his thoughts with clinical parsimony. In psychoanalysis the preferred explanation for a series of symptoms tends to be cast in terms of single events from the patient's past rather than different events on different occasions. The single event may be repeated again over time but the form of the event tends not to change. Similarly, nature endows each snowflake with an economy of expression within a hexagonal form.

The flake makes you think of something solid, stable, well-linked. In fact it happens also in crystallography as in architecture that "beautiful" edifices, that is symmetrical and simple, are also the most sturdy; in short the same thing happens with the crystal as with cupolas of cathedrals, the arches of bridges, or the well-designed theater whose structure follows the demands of acoustical science. And it is also possible that the explanation is neither remote nor metaphysical; to say "beautiful" is to say "desirable," and ever since man has built he has wanted to build at the smallest expense and in the most desirable fashion, and the aesthetic enjoyment he experiences when contemplating his work comes afterward. Certainly, it has not always been this way: there have been centuries in which "beauty" was identified with adornment, the superimposed, the frills; but it is probable that they were deviant epochs and that the true beauty, in which every century recognizes itself, is found in the upright stones of a simple farmhouse or the blade of the farmer's ax.

Early Saturday afternoon I looked out my window. The old park -- or what remains of it -- came right to the tool shed, as if to peer at my face and remind me of something. The snow was already deep. It was piled high on the tool shed. Snow hung over the edge of the shed, like the rim of a gigantic mushroom. A solitary raven was perched on the roof devouring, in Lord Byron's words, "the yellow harvest's countless seed." For a moment the bird freezes in an upright position, fixed like a stage prop suspended in time. The world stops.

Although it was early afternoon and full sunlight, I felt as if I were standing late at night in the dark forest of my life. Such was the darkness of my soul, such was my dejection. The new moon shining almost at eye level was an omen of separation and an image of solitude.

I paused and reflected. My mind wandered. Thoughts and images emerged unbidden as I contemplated the blinding whiteness of the snow. A mirage appeared, as a thought out of season. I was in Bayreuth, Germany, in January. The tool shed directly across from my apartment window appeared to me as a chimera; it was Wagner's Festival Theater in mid-January, six months before the summer opera festival will begin. The theater has fallen into its customary winter disuse. As for the out-of-season festival theater -- a "beautiful" edifice of magnificent symmetry and noble and imposing forms -- on a lofty hill outside the town, when there was only the falling snow to be seen and the auditorium was bare, comfortless, and shadowy, it felt to me less like a place of high art and pleasure than a vacant library that had closed early on a snowy January day -- or, perhaps, a New England barn, atop a hill that everyone for miles can see.

The mirage seemed to give the appearance of a somewhat arcane sensation, a suggestion of something simultaneously flaunted and guarded, a sort of a private delusion waiting to be revealed. Through the charms and simplicities of Bayreuth, during the months before the summer festival, the image of Richard Wagner perpetually looms, like an icon or an ideal -- the comforting presence of an imagined friend, perhaps -- and in my fancy left my mirage of Bayreuth in a condition of half-bewitched expectancy. Just you try putting Wagner out of your mind in Bayreuth -- even in January! Wagner became in this moment a symbol of All-Things-wished-for but denied: an embodiment of frustrated enticement. He became a symbol of the special friend one despairs of ever finding. I recognized my emotional emptiness in the phantasm of the out-of-season, vacant theater at Bayreuth. And then, in a moment the image of Wagner that had gripped my fantasies disappeared, as if it had been blown out on the icy crust that cased the world, and he was gone!

I was left with a spiritual hunger borne of a disconnected feeling. The disconnected mood which strains for closure more in the artist than in others is the same bridge that joins me to Victor Hugo's "miserables." My emotional starvation welcomes as a brother fellow seekers: idealistic souls who pursue an inner vision of truth and meaning in defiance of the compact majority. But my starvation, however painful, also aids me in that central necessity for any artist -- to find a communicative Form or structure whereby I can simultaneously heal my inner disconnections and end my disconnection from others. My gift -- if it be called a gift -- permits me, while integrating the contrarities within, to provide such integration for my audience as to unite me with it. This is the self-healing and other-healing function of all art.

It is only by writing these letters that I seem able to derive any satisfaction from life. Social avenues of engagement with others seem blocked by the barrenness of my frozen soul. I am forever locked in the grips of a slippery slope that I desperately want to ascend, but to which I -- like Camus's Sisyphus -- am forced to submit in fatal descent. I lack the capacity for true engagement with others, and so I occupy myself with an imaginary connection with a distant and unseen audience through the communicative form of these letters.

For the genuine artist, the search for a suitable form competes in importance with the need to express a particular content. Mere content alone veers toward dissolution and incomprehensibility in the absence of a unifying structural barrier or boundary.

Structural issues of a different kind also mediate social relatedness, for, as Erik Erikson has observed, true engagement with others is the result and the test of firm self-delineation. Where this is still missing, the individual when seeking tentative forms of friendship is apt to experience a peculiar strain, as if such tentative engagement might turn into an interpersonal fusion amounting to a loss of identity, and requiring, therefore, a tense inner reservation, a caution in commitment. Because I myself have never resolved this strain I isolate myself and enter, at best, only stereotyped and formalized interpersonal relations. For where an assured sense of identity is missing even friendship becomes a desperate attempt at delineating the fuzzy outlines of identity by mutual narcissistic mirroring: to make a friend then often means to fall into one's mirror image, hurting oneself and damaging the mirror.

I seek a real person, an actual other, a comrade-in-arms -- a psychical ballast, as it were -- with whom I can share my thoughts and feelings.

If I can't make a friend, I would hope I might find a therapist with whom I could communicate: someone whose opinions I can respect, someone who might offer narcissistic nourishment to ease my emotional starvation. But at the moment there is no one.

What I desperately need at this time is a therapeutic process, including a transference relationship and the skillful guidance of a seasoned therapist to avail myself of opportunities for new growth: someone who can appreciate the needs, limitations, and capacities associated with my ego structure. What I need is a therapist who has a road map of the structural components of my ego processes to go alongside a road map of intrapsychic content (e.g., wishes, conflicts, fears), that can increase my understanding of my Self and improve my day-to-day adjustment.

Let me tell you something important, Brian. An important fact: I grew up in the theater. My parents were actors and directors, and I myself began performing when I was just a child. There is no place on earth that fosters narcissism like the theater, but by the same token, nowhere is it easier to believe that you are essentially empty, that you must constantly reinvent yourself in order to hold your audience in thrall. In childhood I became fascinated with transformations, with mirage and smoke and mirrors (rearview or otherwise). Perhaps a genetically less sensitive, less porous, and less gifted youngster would have responded with greater resilience to his family and would have achieved a more comfortable day-to-day adjustment. But I was hypersensitive to the goings-on in my family, and my early life in the theater exacted its toll.

I need a therapist who has a rich understanding of the various dramas played out in my intrapsychic life. I need a therapist who will sit quietly as he watches the play unfold, while being in his or her own mind also a co-actor. I need a therapist who appreciates the psychodrama of therapy: one who, within the walls of his office, is able to surrender his identity to the phantoms that haunt his patients, continually attending to the form of the moment of communication while bearing in mind the whole session as it echoes and repeats the form of the patient's life drama. I require a therapist who can accommodate the multifarious diffusion of my identity -- my inner gallery of characters -- and who can surrender himself to the act of witnessing the entire process of my inner drama play out.

Put another way, I need a therapist who understands the structure of my ego -- my psychic terrain, one might say -- and whose map of that structure will permit me to arrive home safely on a snowy, winter afternoon. Someone who knows which roads are navigable, which ones are temporarily blocked, and which roads are permanently impassable. There is nothing more frustrating to a passenger riding in a winter storm than the driver's self-aggrandizing false promises: promises about the ease of travel along a particular road that are based on the driver's foolhardy failure to appreciate the severity of the road conditions.

It's especially important clinically to understand the structure of the ego, in addition to the particular dynamic phenomenon the ego is struggling with at any moment so that therapist and patient can knowledgeably journey across the patient's mental landscape: to observe the patient's wishes and abstracted feeling states, make connections between different wishes and feelings (as well as different sides of a conflict), and understand these in historical, current, and future contexts.

Be that as it may.

It is now early evening on this snowy day in mid-January. The storm has all but passed. The stir is over. I step forth once again to peer outside my window. I strain to make the far-off images beyond my windowpane yield a cue to the events that may come in the days ahead. Night and its murk transfix and pin me, staring through thousands of stars. I cherish this moment, this rigorous conception of a snowy winter evening, and I consent to play my part therein as spectator. But another play is running at this moment, so, for the present, I seek a premature release. And yet, the order of the acts has been schemed and plotted, and nothing can avert the final curtain's fall. The January thaw will soon take off the polish of the snow's crust. I bow with grace to natural law. I stand alone. All else is swamped in fuzzy dissolution. To live life to the end, while peering back to the path one has already traversed, is not a childish task.

Check you out next week, buddy. We're actually more alike than you'll ever know. "Don't think Brown ever gave up hope of getting home again because he couldn't climb that slippery slope." One way or another, I too plan to get home someday.

The Schizoid: A Persecuted Minority

January 18, 2005

Brian--

Hey, buddy. What's been occupying your days and moods? Do you ever venture into the depths of introspection? Do you sometimes scrupulously pour over the events of your life, and your place in the world? Do you ever become engrossed in the somber hues and sober tints of your inner mental life? Well, you should, buddy. It brings out your "I's."

My inner mental life IS my life. A thing that has reached terrifying proportions in my life is the fact that I seem to make little if any contact with living people. I know what has happened. From most of them there is so little to be learned, so little to be seen or discovered in them that is original and revelatory, that I have gotten into the habit of ignoring them. It was always that way with me: the inside teeming and quick rhythm was more important. It is even more so now, but how dangerous it is, how easily it will let one fall into the habit of peopling the world with one's own desires and images! I feel it happening all the time, but seem to do nothing to prevent this loss. I have paid a truly great price for the years of my young loneliness: I am forever locked in myself, deeply imbedded in the flesh and bones of myself is a hungry peering person, astigmatic, tired, alone.

I am lost to the world with which I used to waste so much time; it has heard nothing from me for so long that it may very well believe that I am dead (or at least petrified)! It is of no consequence to me whether it thinks me dead; I cannot deny it, for I really am dead to the world. I am dead to the world's tumult, and I rest in a quiet realm! I live alone in my one-room apartment, in my imaginary friendships and in my letters! That is, when I'm not otherwise occupied with my daily workout regimen in the exercise room of my apartment building.

I live out my days tunneling, tunneling through my thoughts to ever greater depths -- like Kafka's mole-rat digging into the earth below, creating a labyrinthine burrow of seemingly infinite complexity that is safe from the encroachment of others. "And with that I lose myself in a maze of technical speculations, I begin once more to dream my dream of a completely perfect burrow, and that somewhat calms me; with closed eyes I behold with delight perfect or almost perfect structural devices for enabling me to slip out and in unobserved. While I lie there thinking such things I admire these devices very greatly, but only as technical achievements, or as real advantages, for this freedom to slip out and in at will, what does it amount to? It is the mark of a restless nature, of inner uncertainty, disreputable desires, evil propensities that seem still worse when one thinks of the burrow, which is there at one's hand and can flood one with peace if one only remains quite open and receptive to it. For the present, however, I am outside it seeking some possibility of returning, and for that the necessary technical devices would be very desirable. But perhaps not very desirable after all. Is it not a very grave injustice to the burrow to regard it in moments of nervous panic as a mere hole among which one can creep and be safe?" Ah, yes! The freedom to slip "out and in" at will, as Kafka calls it. That's the famous "in and out program," which I discuss in greater depth, below.

Yes, in my burrow, in my solitary thoughts, I dream my dreams. But they are the dreams of "the undeveloped heart." I dwell in my burrow with a gallery of images, the images of a plethora of people: the monstrous and the good -- some unbelievably good. They remain phantoms, however. I lack the ability to care enough about another person; I suffer from a deficiency of the capacity for love, joy, and empathy to occupy myself with real people. The passageways of my burrow are redolent of indifference: the benign but vaguely repellent odor of emotional emptiness.

I live in fear by day and night; fear as deep as the marrow of the bone; doubt that I am worthy of life; since everyone around me denies it as I deny it to myself; which makes all love, all trust, all joy impossible.

From the tunnels of my imagination come a host of memories. All sorts of ghosts haunt these long, lonely corridors; foulness and miasma are everywhere, with here and there a vent-hole through which the phantom of one of my old acquaintances from within converses with another one of my old acquaintances from without.

My burrow is the resting place of all failure and all effort. To my life's pain it is a detritus, and to unfulfilled wishes a residue. It is the conscience of my life's experiences where all things converge and clash. There is darkness here, but no secrets. Everything has its true or at least its definitive form. There is this to be said for the muck-heap of my memories and imaginings, that it does not lie. Innocence dwells in it. Every foulness of my existence, fallen into disuse, sinks into that ditch of truth wherein ends the huge hoard of meaninglessness, to be swallowed, but to spread in endless rumination. It is a vast confusion. No false appearance, no whitewashing, is possible; filth strips off its shirt in utter starkness, all illusions and mirages scattered, nothing left except what is, showing the ugly face of what ends. Reality and disappearance: here, a bottleneck proclaims drunkenness, a basket-handle tells of home-life; and there the apple-core that had literary opinions again becomes an apple-core. Here my memories enjoy more than fraternity, they share a close intimacy. That which was painted is besmeared. The last veil is stripped away. The repository of memories that constitutes my mind is a cynic. It says everything. Endlessly. My burrow comprises the entrails of a monster. Mine is the life of a miserable sod. Ah, yes, Les Miserables!

I am in a dark place. I would live in utter darkness in my burrow but for The Word that emanates from higher realms. As the psalmist said: "Since God's word is a light for my path I will be sure not to stumble as long as it is with me. If God's word is in my heart then I can be sure that it will be there whenever I am in a dark place." Psalm 119: 105-106.

Yes, buddy, I was evicted from the library because I quoted scripture. An odd crime, don't you think? You interfered with my right to quote from Holy Writ on a public access computer at the library. Isn't that a First Amendment violation? Well, I guess you're not a Scientologist! I'll add that to my collection of atrocious memories: to the virtuoso collection of wounds and angers I harbor against my fellow man. I will dig a special hole in my burrow for the following memory: "On April 21, 2004, Brian Patrick Brown summoned the Metro DC Police to have me evicted from the Cleveland Park Library because I quoted from a Psalm." I'll add that memory to the permanent archives.

Be that as it may.

My session with The Mad Monk last week (Wednesday January 12, 2005) was a disaster. I walked out after about five minutes. I couldn't take it anymore. The last consult had been three weeks earlier, on December 22, 2004.

The Mad Monk showed no interest at all in how I was, how I felt, what I had been doing, how I had spent the holidays. Of course, obviously, they were Christian holidays, which are of no interest to Dr. Bash. But I myself am one-half Christian -- technically, at least. My mother was a Polish-Catholic coal-miner's daughter, after all. I suppose you could call me "The Half-Jewish Patient."

"So why did you wait three weeks to see me?" asked Dr. Bash. "I'm saving money. I save money on transportation by seeing you every three weeks," I said. Actually, I was being polite. Financial concerns were not my only reason for waiting three weeks to consult Dr. Bash. I'm simply sick of The Mad Monk.

"Do you take a bus to get here?" she asked. "No, subway," I said (Underground Man that I am). "Well, you could save money by walking here," the ever-practical Dr. Bash said. "Or," she continued, "you could walk one way and take the subway the other way. You could walk here and take the subway home. Or you could take the subway here and walk home." Dr. Bash covered all the permutations and combinations. She's nothing if not thorough, at least in regard to meaningless minutiae.

Dr. Bash then said: "Walking is good exercise. Do you get exercise?" "Yes," I replied, "I work out in the exercise room." "What kind of exercise do you do?" she inquired. "Well," I said, "we have an exercise room in my apartment building and they have different machines. I work out on an eliptical machine."

"Do you talk to anyone in the exercise room?" Dr. Bash asked. "No," I said. It was at this point that I started to get agitated. I knew what was coming. "You could try to make friends with someone in the exercise room," she said. "I have problems making friends, Dr. Bash." The Mad Monk then said, "Did you even try?" "No," I replied. I interrupted: "Dr. Bash, I have very serious psychological problems. The psychological problems impair my ability to make friends. I have very serious personality problems." At that point Dr. Bash offered the one-word dismissive comment, "So?"

Presently I could feel a rush of rage bubbling up from my inner core. I calmly said, rising from my chair: "Well, Dr. Bash, I'll see you in three weeks." I walked toward the door. Dr. Bash said: "Where are you going?" I said: "I'm leaving. I can't take it anymore." And I left. "In and out."

Do you notice anything about the totality of the interaction, buddy? The Mad Monk set the entire inane agenda. I had not seen her in three weeks. I have no friends, no family, no social interaction of any kind. I went to the clinic to talk with my therapist. And she proceeded to examine me about why I chose to see her every three weeks instead of every two weeks; my means of transportation to and from the clinic; my exercise routine; and my failure to make friends with people in the exercise room. Then she faulted me for not making an effort to befriend fellow tenants in the exercise room.

"Dr. Bash, I have a problem making friends." "Did you even try?" That phrase ("Did you even try?") really gnawed at my gut. Almost two months ago I presented Dr. Bash a copy of a letter issued by the DC Department of Employment Services, dated November 17, 2004 (Daryl Hardy, 202 698-5146), requesting that Dr. Bash (the letter specifically referred to Dr. Bash by name) prepare a statement about my mental status that would allow the agency to begin to assist me in seeking employment. Dr. Bash refuses to prepare such a statement, thereby impairing my ability to get a job. Bottom line: "She didn't even try!" The fact is that Dr. Bash is not doing all that she can do to help me and all that she has been reasonably requested to do by the DC Government to help me. She then proceeds to chastise me for failing to do all that I can do to make friends. The Mad Monk is a disaster!

Fuck it, man. I've had it! I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore. It's called "Schizoid Rage." I have a mental disorder. A recognized mental disorder: Schizoid Personality Disorder. Yes, I am a Schizoid American. The disorder severely impairs my ability to form and maintain relationships. I don't make friends: not simply because I don't make an effort to make friends. My whole internal psychic apparatus is not geared to establishing and maintaining social relations. I need help. The help of a knowledgeable professional. Someone who understands -- really understands -- my personality disorder and is able to work with me. I'm not just a socially isolated person who has trouble making friends. I am a mentally disordered person whose lack of social relations is a symptom of the disorder. Dr. Bash claims to be an expert in cognitive therapy. Has she even read Aaron Beck's book on the cognitive therapy of persons with personality disorders? Aaron Beck, MD, incidentally (who has his own clinic in Philadelphia), is the Godfather of cognitive therapy. His book is "Cognitive Therapy of Personality Disorders," Aaron T. Beck, Arthur Freeman, and associates (1990). Message for Dr. Bash: "Read It!"

I'm thinking of organizing fellow schizoids. We need to embark on concerted action. We need to lobby Congress. We have rights. We have been ignored for too long. We are a silent (a very silent), oppressed minority. Quite frankly, I was thinking (or fantasizing) about organizing an imaginary March on Washington to draw attention to the plight of the Schizoid minority in this country. I'm talking revolt -- a civil rights movement for the solitary! "All those who cherish in their souls a secret grudge against some action of the State, or of life or destiny," wrote Victor Hugo, "are attracted to the revolt; and when it manifests itself they shiver and feel themselves uplifted by the tempest." Vive Les Miserables!

In 1988, the United States Congress atoned for admitted wrongdoing by apologizing and paying reparations to Japanese-Americans interned during World War II. More recently, the U.S. government has pushed Switzerland's banks to compensate Holocaust victims for withholding their war-time bank accounts. What about reparations for African-Americans scarred by slavery's brutal legacy? And what, I would ask, about fair treatment for schizoids?

Throughout the 20th century, apologies and reparations have been offered to numerous individuals and groups for human-rights violations including The Tuskegee Experiment in which the U.S. government tested the effects of syphilis on black men; the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II; and the Holocaust. African-American leaders have begun to call for reparations to the descendants of slaves for the inhumanities their ancestors endured as well as for the enormous contributions of African-Americans to American culture in general.

But when, I ask, when, if ever, will the horrendous suffering -- the inescapable loneliness, social marginalization, and pariah status -- of the schizoid be recognized and addressed? When will the psychological limitations imposed by Schizoid Personality Disorder be respected and accommodated?

In point of fact, I'm only being semi-humorous. There's actually a site on the internet that refers to schizoids as "an oppressed minority." The article (written by Peggy Breece, the relative of a schizoid) talks about the special needs of the schizoid that should be recognized.

The author writes: "I have reviewed the texts used in discussing the history and assessment of Schizoid Personality and I suggest taking a new approach in creating a better living environment for schizoids. Instead of trying to change the person, I am advocating for society to become more tolerant of those exhibiting Schizoid Personality who are extreme introverts and recluses. As mentioned earlier, schizoids are absent of psychosis, but even so, those with varying mental health conditions deserve a life free of oppression and ridicule. So, how do I suggest that society begin being less critical, judgmental, and discriminatory of schizoids? Teach children at early ages that being extroverted does not mean being superior or better than those who are introverted. Teach celebration of diversity and incorporating those exhibiting Schizoid Personality (minus the 'disorder') and other mental health conditions into cultural awareness discussions.

Using education as a tool, children may begin to better understand that just as African-Americans, elderly persons, impoverished persons, and those with disabilities deserve respect and love, schizoids deserve the same opportunities and attention. Instead of mocking and ignoring, better understand how we can better understand each other's differences and turn what is considered a 'weakness' into a strength. Assimilation does not equate happiness. Instead it promotes feelings of shame, anxiety, and pain of not being allowed to just 'be.' Along with education, another strategy social workers need to facilitate is creating a social network for schizoids. For example, it would be helpful for them to come into contact with employment opportunities that would provide a social-free working environment, so when a schizoid chooses not to participate in 'office chit-chat' he or she is not deemed weird or strange. Not only that, schizoids do not feel comfortable in such settings. There should be a list of jobs sectioned off in the classifieds under 'working alone' professions. They are out there, but it is difficult to research them. Most employment ads ask for 'outgoing, social, talkative sellers.' Of course, all of those characteristics are not associated with schizoids, making it hard to find work environments compatible to their personality type and chosen life-styles.

Another benefit in creating a social network is to provide schizoids the opportunity to be themselves and talk with others that live similar lives. One could argue or even joke that it would be difficult to find schizoids to create a social network hence their lack of social interaction, but I disagree. I mean, it would be a challenge, but it is not impossible. For example, a social worker could list a support group in the newspaper or magazine or create a website so that schizoids can converse among each other yet do so in the privacy of their homes. Nonetheless, there are strategies social workers can implement to help eliminate the oppression schizoids feel. Just because this minority group does not outwardly declare, 'I deserve rights, too!' they do warrant a life free of oppression. It is a disservice for practitioners to implement strategies which incorporate 'changing' schizoids. In doing so, social workers are accepting and advocating for further social injustice and oppression.

As the NASW Code of Ethics [for Social Workers] states: Cultural Competence and Social Diversity (a) Social workers should understand culture and its function in human behavior and society, recognizing the strengths that exist in all cultures. (b) Social workers should have a knowledge base of their clients' cultures and be able to demonstrate competence in the provision of services that are sensitive to clients' cultures and to differences among people and cultural groups. (c) Social workers should obtain education about and seek to understand the nature of social diversity and oppression with respect to race, ethnicity, national origin, color, sex, sexual orientation, marital status, political belief, religion, and mental or physical disability (National Association of Social Workers, Code of Ethics, January 1, 1997, 1.05).

It is the responsibility of the social work profession to not predetermine who is eligible for services. Oppression feeds on ignorance and it breeds as the ignorance becomes a social norm. Those with Schizoid Personalities do not have a 'disorder' but a gift of high independence and intellect. Regardless, in just being a sentient being they deserve access to available resources, otherwise they feel alone . . . not by choice but as the result of oppression."

I hope I don't lose you in "a maze of technical speculations," Brian, but I came across a fascinating article about the novel (later, a movie) called "The English Patient." The article analyzes the novel as the author's creative transformation of the intrapsychic world of the schizoid individual. See Norman Doidge, MD, "Diagnosing 'The English Patient:' Contributions to Understanding the Schizoid Fantasies of Being Skinless and of Being Buried Alive."

The following material provides valuable insight into the intrapsychic "burrows" of the schizoid's wishes, conflicts, and fantasies. We schizoids are not simply socially isolated; we have a distinct intrapsychic mental life. Simply talking to people in an exercise room (or speaking Hebrew, for that matter) will not cure the schizoid.

Norman Doidge writes: "I here use the diagnosis of schizoid as it was first used by British Object Relations theorists, called schizoid because of 'schisms' in the personality. Because the disorder involves an often skilled role play at ordinary social relations, clinicians often misdiagnose these patients as obsessional or higher level narcissistic characters. Akhtar has observed that these 'schisms' are based not only upon the conscious versus unconscious oppositions, but also overt and covert descriptive features. Thus the schizoid may be 'covertly' detached, self-sufficient, absentminded, uninteresting, asexual, and idiosyncratically moral, while 'covertly' exquisitely sensitive, emotionally needy, acutely vigilant, creative, often perverse, and vulnerable to corruption.' Such patients display a 'moral unevenness; [are] occasionally strikingly amoral and vulnerable to odd crimes, at other times altruistically self-sacrificing.' Guntrip argued that the key schizoid characteristics are introversion, withdrawness, narcissism, self-sufficiency, a sense of superiority, loss of affect, loneliness, depersonalization, and regression.

Affects. Even though a schizoid person's affect is constricted, he is not without affective investments. One schizoid patient, who seemed Spock-like talking to people, had a passionate fascination with machines. His experience of emotions when dealing with people was almost digital: he was on or off, without the analogical crescendos and decrescendos of passion. The smallest surge of emotion is like a bomb going off. This state of affairs finds its objective correlative [in "The English Patient"] in the mined villa, and in Kip, the bomb defuser who must turn off all his fear.

Reasons for seeking treatment. The schizoid person tends to alternate between two painful, complex states. On the one hand 'there is a consuming need for object dependence but attachment threatens the schizoid with the loss of self.' Schizoids can function well as long as they can successfully repress intense dependence. To avoid losing himself in relations he protects himself by withdrawal and affective isolation. Without meaningful relationships, with affect shut down, he feels enervated, futile, lifeless. The chronic sense of futility, meaninglessness, and deadness are easily misdiagnosed as dysthymia, depression, or minimized as mere existential anxiety.

Buried alive. Schizoid withdrawal is not only interpersonal, i.e., away from real people; there is a kind of intrapsychic withdrawal, based upon fantasy. As treatment progresses, it is not uncommon for the schizoid to reveal fantasies of having buried his self within him, where it lies waiting until it is safe to be exposed. The fantasy that the self is buried also explains a dread of many schizoids, the fear of being buried alive. A patient dreamed, "There was a baby, it was buried alive. It was horrible and no one knew." [I spoke to my former treating psychiatrist, Dr. Palombo, about a persistent distressing feeling that I had been buried alive.]

The intrapsychic tomb. It is worth relating this to the phenomenon of intrapsychic tombs described by the French psychoanalyst Torok. Torok began formulating this concept following a lead by Karl Abraham. Abraham wrote to Freud of patients who seemed to show manic denial, and an upsurge of libido, as opposed to melancholia, after the death of their loved one. Torok noticed that a number of her patients related stories of sexual acts and needs right after a death. She saw this as a desperate and final attempt to sustain the relationship by the fantasy of incorporation (concretely taking a person's body inside them). She described these patients as having a fantasy of 'an exquisite corpse' entombed somewhere inside them, which they hoped to revive. One dreamed, 'I committed a terrible crime. I ate someone and then buried them... For this reason I have to spend the rest of my life in prison.' Torok brilliantly observed that in many cases of complicated grief, the anguished pining that the living bereaved feel is not their own longing for their love object, but rather, the fantasized pining of the deceased love object for them. If we deny our beloved has died, the fantasy of the beloved as alive and seeking us persists. It is all too often overlooked because we are preoccupied with our more conscious longing for the lost object. But fantasized incorporation of the deceased 'eating the object (which parallels, in ways, the Christian imagery of consuming the host)' stifles mourning. 'When, in the form of imaginary or real nourishment, we ingest the love object we miss... we refuse to mourn.... .'

Petrification fears. The schizoid person is often aware that his sense of self is fragile, and built upon a fantasy. Several of my schizoid patients had the ongoing fear that this imaginary world could all blow up at a moment's notice. While the schizoid person's surface may be nondescript, decorous, emotionless, he is terrified of being revealed as human, full of hunger. He fears being petrified and turning into rock, if another person catches him in his glance, as was Medusa when she saw herself as others saw her, i.e., in all her fantastic, composite ugliness, filled with unruly sexual and aggressive desires and defects. [Note that a letter I wrote several weeks ago (December 27, 2004) referred to Dr. Bash acting out her own Pygmalion fantasy. I attributed to her the desire to fine-tune my personality (treating me as a passive object to be acted upon) to gratify her own narcissistic needs, as a sculptor carves a passive block of marble into a statue. My imagery may relate to my petrification fears.]

Typical Development. Akhtar's extensive review has shown that rejection, traumatic overstimulation, and neglect in the first two years of life are common in the history of schizoids. [According to Dr. Bash, if a child cannot remember what happened to him, his psychological development cannot be affected by the experience.] The schizoid condition was first described by the Scottish psychoanalyst Fairbairn in the 1940s. Fairbairn found that his patients had withdrawn from parents who were overtly rejecting. They preferred to live in a rich, imaginary world. Many fiction writers are schizoid because the ability to create a vivid inner world in one's head gives one a head start at writing fiction. The downside is that the schizoid's sense of other people is impoverished.

Core belief: Not hatred, but love is the problem. Fairbairn observed that the child with the rejecting or disappointing parent develops an internalized image of the rejecting parent, called the anti-libidinal object, to which he is desperately attached. The rejecting parent is often incapable of loving, or preoccupied with his or her own needs. The child is rewarded when he is not demanding, and devalued or ridiculed as needy when he expresses his dependent longings [Compare Dr. Bash's observation that "I want everything on a silver platter" simply because I expressed a wish that she, the psychotherapist, do more than simply issue commands, make recommendations, or offer encouragement.]. Thus the schizoid's picture of 'good' behavior is distorted. The child learns never to nag or even yearn for love, because it makes the parent more distant and censorious. The child then may cover over the incredible loneliness, emptiness and ineptness he feels with a fantasy (often unconscious) that he is self-sufficient. Love and anger get hopelessly intertwined. Fairbairn argued that the tragedy of the schizoid child is that his conscience has been warped: he believes his love, not his hatred is the destructive force within. Love consumes. Hence the schizoid child's chief mental operation is to repress his or her normal wish to be loved.

Being smitten. In my experience, should the adult schizoid fall in love with someone who reminds him of his rejecting parent he will often describe himself as 'being smitten'; 'smitten' is the past participle of to smite, and to be smitten is to be disastrously and deeply affected as one falls in love, as though one has sustained a severe blow. The British frequently describe falling in love this way; I doubt that national partiality to that word is accidental. [The author of this article, which can be found on the internet, is a Canadian psychiatrist.]

Pickiness and Prickliness. On the other hand, when more nurturing people come along, the schizoid will often dream, guiltily, that he or she is being disloyal to the parent imago, betraying a pact. This intense, internal backlash derives from a pathological superego, which unlike that in a loved child, is anti-libidinal. The schizoid child has a conscience that has made love a crime. Conscience always incites us to scrupulously pour over events and see them in a moral light; the schizoid's conscience demands he focus on the new love interest in an active, picky, prosecutorial, fault-finding way. Love becomes about as pleasant as litigation, for both parties. [Note that I am a nonpracticing heterosexual and a nonpracticing lawyer!] To avoid feeling picky, he may try to withdraw or simply enter a defensive, turned off state, finding the potential lover 'boring' or 'a turn off'. He has gone into total affect shut-down. Or he may become prickly, and chronically irritable so that others know not to approach.

Under the skin, the wish for merger or fusion. Should the love object 'get under the skin', the schizoid person feels taken over; being smitten releases his own pent-up wish to merger and cling that was appropriate in early childhood, but never satisfied at that time; his own longing gives rise to the fear that he will lose the external boundary that exists between himself and the exciting love object. He feels as if the love object is possessing him, in the sense of spirit possession.

Reversal of the values of life and death; preoccupation with the living dead, and the dead in the living. While schizoid patients may have quite conventional attitudes on the surface towards life as being something good, the fantasy life, so suffused with anti-libidinal themes, often displays a reversal of values of life and death, and an emphasis on the futility of life that one sees so frequently expressed in Beckett, for example. For instance, many of us fear that death is futile, and goes on for an unrelieved eternity; Beckett depicts not death but life as futile and going on and on without meaning. Thus there is a strong tendency towards nihilism and withdrawal that must be struggled against.

Defensive Techniques against Falling in Love: Ascetic ideals. To squelch this hunger for love the schizoid may idealize asceticism. But like the ascetic who retreats to the desert to avoid human contact and temptation, he soon begins to see the temptress in his wet dreams, sanctuary drawings, and religious stories, in a return of the repressed. He concludes, mistakenly, that desire is a bottomless pit; promiscuity and celibacy may alternate, both as attempts to deal with this perceived insatiability. [Note Fernando's observation in his paper on "The Exceptions" about a patient who seemed to live in two different worlds: one in which sexuality hardly existed, and one in which it was all too frighteningly present.]

Role playing. Another anti-libidinal technique used by schizoids to preserve the pact with the bad parent is to appear to be involved with others. Thus a subset of schizoid people of the 'role playing variety' get involved in a limited way. Fairbairn showed that the schizoid can actually unconsciously disown the social role while he is playing it. A patient appeared for a long time to be free associating and involved in sessions. Only well into treatment did he disclose that he always had the omnipotent fantasy that he was controlling everything I said.

The in and out program [otherwise known, in Franz Kafka's terminology, as "the out and in" program]. A related distancing technique has been described by Guntrip as 'the in and out program' and involves 'always breaking away from what one is at the same time holding on to.' This may involve 'rushing in and out of one marriage after another', or always emphasizing to one's partner that one could get along without him or her, or always fantasizing about taking a job away from the partner while staying with the partner. Such patients are 'unable to commit... in a stable... way.' They are always negotiating the optimal distance between themselves and others, saying things like 'I need my space.' But not infinite space, for the repressed hungry self is rarely completely obliterated, and it draws them back into the optimal orbit of others.

Sadomasochistic Object Relations. The belief that love consumes or destroys one's identity, and the tendency we have to repeat, make sadomasochistic object relations with a rejecting parent substitute highly likely. Sadomasochistic hurts help keep the object at a distance, which suits the schizoid's in and out program.

Attitudes toward children. There are no children in "The English Patient." In my experience, the classic schizoid is ambivalent about the 'idea' of having children, though may be surprised at how attached he or she may become towards them, should children come along. In sicker schizoids the parental instincts seem turned to pets, collecting things, or the environment which becomes animated."

The internet contains a site by Phillip W. Long, MD, that talks about the recommended treatment of schizoid patients. Dr. Long does not address the issues of eating out, speaking Hebrew, socializing in an exercise milieu, or attending one's local synagogue (Orthodox, Reform, or Conservative).

Psychosocial Treatment -- Basic Principles: "The physician should appreciate the need for privacy in a person with schizoid personality disorder and should maintain a low-key approach that focuses on the technical elements of treatment. Such a focus will enable the patient to feel the physician's concern and caring and know that caretakers will not press beyond comfortable limits. The patient should be encouraged to maintain daily routines so that a sense of "life as usual" can counteract the worry that illness will shatter the patient's efforts to remain detached and uninvolved. Knowledge of the patient's usual pattern of functioning will counteract any tendency on the part of the health care team to become personally overinvolved or be too zealously concerned with providing social supports for the patient."

Individual Psychotherapy: "Long-term psychotherapy has been useful in selected cases. The course of therapy involves gradual development of trust. If this can be achieved, the patient may share long-standing fantasies of imaginary friendships and may reveal fears of depending on others. Patients are encouraged to examine the unrealistic nature of their fears and fantasies and to form actual relationships. Successful psychotherapy will produce gradual change. The patient should be provided with some sense of optimism that his or her basic needs can be met without encountering some overwhelming 'collapse or suffocation.' The most useful therapeutic interaction is consistent and supportive, with clear rules, an ability for the patient to set the therapeutic distance as necessary, and some tolerance for acting-out behaviors. The treatment of schizoid personalities is similar to the treatment of paranoid personalities. However, the schizoid patient's tendencies toward introspection are consistent with the psychotherapist's expectations, and the schizoid patient may become a devoted if distant patient. Extensive periods of silence, however, may be hard to bear. As trust develops, the schizoid patient may, with great trepidation, reveal a plethora of fantasies, imaginary friends, and fears of unbearable dependency - even of merging with the therapist. Oscillation between fear of clinging to the therapist may be followed by fleeing through fantasy and withdrawal."

Group Therapy: "Group psychotherapy may be helpful. A prolonged period of silent withdrawal may often be followed by gradual involvement in the group process. It is important for the group leader to protect the schizoid patient from criticism by other members for not participating verbally in the early affiliative phase of the group. [In group, I was criticized for talking too much; the male group member attacked me for "taking up 80% of the group sessions." Much of the criticism directed at me by group members was antitherapeutic, and was not defended against by the group leaders.]

In group therapy settings, a schizoid patient may be silent for a year or more; nonetheless, involvement does take place. The patient should be protected against aggressive attack by group members on his proclivity for silence. With time, the group may become a meaningful experience for the patient and provide social contact, as well as therapy. Group therapy is particularly useful for schizoids, who are provided with a social network in which they have the opportunity to overcome fears of closeness and feelings of isolation. They learn, in the supportive milieu of the group, to communicate their thoughts and feelings directly to others and, by so doing, move toward more normal behavioral patterns."

Aaron T. Beck, MD, a leading cognitive therapist, has written the following about the treatment of schizoid patients. "In contrast to the treatments of such Axis I disorders as depressive disorder and anxiety disorders, the therapy for personality disorders requires a long period of therapeutic work--often one or more years. Also, much more therapeutic concentration deals with transference issues, exploring childhood patterns, and even revivifying pathogenic childhood experiences. In that respect, cognitive therapy has an increasing convergence with psychodynamic therapy. The major differences are that the cognitive therapist is more active and directive, the therapeutic sessions are more structured, the content is based on exploring and testing cognitive distortions and basic beliefs, and the patient is expected to carry out homework assignments."

All the internet sites I've read concerning the treatment of schizoids emphasize the absolute requirement of the therapist to refrain from placing pressure on the patient. This treatment guideline is the polar opposite of Dr. Bash's approach, which is coercive; I suspect that the severe worsening of my condition since I started seeing Dr. Bash is directly attributable to her coercive style.

Treatment Provider Guidelines: The clinician must respect the SPDs need for a safe distance and his/her fear of engulfment. Early in treatment, the SPD may feel lost and tongue-tied. The treatment provider must neither intrude nor fall into counter-detachment. Also, the treatment provider must convey understanding of the internal experience of the SPD; their limited communication must be sufficient for a therapeutic connection. Even high functioning SPDs worry that they are aberrant and incomprehensible. Be alert for possible psychotic processes; assess for hallucinations, delusions, and a thought disorder.

Countertransference Issues: SPDs are unable to make interaction rewarding to the service provider, i.e., there is a general lack of responsivity, a frustrating incapacity to relate, and a general and pervasive lack of empathy. It may become increasingly easy to overlook or ignore these individuals. Most treatment providers are slightly depressive and their fear of abandonment is greater than their fear of engulfment; they naturally try to move close to the people they wish to help. [Early on Dr. Bash chastised me inappropriately. "I can't work with you. You don't want to change. I can't work with a patient who doesn't want to change. Look, I need satisfaction too. I need to see that the patient is responding to my working with him. I need to see change." Once again, note Dr. Bash's requirement that I gratify her own narcissistic needs. See letter dated December 27, 2004 citing the paper by Phyllis Beren.]

In any event, such are the trials of the Orthodox schizoid. The Orthodox schizoid suffers the most severe discrimination in our society. But the Reform schizoid is also frequently misunderstood. Even the Reform schizoid can find himself rejected by the gregarious members of society. Actually, Reform schizoids go by the name "The Solitary Type." I thought I'd acquaint you with the basic features of the Reform, or Solitary, type. Orthodox schizoids, by the way, reserve a special coldness for the Reform. As Orthodox schizoids say: "Assimilation does not equate happiness." It's a schizoid thing, buddy. You wouldn't understand.

The Solitary type prefers solitude; and disprefers not having or losing solitude. Dr. John M. Oldham has defined the Solitary personality style. The following six characteristic traits and behaviors are listed in his The New Personality Self-Portrait.

Solitude. Individuals with the Solitary personality style have small need of companionship and are most comfortable alone.

Independence. They are self-contained and do not require interaction with others in order to enjoy their experiences or to get on in life.

Sangfroid. Solitary men and women are even-tempered, calm, dispassionate, unsentimental, and unflappable.

Stoicism. They display an apparent indifference to pain and pleasure.

Sexual composure. They are not driven by sexual needs. They enjoy sex but will not suffer in its absence.

Feet on the ground. They are unswayed by either praise or criticism and can confidently come to terms with their own behavior.

Source: Oldham, John M., and Lois B. Morris. The New Personality Self-Portrait: Why You Think, Work, Love, and Act the Way You Do. Rev. ed. New York: Bantam, 1995.

Character Strengths and Virtues

Solitude, [silence, recollection].

Independence, self-containment, autonomous competence, creativity.

Sangfroid, even-tempered, calmness, dispassion, imperturbability, detachment; observation, concentration, clarity of vision, being-informed, science.

Stoicism, indifference, self-control, self-restraint, [self-sacrifice].

Sexual composure, not passionately sexual.

Feet on the ground, responsibility (Oldham, 275-86).

Signature Strengths

"Curiosity [interest, novelty-seeking, openness to experience]: Taking an interest in ongoing experience for its own sake; finding subjects and topics fascinating; exploring and discovering"

"Love of learning: Mastering new skills, topics, and bodies of knowledge, whether on one's own or formally; obviously related to the strength of curiosity but goes beyond it to describe the tendency to add systematically to what one knows"

"Persistence [perseverance, industriousness]: Finishing what one starts; persisting in a course of action in spite of obstacles; "getting it out the door"; taking pleasure in completing tasks"

"Fairness: Treating all people the same according to notions of fairness and justice; not letting personal feelings bias decisions about others; giving everyone a fair chance"

"Humility / Modesty Letting one's accomplishments speak for themselves; not regarding oneself as more special than one is"

"Self-regulation [self-control]: regulating what one feels and does; being disciplined; controlling one's appetites and emotions"

"Humor [playfulness]: Liking to laugh and tease; bringing smiles to other people; see the light side; making (not necessarily telling) jokes" (Peterson & Seligman, 29, 30).

Selected from Christopher Peterson and Martin E. P. Seligman, (2004). Character Strengths and Virtues: A Handbook and Classification. Oxford: Oxford UP.

Check you out next week, buddy. Hector is so lonely. Come and play with Hector. Llame Hector, por favor.

All I Ever Wanted for Christmas: The Identity Kit

Brian--

January 10, 2005

Hey, buddy. I forgot to ask: Did you get all you wanted for Christmas? Were your wants satisfied? Were your wants met? Did you get what you expected? Ah, wants and wanting! Gifts and giving! I have the impression that most people tend to feel that they somehow have a right to Freedom From Want. I can only hope that you are free from want.

What did I dream of getting as a gift this past holiday season, you ask? What I wanted was an identity kit. That's right, an identity kit. And I didn't get it. I suppose I'll have to live in hopes of getting an identity kit on some other occasion. You can't always get what you want.

By the way, Brian, it was good seeing you last week on Connecticut Avenue, I think it was Thursday January 6th. You're allowed to say hello, buddy; you know that, don't you? What do you think I'm going to do -- report your every gesture to the Chief of Police? Come to think of it, I saw you two weeks earlier, on Thursday morning, December 23rd -- my birthday, by the way. Remember that? You looked totally washed out. I never saw you look like that before. Your face was puffy, and your expression seemed to be one of bemused distraction. Didn't you get any sleep the night before? Were you up all night? Wrapping Christmas presents? Or -- speaking euphemistically -- was the little lady in a preholiday festive mood?

In any event, it was enough that I got a smile out of you. One recognizes oneself in that old smile of recognition from that old friend. But for the fact that I live in the neighborhood where you work -- which occasions chance encounters on the street -- we should have remained practically unacquainted these past several months.

I've spent the past week, the last seven "dark days," vainly attempting to govern my fifty personalities: the multifarious identity elements of my fractious and fragmented Self. As a consequence I must preserve my splendid isolation to ward off further dissolution of my precarious mental states, though I do make an effort to maintain a Good Neighbor policy. How deep the loneliness into which my life has drifted on account of my disposition and destiny and how consciously I have accepted this loneliness as my destiny, are things about which I struggle every day. For the most part I remain closed, withdrawn, and moody.

I have a rage within me, a desire to rebel, reject and negate; I have exiled myself from humanity in order to preserve my Self. I feel strangled in a nexus of human bonds which bind me to this earthly life which I loathe.

I would annihilate the world and all its humanity with an atom bomb, if I could -- leaving nothing but an open field and a rabbit sitting up. Yes, I'm in a Lawrentian mood. A mood befitting D.H. Lawrence, that is. I'm parodying Rupert Birkin, of course. "Rupert Birkin." What a strange name! You recall the character from "Women in Love," the D.H. Lawrence novel? Rupert Birkin would have liked nothing better than to see the world utterly destroyed. He yearned for a different life, a better life. And he longed for a friend, a special friend, to ward off loneliness.

In my solitude and grief I seek my mirror image, a second Self, for solace and comfort. Sometimes I feel as if I could die, actually die, from the frustration arising from my failure to find that other person I require to establish a satisfactory identity. On occasion my frustration turns to despair when I begin to question my own capacity to "mean" anything to anyone.

What are the origins of my suffering? Well, according to my sister (and please, Brian, please, don't define me or identify me as my sister's brother), yes, according to my sister I was a spoiled child. My current distress, my failure to adapt to a normal adult life, stems from the overgratification of my wants as a child.

"Whatever the boy wanted, he was given. A pony? As soon as his legs were long enough to straddle its back. A boat? He had the use of his father's yacht the 'Half Moon,' a sea captain to teach him how to handle it, and a twenty-one footer of his own (complete with anchor). A gun? His father handed him one at eleven. There were the neighboring children for him to play with, trees, cliff, and a river in which to test his mettle, and a succession of nurses, governesses, and tutors to serve and instruct him and for whom he could do no wrong. He did not require strict handling, his mother said, because 'instinctively' he was 'a good little boy.'" So says my sister. Who did my sister think I was, Franklin Roosevelt, growing up on one of the great estates along the Hudson River?

And by the way, for all its material comforts, FDR's childhood was lacking in personal freedom; the boy's time and activities were closely regulated -- not by alphabet agencies, but by a strict and demanding mother. The boy never rebelled against his parents, openly at least. My own suspicion is that he nurtured a secret, inner fury that fueled the powerful but socially-adaptive drive in adulthood to reform the existing economic and political order. People other than his parents, institutions other than his family would pay for his pain. By means of displacement, Franklin Roosevelt protected the idealized image of his early family life, which in reality was in some ways less than ideal. In the little memoir "My Boy Franklin," his mother insisted that she had never tried to influence young Franklin against his own states and inclinations, and yet she also disclosed that it was only 'eventually' that she had allowed his golden curls to be shorn, and that when, at the age of five, he had become melancholy he had 'clasped his hands in front of him and said 'Oh, for freedom'' when she asked him why. She had been genuinely shocked. 'That night I talked it over with his father who, I confess, often told me I nagged the boy. We agreed that unconsciously we had probably regulated the child's life too closely, even though we knew he had ample time for exercise and play.'" Overregulation stifles growth, -- at least that's what Greenspan says.

In some ways the boy Franklin, an only child, was prince of the castle at his parents' estate at Hyde Park. Unlike the surveyor in Kafka's novel "The Castle," he did not suffer from inscrutable surroundings, for he enjoyed supportive attachment objects. He did suffer from the meaningless bureaucracy (child-rearing practices) of his mother, the over-regulation of his caretakers, the probable self-importance of the employees, and above all from the fact that there must have seemed to be no answers in this environment to his most existential questions. Whom could he ask?

Boys thus driven in upon themselves may develop a deceptive exterior which conforms in every apparent respect to the standards of behavior set and enforced by authority and by group influences, but what goes on within may be something that in the long run will explode into an irresistible force, not one to be taken lightly. It is supposition on my part to speak of his loneliness and fear of impermanence, and it is a bit premature, in his life's story, to speak of it when he was yet a boy. But it seems to me to have accompanied quite naturally his feeling of being present but of never quite belonging and the worry of not being quite up to the tests he had to meet.

All accounts concur to create an image of the young Franklin Roosevelt as the traditional young Ivy-educated lawyer with a conservative upper class background, eager to work hard for the sake of his family as befits a responsible, loving husband and father. But a more careful examination of the facts -- based on a retrospective examination of the radical progressivism of his political agenda -- reveals a very different picture. The placid politician, the patient and conventional lover is in fact a man of violent (or potentially violent), sometimes uncontrollable passions -- or passions that are only controlled after a painful inner (and not always inner) struggle. After he became president, the brutal attacks that were lodged against him by his political adversaries energized his passions and, in defiance, he was goaded to augment -- not retreat from -- his legislative initiatives.

Be that as it may.

My sister's reflections on the causes of my social and psychological difficulties are not an objective appraisal of the problem -- they ARE the problem. I matured in and adapted to a disturbed family environment in which my identity-for-others served the narcissistic needs of others, and not my own. I never had the freedom to develop my "own" identity, abstracted from my identity-for-others. I now struggle with the fear of being engulfed by others: the fear that other people will encroach on my basic right to be myself, and not a self-for-others. It's as if I have to be my own Secret Service, protecting my right to Selfhood against the identity assassins who would destroy me. Regardless of any material indulgence I enjoyed in childhood, I lacked a basic Freedom from Fear.

I think that my conflicts and wishes were not so different from those of other children. In terms of experience, yes, I was indulged, but I was also regulated and disciplined -- sometimes harshly. I lived in ever-present peril from the identity assassins in my family, who would ascribe to me a false identity. I rebelled, inwardly at least. What I wanted were parents who were finer, wiser, more exalted. What I lacked, what I wanted for, what I never got was an identity kit. That would have made all the difference for me. An identity kit!

The late British psychoanalyst R.D. Laing writes: "Every relationship implies a definition of self by other and other by self. This complementarity can be central or peripheral, have greater or less dynamic significance at different periods of one's life. At some point a child rebels against the nexus of bonds which bind him to these parents and siblings whom he has not chosen; he does not wish to be defined and identified as his father's son, or sister's brother. These people may seem strangers to him. Surely, he has affinities with parents who are finer, wiser, more exalted. Yet, this nexus of complementary bonds is an anchor that others long for. Orphans and adopted children [like Oedipus of ancient myth] sometimes develop a tremendously strong desire to find out 'who they are,' by tracing the father and mother who conceived them. [Then, of course, some people simply become the managing editors of Jewish Genealogy journals -- like Dr. Sally Amdur Sack. But that, as Doug Gansler would say, is "an entirely different suburb."] They feel incomplete for want of a father or mother, whose absence leaves their concept of self incomplete. Something tangible, even a plaque on a tombstone, may be enough. It seems to allow 'closure.'

A person's 'own' identity cannot be completely abstracted from his identity-for-others. His identity-for-himself; the identity others ascribe to him; the identities he attributes to them; the identity or identities he thinks they attribute to him; what he thinks they think he thinks they think. . . .

'Identity' is that whereby one feels one is 'the same,' in this place, this time as at that time and at that place, past or future; it is that by which one is identified. I have the impression that most people tend to come to feel that they are the same continuous beings through womb to tomb. And that this 'identity,' the more it is phantasy, is the more intensely defended.

An 'identity' sometimes becomes an 'object' that a person has or feels he has lost, and starts to search for. Many primitive phantasies are attached to identity and 'its' objectification and reification. The frequently described modern search for 'identity' becomes another phantasy scenario.

Intense frustration arises from failure to find that other required to establish a satisfactory 'identity.'

Other people become a sort of identity kit, whereby one can piece together a picture of oneself. One recognizes oneself in that old smile of recognition from that old friend."

Well, at least, that's the British viewpoint as expounded by R.D. Laing in "Self and Others."

"You are obsessed with Brian because you don't have any friends. If you made other friends, real friends, you'd forget about Brian. That's the way it works." So says The Mad Monk. Res ipso loquitur.

In any event, I'm struck by Laing's observation: "And that this identity, the more it is phantasy, is the more intensely defended." How would I elaborate that observation? I was thinking of Peter Blos' remark about the importance of the father's protective presence in the development of the boy's sense of maleness -- a presence either actual, construed, or wished for. To the extent my father's presence for me was simply "wished for" (and not actual), that presence was fantasy. To the extent my identity is based on a "wished for" presence of my father (as opposed to an actual presence), the more intensely my identity will need to be defended. Ipso that, Dr. Bash!

The Mad Monk! Week after week of madness with The Mad Monk! It's a wonder I have an ounce of sanity left at this point. I knew that the idea of a therapist saying "I'm not interested in analyzing anything you say" and meaning it would be an unbearable and excruciatingly unhealthy thing for me. That somebody would first deny me the opportunity to say anything that was in my mind, and then would proceed to misunderstand anything I did say, promised a kind of intellectual and emotional hell-on-earth. It is the connection with another human soul that I seek; not a connection with a mad monk. As Elliott Roosevelt (Eleanor's father) would advise, though, "you must learn to develop the wisdom to accept those things you cannot change." I can't change Dr. Bash, but I don't accept her either.

I think R.D. Laing (unlike Dr. Bash) would put the problem of my obsession with you, buddy, differently: "You are obsessed with Brian because he bolsters a masculine identity that is rooted, in part, in fantasy. If you had had a real, as opposed to a 'wished for,' relationship with your father, you wouldn't be obsessed with Brian, that is, you wouldn't have such an intense, obsessive need to defend your sense of maleness."

Yes, I struggle with my active-passive balance: what the psychoanalysts call the "Eleanor Roosevelt Complex." My fear of being daddy's little girl. Try mastering that identity element, buddy! It's darn near impossible. I told you about Rubenstein, didn't I? He called me a fag in the eleventh grade in high school. Actually, Rex Tugwell wrote about that very incident: "The rough handling of his fellows, their careless invasion of his reticences -- these may be a good enough corrective, used occasionally and with insight, for overdeveloped self-regard and inner turning; but in a boys' school there is no escape from such brutalities." Rubenstein was a good enough corrective.

What was it that Peter Blos wrote about the "Eleanor Roosevelt Complex?" "I arrived at this interpretation," he said, "on the basis of my clinical experience which has taught me that a son's subordination of his life's work, ambition, dedication, and achievement to the libidinized expectations of his father are experienced by the son as a submissive and passive adaptation. The effort to surmount this never quite ego-syntonic position of a boy's active-passive balance in the mastery of self and environment reaches a crucial impasse at the closure of adolescence. At that juncture this unresolved imbalance frequently merges with associative identity fragments of a feminine self representation. If this emerging conflict cannot be contained or resolved, an abnormal psychic accommodation will take its course."

Eleanor Roosevelt was "daddy's little girl." Fortunately for her, she also happened to be daddy's little girl. Eleanor Roosevelt's mother died when she was eight and her father, Elliott, when she was ten. "He was the one great love of my life as a child," Eleanor wrote about her father almost forty years after his death, "and in fact like many children I have lived a dream life with him; so his memory is still a vivid living thing to me."

After Elliott's death Eleanor would carry her father's letters around with her for the remainder of her life. For her the letters were a cherished archive. People who lived on in the memories of those alive, she said, were not dead. She read and reread her father's letters, and each time it was a fresh invocation of the magic of his presence: a reminder of a former sacred reverence. Elliott lived on in Eleanor's fantasies, fantasies that were intensely defended.

But Eleanor Roosevelt's relationship with her adored father was to a large extent a "wished for" relationship. Elliott Roosevelt, the younger brother of the accomplished Theodore (New York City's one-time Police Commissioner, I might add), was a mentally-unbalanced alcoholic who died at age 27.

In point of fact, Elliott Roosevelt is himself another one of my "fifty personalities" or identity fragments. One biographer has written of Elliott Roosevelt that: "as one contemplates the promise of his early years, it is the pathos of wasted talents, the stark tragedy of an enormously attractive man bent on self-destruction that reaches through the decades to hold us in its grip." (By the way, Brian: How is it that Elliott was so screwed up, but his older brother Theodore turned out so well? I'll tell you; Elliott was spoiled!)

By his death Elliott made it possible for his daughter, Eleanor, to maintain her dream-picture of him. But somewhere, rarely admitted to conscious awareness, Eleanor carried another picture of her father -- the father who sent her messages that he was coming and did not appear (he had a friend coming in from South Africa), who left her in the cloakroom of his club (The Kilimanjaro in Adams-Morgan), who aroused her hopes that she would be coming home to him ("Stop by my place anytime. You're always welcome. You don't even have to call first, I'm always home"), hopes that were always disappointed, the father who lacked self-control, who could not face responsibility (he quit an academically-selective high school in the tenth grade), who expected to be indulged. (Elliott was spoiled. What did I tell you?). Yes, that was the early life of Annie Eleanor Roosevelt. "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you, tomorrow, you're always a day away."

Based on her early disappointments, Eleanor developed an emotional code: One must learn "to accept what other people are unable to give. You must learn not to demand the impossible or to be upset when you do not get it."

Repressing the picture of Elliott's failures as a father and a man exacted a price; her own sense of reality was impaired. She tended to overestimate and misjudge people, especially those who seemed to need her and who satisfied her need for self-sacrifice and affection and gave her the admiration and loyalty she craved. Just as her response to being disappointed by her father had been silence and depression because she did not dare see him as he really was, so in later life she would become closed, withdrawn, and moody when people she cared about disappointed her.

Although idolization of her father exacted a price, it was also a source of remarkable strength. Because of her overwhelming attachment to him, she would strive to be the noble, studious, brave, loyal girl he had wanted her to be. He had chosen her in a secret compact, and this sense of being chosen never left her.

Franklin Roosevelt was the "handsome, intelligent, manipulative, womanizer" who in early adulthood so unexpectedly chose Eleanor out of so many to be his wife, and later disappointed her. (Oddly, and tellingly, my old friend and coworker at Hogan & Hartson, Craig the Embalmer, once confided to me that our supervisor, Sheryl Ferguson, in a private conference, told the Embalmer that he had disappointed her as an employee. "I expected so much from you when I hired you. And you fulfilled so little of your seeming promise." Of some employees much is expected, I suppose.)

In reciprocating Franklin's choice, Eleanor, for her part, not only gratified her life-affirming need for love; she simultaneously chose a man who would disappoint her as her father had done. To paraphrase Sartre ("Psychology of Imagination"): It is not only this or that object (husband or friend) that is chosen, but the imaginary state of feelings that one associates with that object with everything it implies in regard to pleasure and frustration.

It's called "Life Beyond The Pleasure Principle."

But there is more than this.

Eleanor early divined that Franklin had a weakness for struggling humanity which rose to a feeling of responsibility. Eleanor and Franklin, in fact, shared a humanitarian dream. "He felt left out," Eleanor later wrote. "It gave him sympathy for people who are left out." Those who were oppressed and suffering touched a spring of indignation in him which welled up persistently. It is one clue to his whole life's orientation. It explains what he always did with power after he achieved it. He was forever turning to the righting of wrongs, the correcting of injustices, the recovering of the disadvantaged, the placing of the poor in a better position. He felt that the system was rigged and that disadvantages had been institutionalized. There grew in him a persistent impulse toward reform. Such a disposition made Roosevelt, in the eyes of some, the worst kind of rat. Not everyone made things easy on him. "I get some nasty letters," he once told an associate. "But it's my job, and it's an important job."

I myself have suffered injustices. Who will right them? Who will be my champion? No one, apparently. In a law firm of 400 people, who was it who spoke up for me? Who championed my cause? Who said: "He's a loyal employee, an individual of unusual industriousness. His supervisor has described him as being 'as close to the perfect employee as it is possible to get.' He has shown time after time that no personal sacrifice on behalf of the firm that he is requested to perform is too great a burden. He works tirelessly without complaint, happy warrior that he is. You can't fire him because he complained about something trivial on one occasion." Who said that? Who empathized with my plight? No one. Can you explain that? Of course, psychologists observe that the gift of empathizing is little understood. (Make no mistake; empathy is a gift, and, based on my experience, I would say, a rare gift).

And by the way, Brian, just who is it that attached a negative meaning to a trivial event? I was fired, so my employer claims, because I have a tendency to attach a negative meaning to trivial events. But note: The act of describing an outstanding employee who lodges a complaint on one occasion as mentally disturbed and potentially violent -- doesn't THAT constitute an act of attaching a negative meaning to a trivial event? Or am I crazy?

When a person matures and adapts in an unempathic family environment in which no one defends his interests, no one champions his needs, he may learn something. He may become convinced of the need to serve as his own Franklin Roosevelt. "These dark days, my friends, will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny lies not in being ministered unto, but in ministering to ourselves." Well, that's precisely what I've been doing: ministering unto myself. It's called self-help. I am determined to right the wrongs I have suffered -- right those wrongs on my own.

I matured in and adapted to a disturbed family environment in which my identity-for-others served the narcissistic needs of others, and not my own. "Life Beyond The Pleasure Principle" dictated that in adulthood I assume the identity of an individual who was disturbed and potentially violent: an "identity-for-others" that served the narcissistic needs of my former employer. I've simply cashed in. I turned the Social Security Disability Program into a victim's compensation program. Is that so wrong? And by the way, thank you for your support, President Roosevelt.

I think Strauss & Company underestimated me the same way FDR was underestimated as a young man. "His associates merely underrated him as a pleasant fellow. They thought of him as permanently several levels lower than he would presently reach. They were therefore constantly unable to believe his achievements. They assumed that the individual they had known a short time ago must have been arrested at the level they had observed. Because he was treated with condescension, he made secret resolves, I am quite sure, as any spirited person would, to show the condescender how mistaken he had been. These resolves do not need to be openly stated or even secretly recognized. They are, nevertheless, an ever present goad."

Check you out next week, buddy. By the way, stop over my place anytime. We can hang out with my buddy, Brad (Captain Vagina). He's from New Hyde Park, New York. A Columbia grad, no less.

P.S. Enjoyed the cabin.

A New Year's Greeting

Brian--

January 3, 2005

Hey, buddy. How does the new year find you, my friend? As for me, well . . . "The new year finds me in low spirits, or perhaps I'm simply low in spirits. I drank them all to the lees on New Year's Eve."

Of course, that was the opening line of my letter to you from January 2004, one year ago. You never read that letter, or so you claim -- in the conspiracy of silence you and William concocted for the benefit of The Powers That Be. You read only one of my letters -- or so you reported to The Authorities -- the one dated April 16, 2004 -- and the rest, as George Orwell would have it, is "history." Well, that was the year that was: 2004, a year of actions and reactions (and not all of them salutary, to be sure). I spend my days still wrestling with questions that haunt me: "Why did Brian do it? Why? Did I disappoint him in some way? Did I make him angry?" What was behind it all I cannot begin to guess.

In any event, Happy New Year. Time, if not truth, marches on. I am a Time Marcher. Not a Time Waltzer, but a Time Marcher -- but THAT, as they say, is an entirely different meter.

As time goes by I grow in age and awareness (paranoid awareness, some claim), if not in wisdom and maturity. Though, for me, each new year brings nothing new, just a repetition of the old. New Year? I think not. "Now the old year passes and vanishes," (I paraphrase Nietzsche), "and all at once I remain the same. I myself belong to the causes of the eternal recurrence. I come again, each New Year's Day, with this sun, with this earth, to experience not a new life or a better life or a similar life. I come back eternally to this same, selfsame life, in what is greatest as in what is smallest, to experience again the eternal recurrence of all things, to speak again the same words, write again the same letters."

Brian, buddy, Dear American friend, that miserable patch of event, that melange of nothing, while I was looking ahead for something to happen, that was it! That was life. I lived it! -- A pessimistic thought. But then, perhaps it is not too late. I may well do something to redeem the last twenty years of my life. (I think I've said that before.)

To tell you the truth, I feel like the Henry James character, John Marcher: the man who was predestined to live an empty life, the man to whom nothing on earth was to have happened. You must know the Henry James story, "The Beast in The Jungle?" "Everything fell together, confessed, explained, overwhelmed, leaving him most of all stupefied at the blindness he had cherished. The fate he had been marked for he had met with a vengeance -- he had emptied the cup to the lees; he had been the man of his time, THE man, to whom nothing on earth was to have happened. That was the rare stroke -- that was his visitation. So he saw it, as we say, in pale horror, while the pieces fitted and fitted. . . . It was the truth, vivid and monstrous, that all the while he had waited the wait was itself his portion." John Marcher waited a lifetime for a final judgment that when rendered resolved Nothing -- the nothingness that was his life.

Did you catch that Strauss concert on TV the other night? I can't say it's something I waited to see. Year in and year out it's the same crap. PBS broadcasts the Vienna Philharmonic in a concert of Strauss waltzes, polkas, and whatnot each New Year's Day from Vienna. I used to enjoy the concerts. But they've become tiresome for me. Now, I generally watch the first few minutes of the concert, then reach for the remote. Don't get me wrong. I sometimes have hankerings after goodness and refinement, and want to hear Strauss, to read poetry and to cherish human ideals. But an hour-and-a-half of waltzes and polkas is just a little too delightful for me.

Schizoid that I am, I prefer Wagner to Strauss. As a matter of fact, from what I've read, Strauss himself seems to have preferred Wagner to Strauss. A preference for Wagner is a diagnostic criterion for Schizoid Personality Disorder, did you know that? Wagner' music, so it's been observed, has a special appeal for the emotionally isolated or repressed, for the individual who encompasses the psychological Great Divide that exalts thought over feeling: Nietzsche, Proust living alone in his cork-lined room; Albert Schweitzer (Jean-Paul Sartre's cousin, by the way), who turned his back on the Western world to live out his life in Africa; Bernard Shaw, under-sexed and unable to relate to others except through ideas (and adaptations of ancient myths, such as Pygmalion). This is not to mention the composers, for instance Richard Strauss -- of whom Lotte Lehmann, who revered him, wrote: "As a rule he appeared utterly aloof and impersonal, so cold in his reaction to people that they would withdraw instantly and give up any misguided attempt at friendliness"; Mahler and Schoenberg, both of them neurotic and alienated to a degree; the celibate Bruckner (Anton, not Wally -- the sportscaster on WRC-TV). I am not, of course, saying that Wagner appeals to all emotionally deprived people, or only to deprived people, but the words of Thomas Mann about "deep and single bliss in the midst of the theatre throngs" touch on something crucial about this art's power: it makes possible a passionate warmth and fullness of emotion without personal relationships. Wagner's music seems to have a particular appeal to the isolated and the odd.

Yes, I am isolated and I am certainly odd. I am a divided man. Like the city of Vienna itself, really. Vienna at the turn of the twentieth century -- Vienna at the decline of the Dual Monarchy -- was like a cracked mirror that could not reflect a true image, and therefore appeared fragmented and inconsistent. Thus the city of Vienna, the precious pearl in the Habsburg crown which was so dear to the Emperor's heart, was the place above all others whose inhabitants lived a life of inconsistencies and false appearances: a veritable case of "false reflecting," as Jerry Seinfeld would say. Vienna was a city of cracked mirrors, skinny mirrors, and assorted reflecting devices of dubious reflective veracity.

It has been said that Vienna was the city of paradoxes; certainly many mutually incompatible political and ideological movements were initiated there: Zionism and anti-Semitism; the cult of traditional womanhood and feminism; the aristocratic ostentation of state occasions and the prototype of the capitalist bourgeoisie not entirely free of a staid Biedermaeier cautiousness; a flourishing middle class with values still apparently rooted in the past, and a restless coterie of equally middle class intellectuals profoundly antagonistic to these values. This was the Vienna where science thrived and was discussed by a wide variety of learned societies. This was the Vienna where radically innovative scientific discoveries (of which psychoanalysis was certainly one) were greeted with a conspiracy of silence, unless whoever had pioneered them was officially acknowledged by the powers that be.

Sigmund Freud, one of Vienna's famous inhabitants, was himself a divided, and, at times, an isolated man. All accounts concur to create an image of Freud in the early 1890's as the traditional young Jewish doctor with a conservative middle class background, eager to work hard for the sake of his family as befits a responsible, loving husband and father. But a more careful examination of the facts -- based on letters to his friend Wilhelm Fliess -- reveals a very different picture. Indeed, such an examination reveals a Steppenwolf -- half-man, half-wolf, "Steppenwolf, baby, Steppenwolf!" The placid scientist, the patient and conventional lover is in fact a man of violent (or at least potentially violent), sometimes uncontrollable passions -- or passions that are only controlled after a painful inner (and not always inner) struggle.

Freud -- like myself, I believe -- exploited the profound discrepancy between his emotions and his reason. Freud the jealous, impulse-ridden future husband, was at odds with Freud the rational man who could objectively diagnose inconsistencies within himself and within society (such as Vienna's "transfer or transition" from a tradition-bound seat of the monarchy to a cosmopolitan city populated by radical scientists and artists). One biographer observes: "He was beyond doubt someone whose instincts were far more powerful than those of the average man, but whose repressions were even more potent. The combination brought about an inner intensity of a degree that is perhaps the essential feature of any great genius." Well, of course, I'm no genius. I'm just intense -- though, during lucid moments (as I once told a sneering Inspector General), I can display a brilliant legal mind. But definitely, it can be said of me, as it has been said of Freud, that there is not a single trait of my character, not a decision I have made nor an incident in my life, that cannot be interpreted in two different ways.

My gifts, my disabilities, and my torments reach unusual heights (or depths) precisely because they are nourished by an irreconcilable tension between contrasting inner values and fragmented inner states. It's as if my senses reel from a Charles Ives piece that echoes endlessly in my mind: waltzes, marches, polkas -- all in different meters -- playing simultaneously, all the time.

Every person has demons. We all have horrible fears and insecurities that we need to overcome. Mine come from never feeling accepted by any group, never being received. An inner intensity and fragmentation and a corresponding inability to derive a sense of wholeness and a relaxation of inner tension in the company of others have maintained my status as outsider -- a role that, in middle age, I have actively cultivated. I wanted only an authentic life. I wanted only to try to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult? Why? -- And that, my friend, is The Unanswered Question.

A horrible kind of predestination hovers over each new attachment I form. "Only connect," E.M. Forster proposed. "Only I can't," -- that I know. I have always felt both a certain disdain for an ordinary sense of belonging, and a hunger or a nostalgia for it that has never entirely gone away.

I am an artist. Not a great artist, but an artist nonetheless. If I am a mediocre artist, well, I'll settle for that. That designation will suffice; it places me in a distinct category of persons, namely, those who have suffered and who are driven to transform their suffering through expression -- innovatively, brilliantly, or perhaps just imitatively and mediocrely. There was much suffering in the childhood of all great writers BECAUSE they experienced the wounds, humiliations, fears, and feelings of abandonment that are an inevitable part of that period of life much more strongly and intensely than others. (If I am a mediocre artist, perhaps it is that I did not suffer enough! "No pain, no gain," as Mozart's personal trainer used to say.) By storing up the pain they suffered, by making it an essential part of themselves and of their imaginative life and then expressing it in transfigured form, some artists guarantee the survival of their painful feelings.

I don't think The Mad Monk appreciates this aspect of me: that my obsessions -- with you, for instance, buddy -- are not just a substitute for a normal, gratifying existence. My obsessions preserve or repeat (and let us not forget my compulsion to repeat) past suffering. They are a substitute for past suffering. "I want to be Brian's friend," I tell The Mad Monk. "You are obsessed with Brian," she will respond, "because you don't have a real friend. If you had a real friend, you'd forget about Brian. Brian, for you, Mr. Freedman, is a substitute for a normal, healthy friendship. You fantasize about being Brian's friend to compensate for your loneliness. If you had a real friend you would not fantasize about Brian." Thus spoke The Mad Monk -- and spoke, and spoke, and spoke.

But what does Dr. Bash's interpretation assume? Dr. Bash seems to assume that my thoughts and fantasies about you, Brian, are a substitute for a healthy past: that there was some nurturing experience or relationship in the past (in my childhood) that serves as a prototype for my fantasies about you. Isn't that what she is saying or assuming? I imagine the ideal as a substitute for the real. But what was my reality? Did I experience a unqualifiedly gratifying relationship in the past that imprinted itself on my unconscious, which I now try to revive in fantasy? That raises the question: If I had the lived experience of a healthy relationship as prototype for current fantasy, why is my ability to develop relationships so severely impaired? Nurture a child and that child as an adult will have the ego capacity (unimpaired by past suffering) to actualize his needs in the real world.

What I'm saying is -- and it's the same point made by the psychoanalytic renegade Alice Miller -- the suffering adult immortalizes a painful past; the suffering adult's fantasies are not simply a compensation for frustrated drives. Alice Miller observes that in creative writers who are struggling with a painful past we find the dissociation of painful feelings from the first attachment figures, toward whom they were directed, and their association with new, unreal fictitious figures, which guarantees the "survival" of the neurosis.

Miller continues: "It is this rift, the dissociation of feelings from those who caused them, along with the preservation of their content in a fantasy world, that shapes an artist's work, although the artistic expression of suffering does not do away with neurosis. Suffering, can, however, be blunted in the process of writing, for the writer possesses in his art an imaginary object with ideal qualities: it is available, can always understand him, take him seriously, be supportive," and does not inquire into his fluency in Hebrew, direct him to attend his local synagogue, or recommend that he eat out. The artist can tell his woes to this imaginary object without interruption or reproof.

Let me offer something concrete that ties together several issues. The late analyst Peter Blos specialized in the failures in emotional adaptation of male patients. His clinical experience convinced him that difficulties in emotional relationships between men, such as rivalry feelings, the expression of competition, oppositionalism, and defiance, in action and thought, which are directed against other men, have to be largely comprehended as the result of an incomplete detachment from the real father and his protective presence in the boy's life -- a presence either actual, construed, or wished for. I repeat: Actual, construed, or wished for.

As for my obsession with you, buddy, I think there's a real question about whether my fantasized friendship with you is a substitute for a gratifying, actual relationship with an early attachment object -- or (and this is crucial) whether the torment of an ungratified (or ungratifiable) fantasy constitutes the immortalization, or repetition, of a painful "wished for" relationship with an early attachment object. Do you see the distinction? According to The Mad Monk, I fantasize about you because I'm lonely and, so she reasons, if my fantasy were gratified it would dissolve, like salt in a glass of water. What about the following interpretation? My fantasy of a friendship with you is an atavism grounded in masochism: the fantasy satisfies a masochistic need to preserve the torment of a "wished for" (but never gratified) satisfying relationship with pops. In the latter case, that unconscious fantasy will not be undone by the present gratification of social needs or drives. The repetition compulsion dictates that I reexperience or reencounter a "wished for" (but never gratified) relationship with a (not so) ideal father. Life Beyond The Pleasure Principle preordains that I experience misery, not pleasure. All the while I have waited to be your friend, Brian, perhaps the wait itself was my predestined portion.

Do you see how Dr. Bash's interpretation denies past suffering? She denies an interpretation of my obsession with you as a preservation of suffering, and instead depicts my obsession as a substitute for something gratifying.

Dr. Bash's approach, at least in my interpretation, indicates her identification with the unempathic parent. The unempathic parent denies that his or her child has suffered, just as The Mad Monk denies that I struggle with the effects of past suffering. To paraphrase Alice Miller: The psychotherapist of an adult patient, as the suffering child's posterity, takes on, in a sense, the role of the patient's parents, since the therapist, too, can dispense recommendations to the patient without having to deal with the patient's actual suffering. In my opinion, that's just not kosher.

Be that as it may.

In me, as in Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf, the rational man and the man of violent passions -- my rude-boy counterpart, the wolf -- do not go the same way together, but are in continual and deadly enmity. One exists simply and solely to harm or restrain the other, and when there are two in one blood and in one soul who are at deadly enmity, then life fares ill. Well, to each his lot, and none is light.

I have not had an exactly pleasant and happy life of it. This does not mean, however, that I am unhappy in any extraordinary degree (although it may have seemed so to me all the same inasmuch as every man takes the sufferings that fall to his share as the greatest). (A Viennese expression has always appealed to me: "The situation is hopeless, but not serious." The abysm of despair never seems to negate my capacity for humor.) Even he who has no wolf in him, may be none the happier for that. And even the unhappiest life has its sunny moments -- its bewitching and refreshing significant moments -- and its little flowers of happiness between sand and stone. So it is, then, with me too. It cannot be denied that I am generally very unhappy; and I can make others unhappy also, that is, when I like them or they me. For all who get to like me, see always only the one side in me. Many like me as a refined and clever and interesting man, and are horrified and disappointed when they come upon the wolf in me: a man of violent (or at least potentially violent), sometimes uncontrollable passions, passions that hide in dark places -- or passions that are only controlled after a painful inner (and not always inner) struggle.

And they have to be horrified because I wish, as every sentient being does, to be appreciated as a whole and therefore it is just with those whose friendship I most value that I can least of all conceal and belie the wolf: the wolf of the dimly-lit lair. There are those, however, who are attracted precisely to the wolf in me, the free, the savage, the untamable, the dangerous and id-driven, the passionate wolf who resides in the forest's dark recesses, and these find it peculiarly disappointing and deplorable when suddenly the wild and wicked wolf is also a man, and has hankerings after goodness and refinement, and wants to hear Mozart, to read poetry and to cherish human ideals. Usually these are the most disappointed and angry of all; and so it is that I bring my own dual and divided nature into the destinies of others besides myself whenever I come into contact with them.

Check you out next week across the Great Divide, buddy. Brother-Animal, You!

The Historiographer: A Winter Solstice

December 20, 2004

Brian--

Hey, buddy. Did you hear that, Brian? I said, "Hey, buddy!" Do I need to repeat myself?

It was good seeing you last Thursday, just before 9:00 AM, on Connecticut Avenue. That was December sixteenth. That's Beethoven's birthday, by the way. Did you know that? At least most experts believe Beethoven was born on the sixteenth. The only documentary evidence is the composer's baptismal record. Of course, documentary evidence can be deceiving -- even inauthentic. We do know that Beethoven was baptized on December seventeenth, at least so the record shows. Some biographers maintain that Beethoven was born on the seventeenth, citing the fact that in the locale of Beethoven's birth, Catholics were customarily baptized on the day they were born. In any event, what we are left with is a few pieces of evidence, and an inference. As they say in the law, the question of Beethoven's birth date is a matter upon which reasonable minds can differ.

In any event, when I said "Hi, Brian" last Thursday morning, you didn't respond. You didn't even look at me. You just continued on your way, looking straight ahead. Were you caught up in deep thoughts? Caught up in the trials and tribulations of life? Or were you caught up with thoughts about what the future holds in terms of trials and tribunals? Or are you having trouble with your hearing? Are you concerned about your hearing?

I told you, buddy, you need a flu shot. A flu shot can immunize you from complications -- complications with your hearing, for example. Believe me, you don't want to experience problems with your hearing, like Beethoven. Ask Martha. She didn't get a flu shot -- and that lady suffered real complications with her hearing that have cut her off from the rest of society. And now, well, do I have to tell you? She'll be cut off for months. That's what hearing problems can do.

Beethoven's problems with his hearing were notorious. His case in the Court of Appeals, his protracted custody battle with his sister-in-law over the right to guardianship of his late brother's teenage son, Karl, lasted for years. Yes, Beethoven had real problems with his hearing.

Ultimately, Beethoven prevailed in the Court of Appeals and was granted custody. Karl, for his part, despised his uncle, the mad Beethoven. Karl -- like many people -- thought the composer was an impossible nut case. I can only imagine that if Karl encountered his uncle Ludwig in the street, the lad would have turned away.

Beethoven was obsessed with his nephew. He was determined to gain control over the boy. Beethoven's biographer, Maynard Solomon, applying psychoanalytic concepts, attributes Beethoven's obsession with his nephew to the composer's Family Romance fantasy.

In the fantasy which Freud and Otto Rank named the "Family Romance," the child replaces one or both of his parents with elevated surrogates -- heroes, celebrities, kings, or nobles. The child, in protest against his parents, fantasizes a more elegant or heroic lineage. Freud found that this fantasy, which is universal in myth, religion, fairy-tales, and imaginative fiction, was widespread in the daydreams of ordinary people, and appeared in a more intense and enduring form among the creative and the talented.

According to Maynard Solomon it was a variant of the Family Romance fantasy that dominated Beethoven's thinking during the protracted custody battle over his nephew, in the Court of Appeals. It was precisely during the years of litigation that Beethoven refused to permit any action to refute the proliferating reports of his royal ancestry. For Beethoven had not been "pretending" to nobility; he felt that he was, indeed, of noble origin but was unable to demonstrate it because of the mysterious (as he thought) circumstances of his birth. His adoption of his nephew Karl had been the adoption of a commoner by a noble: "I have raised my nephew into a higher category," he wrote in 1819, and the composer's friend, Anton Schindler, observed that Beethoven's intent was to bring Karl up like the child of a nobleman (not like the descendant of some common sheep fucker). In some unfathomable way, Beethoven's seizure of his nephew was his delusory way of repairing his own presumed illegitimacy, of fulfilling the prophecy of the Family Romance, of becoming the noble father of a commoner's child. Unable to locate the noble father of his daydreams, he had created him in his own person.

In effect, Beethoven's relations with other significant males reflected a dual father-son identification in which the composer could play the idealized, noble father to a common son in need of rescue; and alternatively play the son in need of rescue, assigning other males the role of the fantasized, idealized father.

In my own case, what is interesting about my protracted struggle in the Court of Appeals -- and, quite frankly, doesn't every male contend at some point in his life with father-son issues in "the Court of Appeals" -- is the fact that that struggle symbolically concerned my desire for union with the idealized father-figure, Robert S. Strauss, from whom I felt I had been wrongly separated. In effect, my legal battle over wrongful termination was, in some symbolic sense, a "custody battle." Beethoven presumed the status of father, and sued for custody of his nephew. While I presumed the status of "rightful son" and sued for job reinstatement -- symbolically, I sought the guardianship of an idealized father, Der Strauss.

I suppose my obsession with you, buddy, is a variation on father-son conflicts. It's interesting how I have managed to draw you into my custody battle with Der Strauss. My relations with you and Der Strauss are a lengthy and complexly-intertwined set of diabolical variations on a father-son theme. All in three/four time, I might add.

A thought about the simplistic interpretations of The Mad Monk come to mind at this moment: "You are obsessed with Brian because you are lonely. If you made a real friend, you'd give up your obsession with Brian." It's interesting to observe that Beethoven was a childless bachelor. The Mad Monk would probably have advised Beethoven: "Your problem is that you are isolated and lonely. That is why you are obsessed with your nephew, Karl. You should forget about Karl. Find a wife, have children. That's what you should do. Have a family of your own, and you'll forget about Karl." And if Beethoven did have a son of his own, wouldn't his relations with that son be disturbed in their own way? Intrapsychic needs and fantasies, more frequently than not, do not bend to the influences of lived experience.

We know that Beethoven's obsession with his nephew was not about loneliness; it was not about Beethoven's relations with real people in the real world. Beethoven's obsession was determined by intrapsychic fantasy. How do we know that? A letter of Beethoven's reveals the composer's plans for Karl in the future event he were to be granted legal guardianship. In that letter, Beethoven states his intent (or wish or fantasy) to send the boy away to a foreign city to get an education. The letter supports the view that the drama of Beethoven's relations with his nephew followed an unconscious script that transcended rationality; a realistic desire to obtain the human companionship that guardianship of his nephew might offer was not Beethoven's real motivation.

A strange fellow, that Beethoven.

If you, Brian, were to ask me, "What is it that you want from me, Freedman, what is it that you really want?" Honestly, I can't say. I know that I fantasize about being your friend. That's all I know. That is my only conscious reality. Again, I am an impulse machine. Little more. I have wishes and fantasies. To view my wishes as concrete expressions of realistic desires, as Dr. Bash does, would miss the mark. My thoughts and behaviors don't really relate to frustrations and wishes in the real world that can be remedied or satisfied by lived experience; my thoughts and fantasies relate back to intrapsychic forces that I don't understand.

Be that as it may. As Dr. Eissler would say: "All things transitory are but parable."

I have become lost to the world. I live in isolation from my fellows, here in Cleveland Park. I live a more or less imagined existence here in Upper Northwest, the closest thing in Washington to a pastoral setting. I close with this, my friend -- my imaginary friend:

The Cleveland Park Testament

Oh you men who think or say that I am malevolent, stubborn, or misanthropic, how greatly you do wrong me. You do not know the secret cause which makes me seem that way to you. From childhood on, my heart and soul have been full of the tender feeling of goodwill, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great things. But think that for 13 years now I have been hopelessly afflicted, made worse by senseless physicians, from year to year deceived with hopes of improvement, finally compelled to face the prospect of a lasting malady (whose cure will take years or, perhaps, be impossible). Though born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptible to the diversions of society, I was soon compelled to withdraw myself, to live alone.

Check you out next week, buddy. Did you hear that, Brian? Check you out next week.


THE DIARIES -- THE FINAL INSTALLMENT

[During the period June 2001 to August 2003 I believed that the resident manager of my apartment building, David Castleberry (2000 - 2003), used to enter my apartment surreptitiously each day. I used to leave him a handwritten message taped to the inside of the front door. I had begun that practice in mid-June 2001 and continued writing notes and taping them to the door until the summer of 2003, when David Castleberry quit. The messages were addressed to "Friend." I pretended that I didn't know it was David Castleberry who was reading the notes. It was my (paranoid) belief that David Castleberry reported back to attorney managers at Akin Gump the content of the message I left on the door each day. I further believed that Akin Gump's attorney managers then informed Brian Brown at the library of the content of the daily message.]

1-4-02 Elizabeth Joyce [the front desk manager] has been rather jolly. Maybe she got lucky during her Christmas vacation? Get the scoop on her.

1-7-02 On Wednesday January 2 I told my psychologist, Dr. Shaffer, that I took a graduate course (seminar) in international relations at Temple University in spring semester 1978. The instructor's name was Lloyd Jensen, Ph.D., professor in the department of political science at Temple. One of Dr. Jensen's papers was titled -- "Foreign Policy Calculation." Maybe Henry Kissinger has heard of Dr. Jensen. -- Find out what old Lloyd is doing, please.

Message for Bob Morgenthau -- he (the "third person 'I'") would like you to give my regards to Judge Belknap.

[Robert Morgenthau is the District Attorney for New York County. Judge Belknap tried Colin Ferguson, who carried out a mass homicidal assault on the Long Island Railroad. Ferguson, who was psychotic, defended himself at trial, and consistently referred to himself in the third person. Judge Belknap had been the law partner of New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani, when they were in private practice.]

1-8-02 Here's an assignment.-- For years now, I felt that a woman in the neighborhood recognized me. My first interaction with her was in the spring of 1989 -- I was walking to work (to the subway, that is). I was whistling the Marseillaise (the French national anthem, you know -- "Allons enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive.") Anyway, she says to me -- "Bastille Day is a long way off." And I said, "Yes, but it's the big one" -- July 14, 1989 was the French bicentennial celebration. A breakthrough occurred in about 1993, when I went to the office of The American Psychological Association to deliver a complaint I was filing against my former psychologist (William Brown, Ph.D.) -- I saw the mystery woman in the lobby, and I assume that she works for the APA. (She may even be a psychologist.) Then on Saturday January 5, 2002, I saw her at the Cleveland Park Library, chatting with the weekend librarian "Beth" (name?). They seemed to be acquainted. But here's the identifier -- mystery woman was checking out a book called "The World of Jeeves" -- who is mystery woman ! ! ! By the way, I think she's Jewish.

[Note the reference to the French revolution (Bastille Day)].]

1-9-02 Yesterday (1-8-02) at the library, the librarians seemed to have an attitude of awed admiration. The head librarian (a nice young man, whose name escapes me), seemed to be eyeing me. I look on this as training for the time to come when I will have hordes of admiring fans. I'm so fascinating!

1-10-02 I had an experience in the library yesterday (1-9-02) that was -- shall we say -- "a tad askew." On Monday I had left a message on my computer disk (using the library's computer) that was addressed to New York City District Attorney Robert Morgenthau. Then Wednesday (1-9-02) somebody left a copy of a letter in the library's magazine exchange -- a letter written by none other than Robert Morgenthau.

[Attached is letter dated September 20, 1996 with my handwritten message:] Letter placed in library magazine exchange [at Cleveland Park Library], Jan. 9, 2002.

[Letterhead states "District Attorney of the County of New York. Robert M. Morgenthau, District Attorney."

I have highlighted the letterhead in yellow. Note that I mentioned Robert Morgenthau in my message dated 1-7-02. Associations: Linda Fairstein, Esq., a nationally prominent best-selling novelist, used to head the Sex Crimes Unit at Morgenthau's office. Fairstein is a friend of Vernon Jordan and reportedly jockeyed for nomination to the post of U.S. Attorney General in 1993, in the Clinton Administration (Jordan headed President-elect Clinton's transition team). John F. Kennedy, Jr., Esq. (who died in 1999) was a friend of Vernon Jordan's and worked as an ADA in Morgenthau's office. New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani was Judge Belknap's former law partner. Judge Belknap tried Colin Ferguson, who spoke in the third person. My autobiography is written in the third person.]

A brief note: Yesterday, at the library, I heard the head librarian use the phrase "in the listening room" -- I associated that phrase to my session with Dr. Shaffer the previous day, and I thought -- maybe the clinic tape records my sessions with Dr. Shaffer, and people listen to the tapes -- is that paranoid ? ? ?

1-14-02 Saturday, in the library, Velvel was talking about his wife's first marriage. He said it was a disaster -- that her first husband turned out to be a homosexual. -- Who wants to hear that crap? They have no idea of what professionalism is. Those librarians need to get a clue. Maybe things will be different after the revolution!

[Note that the message on 1-8-02 referred to Bastille Day (and by implication, the French Revolution).]

1-15-02 Here's somebody to look into: Dan Korman Esq. Korman was a lawyer at Hogan & Hartson, 15 years ago, when I was there. He worked on the Milwaukee School Desegregation case. Super-bright. He had degrees from Princeton, Columbia, and another one of those big-time schools. -- Inside info -- Korman had malaria.

[I happened to see a printout of the firm's blood donor list, which indicated that Korman had had malaria, a vector-borne disease that is transmitted by mosquito.]

1-16-02 Flash from the past: Here's a list of the names of students who I remember from my freshman year of college at Penn State (fall 1971) -- These were students in Irma Jean Smith's French class. Don't ask how I remember them. I wasn't friendly with them -- They were below acquaintance level.

Barry Groder -- He majored in table tennis. We were in the same swimming class in the fall 1972. We were both Mark Spitz wannabes. I got to imagine Groder naked any time I wanted.

A young woman whose last name, I think, was something like Avchen (I don't remember her first name). She wanted to major in French to become a translator or interpreter.

Then there were the Levin's. Marcia G. Levin and Barry N. Levin. They got married in college. They once held hands under the table in French class -- and Miss Smith (the instructor) had a fit. I think Barry Levin thought I was a weirdo. Marcia Levin got a job as a checkout clerk in State College -- in a supermarket. -- She majored in bar codes.

1-17-02 My psychologist, Dr. Shaffer, says she could see a difference in me while I was on my antipsychotic meds. Now, really! Did you see a difference? Maybe you could talk to Doc Shaffer, and tell her that she's full of it.

1-18-01 Here's someone to look into -- Joseph V. Kaplan, Esq. Subject is an attorney with Passman and Kaplan -- 1090 Vermont Ave NW (789 - 0100) here in Washington. Kaplan & I were in the same graduating class at Penn State (May 1975). We had one course together that I remember -- Stanley Cutler's Speech Communications course in the fall of 1972.

Kaplan was active in student politics at Penn State and served as president of the student government at Penn State's branch campus at Abington, PA. I remember vaguely that Kaplan used to carry with him at all times a copy of the Constitution of the U.S., which he would whip out on occasion. Kaplan's law partner Edward Passman is a graduate of Harvard Law school, one of the finer schools in the Boston area.

[I vaguely recall that Kaplan's argumentative speech in Stanley Cutler's public speaking course advocated the adoption by the federal government of a unicameral legislature.]

1-21-02 / 1-22-02 Double Issue. Could you transmit a message to George Bush. Ask the President to call Claire Hirshfield. Dr. Hirshfield could solve the whole India/Pakistan dispute in 10 minutes -- 15 minutes at the most. Dr. "H" is the world's leading authority on partition, and understands those Pakkies like nobody else. Once she's solved the India/Pakistan dispute, she can move on to the Middle-East. It's all the same case. [Includes my drawing, with the phrase "line of control" pointing to a line separating India (Israel) and Pakistan (Palestine).]

[Dr. Hirshfield is History Professor Emeritus at Penn State's Abington campus. She was the finest teacher I have ever had in any field.]

1-23-02 When I was in the ninth grade in high school, I had a home room teacher named Barbara Sandler. Her husband was a medical student. I can recall that in school year (1968-1969), my geometry teacher [Santo Diano] was out one day. Who did they bring in as a substitute? None other than Barbara Sandler's husband. I can recall that someone in class had some fruit flies (drosophila melanogaster) in a bottle, and Sandler sternly warned that you shouldn't play with fruit flies because they can carry diseases (they are what we in the medical profession call -- vectors).

["Vector" is a play on words. In medicine a vector is an organism or animal that carries disease ( a mosquito, for example, is a vector in malaria). A vector is also a term in mathematics.]

1-23-02 You know what really galls me? -- When a Britisher complains that other people don't do their job! Why, if it weren't for us bloody yanks, those Britishers would be speaking German today and curtsying to the Kaiser. My advice? Next time the Britishers get spooked by the Huns, let them do their own job! ! !

[Handwritten note, with a pointing arrow:] Did you read this one?

1-24-02 Here's the story behind the story re: one of the tenants. [Note is appended to CV of Brock Hansen, a licensed social worker whose professional office is located at 3801 Connecticut Avenue. Document is printed out from the internet.]

1-25-02 You might want to check into Michael Shapiro, M.D. (230th class - Central High School). Subject & I were in the same English class in the ninth grade (Ming the Merciless was the teacher). Subject got A's all the way through the school year, an unusual accomplishment in Ming's class. Subject is now a medical doctor who practices in Colorado. Why do I have the feeling that Feldman already told you about Shapiro?

1-28-02 This is something to bring to David Castleberry's attention: On Saturday (1-26-02), someone did a move-out and didn't finally finish until 11:00 PM. The rule is no move-ins or move-outs after 5:00 PM. Can I have permission to throw eggs on people who don't follow the rules? Also, since Mr. Castleberry advised tenants not to place things on the floors in the trash rooms, I've been taking my beer bottles (I have to drink beer for health reasons) down to the basement. But I notice other people still leave their junk on the floors. -- Bastards!

1-29-02 Somebody left the attached magazine in the magazine exchange in the library yesterday (1-28-02). I had the idea it refers to my successful book that I'm working on. Or is it just wishful thinking on my part? By the way, how is Marciarose doing? Is she looking forward to the Easter Parade?

[Attached is cover of October 1990 issue of the magazine "Home Office Computing" with the cover story "FIRED INTO SUCCESS! When the End of a Job Means the Beginning of a Business." Depicts man in business suit carrying a briefcase being fired out of a cannon, with a rainbow above the man's head.

[Marciarose is a longtime TV personality in Philadelphia. She used to cover the Easter Parade in Philadelphia. She is married to Jerome Schestak, Esq., a nationally-prominent attorney and past president of the American Bar Association. Schestak's law partner is bankruptcy attorney Michael Temin, Esq., brother of the late Howard Temin, who won a Nobel prize in medicine and about whom I write in my autobiography. Both Temin brothers are Central High School graduates (first honor men). Schestak's son (Jonathan?) is in the movie business. Former Akin Gump attorney (and Clinton Administration cabinet secretary) Dan Glickman is currently president of the Motion Picture Association of America.]

1-30-02 Message for Dr. Kay Tatum: I declare that there is always something weird about a girl who majors in French. She has entered into her course of study, first of all knowing full well that it can only lead to her becoming a French teacher, a very grim affair. The least of whose evils is poor pay, and the prospect of which should have been sufficient to send her straight into business or public relations. She has been betrayed into the study of French, heedless of the terrible consequences, by her enchantment with this language, which has ruined more young American women than any other foreign tongue.

[Kay Tatum, Esq. is an Akin Gump partner; she holds a Ph.D. in French. The quoted material is from Michael Chabon's novel, "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh."]

1-31-02 There's a noticeable quietness in the Cleveland Park Library. A kind of circumspection. -- Or is it that my antipsychotic meds have kicked in. I'm still taking 5 mg/day. Here's a name from the distant past -- June Persing. She used to be Alec Peters' secretary. (I saw Dave Castleberry in his office this morning -- He looked chipper).

[Alec Peters headed the Science Information Services Department at The Franklin Institute, in Philadelphia, where I worked from 1970 to 1979.]

2-1-02 This will give you an idea of how my thinking has NOT changed while I'm on antipsychotic meds (5 mg/day). Yesterday at the library, Barbara, the librarian, came to me when I first got onto the computer and handed me a piece of scrap paper with a computer web site written on it: www.grammaphone.co.uk. She said the site features reviews of music recordings. My paranoid interpretation was that she wanted me to get caught up on the web site so that I wouldn't have time to work on my book. -- Again, we see her passive aggression.

[Attached is scrap of paper: page from calendar, with "www.grammaphone.co.uk" written on it. An alternative, though not inconsistent, interpretation of Barbara's behavior is that it was related to the message on 1-30-02 about Kay Tatum. Barbara Gauntt (the librarian) has a bachelor's degree in French.]

2-4-02 Here's somebody to look into, if you want to do a little legwork. RENEE QUARLES. She was Bernard ("Bernie") Epstein's secretary at The Franklin Institute, in the 1970's. Today is Dr. Palombo's birthday. -- He's moving into his prime.

[The word "prime" might be a play on words. I always thought that Bernie Epstein had a physical resemblance to Federal Reserve Chairman, Alan Greenspan. Coincidentally, both Greenspan and Epstein play the saxophone.]

2-5-02 Here's somebody to look into: Michael Durst, Esq. Subject was a young lawyer at Sagot & Jennings. He left the firm in the summer of 1981 to attend New York University's Master's Program in taxation. Ask him if he remembers Anna Kemp. (If you don't get it, you don't get it.) I think Durst knew I was a pre-morbid psychotic.

[Anna Kemp was a party in firm litigation.]

2-6-02 Somebody has written a book about the tenants in apt. 146.

[Refers to a recently-published book about Daniel Ellsberg.]

2-6-02 Yesterday I told you about Michael Durst, the tax attorney. Well, wouldn't you guess-- as if on cue, someone left a copy of the "American Express Tax Guide" in the magazine exchange in the library. (I'm still loving my antipsychotic meds -- they are incredible).

[Attached is first page of the "American Express Tax Guide 1999."]

2-7-02 Here's somebody to look into: Randall J Sommovilla, Esq. Subject was an attorney at the law firm of Sagot & Jennings. He worked part-time off-site. His sole task was writing briefs for appeals. Maybe that's something I could look into for work. Maybe I should call my old friend Bobby S. about that.

[One of the previous messages refers to "Bob Strauss on the Boxers vs. Briefs Controversy." This message may carry a sexual allusion.]

2-8-02 Last night I received a telephone call: The caller asked for "Elizabeth Freedman" -- you think the call was an innocent mistake? Possible interpretation: Elizabeth Freedman -- Elizabeth Nietzsche -- Friedrich Nietzsche -- Daniel Ellsberg -- My letter to you dated 2-6-02 about biography of Dan Ellsberg in apt. 146. On another matter: I noticed there's something in common with all those model buildings that Dave Castleberry puts together -- What does it mean that The U.S. Capitol, The Duomo in Florence, and The Taj Mahal all have a dome?

2-11-02 I saw Eleanor Holmes Norton at the Martin Luther King Library on Saturday afternoon (2/9/02). She was participating in a federal income tax program for District residents. I wonder if she saw me -- I was the good-looking white dude. By the way, Prof. Norton looks good in hot pink.

2-12-02 I'm taking so much medication, I feel like a walking drug store.

Ambien (for sleep)
Zoloft (for depression)
Zyprexa (for paranoia)
Anafranil (for obsessiveness)
Wellbutrin (for depression)

Do you see any changes in me? I wonder what Jay Amsterdam. M.D. would say about this drug cocktail. I've been edgy & tense since last week, when I started this.

[Jay D. Amsterdam, M.D. is a psychopharmacologist, associated with The University of Pennsylvania Medical School in Philadelphia. I participated in a drug study conducted by Dr. Amsterdam, in 1978.]

2-13-02 I got another telephone call last night for 'Elizabeth Freedman." -- I think it's legitimate. Maybe I was being paranoid! By the way, I think I'm falling for Ignacio. I'm wanting his hot Latino body. He's one senor you can't ignore.

2-14-02 I'm running low on things to tell you about. I've told you about every person in my background. I have only one thing left -- My paranoid impressions. Yesterday in the library I noticed that the staff had a specific and identical expression on their faces when they saw me. They all smiled except the head librarian -- he's generally not a smiler. I'm wanting you badly, Ignacio.

2-15-02 A quiet day yesterday. Nothing to report -- I have a message for Velvel-- Velvel -- You know that sister yesterday who was asking you about a copy of the Rules of D.C. Superior Court? She's mental. You suggested that she go to MLK. I don't think you heard what she said out loud when she went back to her seat. She said: "Martin Luther King Library is a ghetto library for ghetto people. I'm not going to Martin Luther King." -- I myself like MLK, and I be white ! ! !

2-18-02 / 2-19-02 Somebody did a move-out (or move-in) on Sunday evening (2-17-02). The U-haul truck didn't pull out till about 9:45 PM. That's against the rules!

2-20-02 Here's an assignment: Look into an individual named Melinda Given Guttman. Professor of Speech, Theater & Media Studies (John Jay College), City University of New York. She published a book on one of Freud's early patients (Bertha Pappenheim). She is a protege of Margaret Brenman-Gibson. The cited book is dedicated to Margaret Brenman-Gibson.

2-21-02 Yesterday (2-20) in the library Charles Davis was telling the head librarian the cost of something. Davis said: "It's $47.01." Then, repeated that. I thought: "That's an odd price for anything." Then I thought: "That's where my old friend Craig [Dye] lives (or lived), 4701 Connecticut." You think that was just coincidence?

2-22-02 Please reassure Mrs. Joyce that I did not hear -- or overhear -- what she was talking about this morning. Her secret -- whatever it is -- is safe. She seemed to go scurrying off when she saw me coming up the steps from the first floor. By the way -- How is Vicki Abt? It's now 30 years exactly.

[Vicki Abt is a sociology professor at Penn State's Abington campus. I took an introductory sociology course taught by Abt. Abt has appeared on the Today Show and has written a book on TV talk shows that featured a discussion of Oprah Winfrey. Abt would be about 60 years old now.]

2-25-02 I worked on my bibliography this weekend at American University. You can tell the head librarian (at Cleveland Park) that I plan to make another copy of my book, using the library's computers. He may not like me using so much paper, but you're allowed 10 pages per day. So, my use falls within the rules.

[The repeated reference to "the rules" in various contexts suggests that it has some importance. The references might relate to Wagner's opera Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg. Possible confirmation of this inference emerges at a later point in these diary entries.]

2-26-02 I saw Carlos [Chalbaud] in the library yesterday. Apparently he survived 9/11. As you can see nothing's been going on with me.

2-27-02 Yesterday, when I got to the library, Carlos was sitting at a table, waiting to get on a computer. I intentionally sat at another table, to avoid sitting next to Carlos. Now, the head librarian thinks I might actually be straight after all. I guess I've got HIM fooled!

2-27-02 Message for William Nussbaum-- Weren't you the Hogan lawyer who had that New Deal poster in your office -- "Freedom from Want" or some such thing? (Or am I, pardon the term, "crazy?")

[In August 2004 I wrote to Nussbaum requesting that he negotiate an immunity agreement for Brian Brown under which Brown would divulge everything he knows about Akin Gump in return for immunity from prosecution. Nussbaum responded, declining the proposition, but referring me to the DC Bar Referral Service.]

2-28-02 Speaking of Hogan partners, I can remember that Catherine Lacroix (with whom I worked for the client Mercedes Benz) had a photograph in her office that was taken when she was an undergrad at Harvard. The photo shows Lacroix with other students together with Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who was a professor of government.

3-1-02 Yesterday was a quiet day. See you Monday.

3-4-02 Sheila J. Landers was a staff attorney at the General Counsel's Office at The U.S. International Trade Commission, when I interned there in 1984. She is now practicing at Bill Coleman's firm, O'Melveny & Myers at Columbia Square (555 13th Street, NW). By the way, 69 years ago exactly Franklin D. Roosevelt became President of the U.S.

3-5-02 Another name: Glenn A. Fine, Esq. Subject was a law clerk at the firm of Hogan & Hartson in the fall of 1985, when I first started working at the firm. Subject worked in an office on the second floor. At that time (Sept-Dec 1985) I worked with Charles (Chas) Green in the second floor library. I believe subject had two degrees from Harvard (bachelor's and law degrees). On one occasion subject sneered when he overheard me say to Charles Green -- "I have a brilliant legal mind." (I do!) I think subject knew I was a homosexual who wanted to drag him behind the stacks and hump his ass.

3-6-02 I feel so much better now that I've some clean, now that I've come out of the closet. Yes, I loved Glenn Fine. Is that so terrible? It was the love that dare not speak its name. I loved Glenn in a way you'll never understand. He was the most wonderful person I've ever "known!"

3-7-02 As you may have heard, there's a concern that terrorists could get a nuclear bomb, and set it off here in D.C. No need to panic. What you need to do, -- and I'm serious -- You'll have to get Judy Glassie to agree to have this entire building encased in lead. Lead is the only thing that will block out gamma rays. It would probably only cost a few hundred thousand dollars. Remember -- only living tenants pay rent!

[There's a possible sexual allusion to the reference to a nuclear explosion. See message at
3-8-02. Also, it was President Franklin Roosevelt who undertook the development of the atom bomb.]

3-8-02 Message for Glenn Fine -- Dear Glenn -- Last night with you was bliss. I fear that my orgasm has left me a cripple. P.S. -- Enjoyed the cabin!

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode. Note that the message referring to FDR's first inaugural (3-4-02) ushered in the arc of Glenn Fine messages. Incidentally, FDR died in a cabin-like structure in Warm Springs, GA, where he underwent treatment for paralysis.]

3-11-02 I mailed a copy of my autobiography to Glenn Fine at the Justice Department. The book is contained on two computer discs. Do you think anybody will read it -- or just throw it away? Glenn Fine, Inspector General of the U.S.

3-12-02 I'm still waiting for the shit to hit the fan-- I'm waiting to see what reaction I get when Glenn Fine gets my letter. You gotta love those letters!

[The letter to Fine inquired about employment at the IG's office.]

3-12-02 Mr. Cookson [the building engineer] did a good job yesterday -- in record time I may add. Give that man a raise! (I love you, Glenn.)

3-14-02 A quiet day yesterday. I saw my psychologist and we talked about my love for Glenn Fine, the only man I ever loved.

3-15-02 I'm thinking of sending an employment inquiry to Douglas Feith, Esq. (Central High School, 230th class). Feith is an official in the Defense Department. He's been working on the nuclear arms agreement with Russia that Pres. Bush plans to sign in Moscow in May. I love you Glenn!

3-18-02 It was a quiet weekend. My life, generally, is lacking in what you call excitement.

3-19-02 Another boring day, with nothing to report. I need a man to love.

[The phrase "I need a man to love" is a quote attributed to President Woodrow Wilson in the Freud/Bullitt psychobiography of Wilson. According to Freud, President Wilson's relations with significant males, such as Colonel House, reflected a dual father-son identification in which Wilson could play the idealized, noble father to a common son in need of rescue; and alternatively play the common son in need of rescue, assigning other males the role of the fantasized, idealized father.]

3-20-02 Here's a message for the head librarian at the Cleveland Park Branch-- There's a patron named "John F." -- He uses the computer and makes way over the permitted number of pages -- seems like he routinely makes 20-30 copies. -- "John F." Check him out.

["John F." may be an allusion to President Kennedy.]

3-21-02 Here's an interesting factoid: Harvard Law Professor Lawrence Tribe has a brother who is a child psychiatrist, Alexander Tribe, M.D., who practices in Walnut Creek, California (the Bay Area, I think).

3-22-02 Have a good weekend!

3-25-02 My sex life isn't all that great. I'm thinking I should have become a catholic priest -- my tool would be jumpin'

[Brian Brown is a practicing Catholic.]

3-26-02 I think about Glenn all the time. He was my one and only. I never forgot about him. The few times, the few moments we had together I have always cherished in my memory. Yes, Glenn, I loved you. More than Romeo loved Juliet, more than Mikhail loved Raisa, more than Smith loved Wesson. Glenn, oh, Glenn -- we could have been so happy together. But our lives intersect once again ! ! !

3-27-02 I think I'm falling for Ignacio, at the library. He's hot & he's Latino. I have fantasies of dragging him behind the stacks, and humping his hot, hairy, Latino ass. Ignacio -- Love you, Sweet Heart. Will you be my smokin' bitch?

3-28-02 I plan to send an employment inquiry to Judge Richard Klein, PA Superior Court (Appeals Court). He was one of my instructors at Temple Law School, which, incidentally, is named for Judge Klein's father (also a judge) -- "The Charles Klein Building."

[I did, in fact, send an employment inquiry to Judge Klein; the letter was virtually identical to the one I sent to Glenn Fine at DOJ. Judge Klein did not reply. Judge Klein taught a course in trial advocacy that I took in law school.]

3-29-02 Prince Abdullah was here the other night. So he says to me: Freedman, I've got an offer you can't refuse -- a real opportunity." I say: "Tell me more." So, Abdullah says: "I'll give you a lifetime supply of oil, if you'll agree to cut off your left foot." I said, "Abdullah, I'm intrigued, but I have to tell you right now, I don't drive, so what do I do with all that oil? And if I cut off my left foot, how does that help the fungus infection on my right foot?" -- "But please, tell me more!"

[Ridicules the Saudi Middle-East peace plan. The character Hans Sachs in the opera Die Meistersinger is a shoemaker.]

4-1-02 He ends up under siege in a bunker. Why am I not surprised? All you need is a couple cyanide capsules and a woman named Eva -- and you'll be all set for summer reruns.

[Refers to Yassir Arafat confined to his compound in Ramallah. Alludes to Hitler and his mistress, Eva Braun (Brian Brown?). Note that the leading female character in Wagner's opera Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg is named Eva.]

4-02-02 I saw Ben Wattenberg yesterday, at a CVS pharmacy. He was purchasing athlete's foot spray. I, personally, think he should get a brush for his think tank.

[The character Hans Sachs in the opera Die Meistersinger is a shoemaker.]

4-3-02 Message for Yassir Arafat: Take the one-way ticket. Believe me, you won't get a better deal. Just make sure you're wearing that rag on your head when you file for disability. File for a mental disability. Believe me, you won't have a problem getting your claim approved.

[Refers to offer by Israeli government to permit Arafat to leave his compound at Ramallah if he agrees not to come back to the country. Incidentally, a handkerchief plays a role in the opening action in the opera Die Meistersinger.]
4-4-02 Here's my one recollection of L. Patrick Swygert. Swygert was a law professor at Temple University Law School when I was a student there. He is now the president of Howard University. In the fall of 1981 I took a course in real estate transactions, taught by Joseph Passon. On one occasion Passon and Swygert were chatting before class. Swygert said he had eaten at McDonalds. He said he didn't usually eat there, but that every once in a while he (Swygert) needed a "grease fix."

4-5-02 Message for Adam Shapiro-- What's it like having breakfast with Hitler? How did you keep your food down, you little ass-kissing freak?

[Shapiro was a young American Jew who paid a sympathy visit to Arafat, who was confined to his compound in Ramallah. Shapiro and his family later received numerous death threats from American Jews.]

4-8-02 I told my psychologist that I'm not certain anymore whether you come in here everyday and read these notes. Please, please don't abandon me. You're my only contact with the outside world. (By the way, the couple in apt. 137 are a lively pair).

[The message suggests my identification with the isolated Arafat. See message on 4-5-02.]

4-9-02 Yesterday was a quiet day.

4-10-02 Here's my solution to the Mid-East crisis. What you do is make former Philadelphia Mayor, Wilson Goode, Prime Minister of Israel. He'd know how to deal with Arafat. Goode would drop a bomb on top of Arafat's compound in Ramallah. Good-bye, Yassir!

[In 1985 Philadelphia Mayor Wilson Goode suggested that the police drop a bomb on the roof of the home where the radical group "Move" had isolated itself, in West Philadelphia.]

4-11-02 A rare moment of Agreement:

ARIEL SHARON: We're going to chew him up . . .

YASSIR ARAFAT: . . .and spit him out.


[Apparently refers to the upcoming visit of a Mid-East peace envoy.]

4-12-02 What's the meaning of the policy of keeping the chocolate donuts hidden away? Don't you know? I NEED chocolate?

[Undated] The magazine is a nice touch, don't you think?-- It completes the total, super-fag look. Tres chic.

["Chocolate donuts hidden away:" Possible allusion to the symbolic meaning of the anus: "the secret place" where things are "hidden away." The message, when read in the context of the previous messages, suggests an implied comparison between the anus, on the one hand, and, on the other, my isolation in my apartment and Arafat's isolation in his compound.]

4-15-02 [Time Magazine cartoon of Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, with the caption:
"Arafat . . . Can't live with him, can't shoot him!" I have added the handwritten note:] Muscle Tough!

["Muscle Tough" is a play on the Hebrew "Maazel Tov," or "good luck."]

4-15-02 Please thank Mr. Castleberry for putting the chairs on the sun roof. I was pleasantly surprised on Saturday when I went up to the roof, and everything was set up. Good job!

4-16-02 Message for Mr. Castleberry -- Thanks for turning on the AC -- It's delightful! Bully!

["It's delightful! Bully!" is an allusion to President Theodore Roosevelt, who, incidentally, won a Nobel Peace Prize for his mediation of the Russo-Japanese War of 1905].

4-17-02 They chewed him up and spit him out -- You heard it here first.

[Refers to an unsuccessful peace mediation effort in the Middle-East.]

4-18-02 In my opinion, there's entirely too much vacuuming in this building. Tenants here are fairly clean. You don't really need to vacuum every day. Also, Mrs. Joyce is late every day. She makes Eddie wait. That's not fair. Show some consideration, Mrs. Joyce.

4-19-02 Message for my Palestinian friends: People in booby-trapped houses shouldn't throw stones!

4-22-02 Did you see the movie: "Changing Lanes?" Here's the Middle-East version --

ARIEL SHARON: See what I can do to you?

YASSIR ARAFAT: I want my life back.

4-23-02 Today is Shakespeare's birthday. Got anything planned?

4-24-02 A little nippy out there, isn't it? I'm being too polite. It's fucking cold out there. "Luxury apartments" -- my ass.

[Note the association of my apartment with the anus. See message on 4-12-02.]

4-25-02 Difficult session with my psychologist, Dr. Shaffer, yesterday afternoon. She doesn't seem to understand my love for Glenn Fine. She didn't want to review a computer disc I tried to give her, a disc that contained the results of my investigation of Glenn Fine. I was hurt by her actions. My love for Glenn is deep and probably eternal. I want to be a part of the Glenn Fine world. I [heart] Glenn.

4-26-02 Quiet day, yesterday. Stop back on Monday.

4-30-02 There was another "illegal" move-in/move-out on Saturday night. The truck didn't move out till about 9:00 PM. What's the good of rules if you don't enforce them?

4-30-02 I had some ideas for a new line of Barbie dolls.

"Unlawful Termination Barbie:" You pull a string in the back, and the doll commits perjury.

"Intifada Barbie:" You pull a string in the back and the damn thing blows up.

[Note the implied identification between my feelings about my job termination, on the one hand, and, on the other, the grievances of Palestinians against the Israelis. "Claus Barbie" was the name of a Nazi war criminal who was captured in the year 1985.]

5-1-02 Happy May Day!

5-2-02 Yassir Arafat: "I'm back, baby, I'm back!"

5-3-02 I think I'm falling for Ben S. at the library. He's looking for a literary agent.

["Ben S." was a library patron who used the public access computers.]

5-6-02 Yesterday was Cinqo de Mayo. It was a sad day for me. I longed for all my Latino friends, particularly, my dear friend, Ignacio. Love you, babe.

5-7-02 Sat directly across from Ben S. at the library. W-O-W. When I got home I had to have a private moment. Man, when that white sticky stuff started to fly it was a wild scene. Thanks, Ben. You gave me the big one I was waiting for!

[Ben S. was tall. Possible allusion to "Big Ben" in London, and implicitly, to the passage of time.]

5-8-02 Nothing new to report. I saw Carlos [Chalbaud] yesterday. He seems to be putting on some weight. He needs to work out.

5-9-02 Saw Carlos in the library. It was nice to see his smiling face. I might ask Carlos out on a date.

5-10-02 I saw Julie Sherman this morning at about 10 minutes before 7 AM. She looked at me really oddly. (Julie Sherman is the President of the Tenants Association). What's up with that? How would Julie Sherman even know who I am?

5-13-02 I had a Pepsi weekend. Brittany Spears stopped by accompanied by Bob Strauss. Brittany Spears was thinking young; Bob Strauss was talking earnings projections. A good time was had by all!

[Strauss is a member of the Pepsi-Cola Board of Directors. A possible implicit association between a desire for youth and a desire for wealth, both of which I am in short supply.]

5-14-02 / 5-15-02 (Double Issue) What do you get when you sprinkle salt water on a brownie? You get a Brine Brownie! (I haven't lost my sense of humor.)

[Brine Brownie is a play on the name Brian Brown (psychoanalytically, suggestive of oral incorporation and pathological mourning. Brine is used as a meat preservative, suggestive of the use of formaldehyde in embalming.)]

5-16-02 Yesterday, Carlos had just left the library when I arrived. I was devastated! If only we had come together -- that would have been cool.

["Come together" is an apparent sexual allusion.]

5-17-02 It's 6:21 PM. Thursday, 5-16. There's a guy outside (looks like a Marine) -- He's doing an illegal move-in. Not only that-- their truck is parked in the zone reserved for the front-desk clerk. Bastards!

5-20-02 There's been some talk that Al Qaeda may be planning to rent an apartment in a high-rise, simply to bring explosives in and blow them up. May I recommend a site for my friends at Al Qaeda?-- Why don't you choose 3883 Connecticut Avenue -- The building won't be missed.

[3883 Connecticut, an apartment building directly across from my window, completed in 2002, blocks the view from my apartment.]

5-21-02 Check out Alex Zapruder's book, "Salvaged Pages," published by Yale University Press. It's a Holocaust book. There's no business like Shoah business!

[Zapruder is romantically involved with my old friend Craig Dye. She has worked at the Holocaust Museum. "Shoah" is Hebrew for the Holocaust. Zapruder's father won a $15 million settlement with the U.S. Government over ownership of the so-called Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination. Note the implication that the Zapruders exploit the suffering of others for financial gain.]

5-22-02 Carlos was at the library yesterday. Muy, muy caliente! ! By the way, today is Sy Glanzer's birthday.

[Seymour Glanzer is an attorney with Dickstein Shapiro, which represented Akin Gump in the lawsuit McNeil v. Akin, Gump, Strauss, Hauer & Feld (Robert Higgins, Esq.). Glanzer used to practice at the Justice Department and is a friend or acquaintance of Len Garment. Glanzer has a degree from the Juilliard School and is apparently a musician. May 22 is also the birthday of the composer Richard Wagner.]

5-23-02 How did you celebrate Sy Glanzer's birthday? I had a wild time.

5-24-02 Here's my take on the Chandra Levy matter: In my opinion, nothing good has ever come out of Brandywine Street.

[The remains of Levy, a Congressional staffer, were found on Brandywine Street. Gertrude R. Ticho, MD, the psychiatric consultant who reportedly told Dennis Race I was delusional and potentially violent, resided on Brandywine Street. Psychoanalytically, in this context, "Brandywine" is a possible allusion to death; brandy is used to preserve fruit (as formaldehyde is used as an embalming fluid)].

5-27-02 / 5-28-02 I'm thinking of going to India for lunch. I hear they're opening a new deli. Specialty of the house? Anything fried.

[Refers to the escalating tensions between India and Pakistan and the possible use of nuclear weapons by both sides against each other.]

5-29-02 People say: "Why are you celibate?" "You're not a priest." I'll tell you why: I'm giving myself to Bob Strauss. That's right. I feel it makes me a better person -- because of abstinence, I'm able to give my whole being to Bob. Some young men are attracted to the priesthood, but they have a problem with celibacy. With me it's the opposite: I feel an attraction to celibacy and an aversion to Catholicism. But I have to say I like the collars -- Those collars priests wear. In fact those are the two best things about the priesthood. The collars and the celibacy.

[A dream interpretation I wrote, "The Dream of the Blue Oxford," that deals with my father's death, refers to the issue of a shirt collar and a dog collar and contains references to formaldehyde as a tissue preservative.)]

5-30-02 I planted some flower seeds in the planter on the roof (on the west side). Little green shoots are starting to come up. I hope people don't use the planter as an ash tray (which they've done in the past).

[Note the symbolism: the planter is analogous to the womb which houses a fertilized zygote; an ashtray is a repository of waste material. The message implies a confusion of vagina and anus.]

5-31-02 PRESIDENT VAJPAYEE [OF INDIA]: "Get me Claire Hirshfield -- and fahst! Hm, you smell that? Is something burning?"

[Refers to the India/Pakistan crisis and the feared use of nuclear weapons by both sides.]

6-3-02 PRIME MINISTER VAJPAYEE: To hell with the people-- How do we protect the cows?

6-4-02 Here's somebody you might want to check out: MOYLAN MILLS (Central High School, 188th class). Mills was my faculty adviser at Penn State (Abington -- 1971-1973). He is currently "Professor & Dept. Head of Integrative Arts" at Penn State's Abington Campus. Obviously, he is a graduate of my high school (Central HS).

6-5-02 Here's somebody to look into: BARBARA SIEGEL VAN HORNE. I worked with her at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia about 30 years ago:

She started in the summer of 1971;
She had worked as a librarian at the Phila. Public Library (Central Branch) previously;
She was originally from New York City;
She was Jewish; her husband (van Horne) was doing time for drugs -- he later died;
She was a devotee of the Wagner operas;
She got her job through Richard Groening;
She later worked for Joe Pitts;
She left in 1974; she got a job as a librarian at a college library-- a dream job for her.

6-6-02 Did I mention that Ben S. shaved his goatee and that he's looking very sexy, y muy, muy caliente? I think I'm going to ask the guy out.

6-10-02 / 6-7-02 [sic] Here's David Rosenbaum's telephone number-- 814 867 9227. I told you about Dave last year. -- 1970 Central High School grad (229th class). Played violin in orchestra. He wanted to be creative.

[Rosenbaum is now a professor of psychology at Penn State, my college alma mater.]

6-10-02 Below is a picture of my old supervisor [Christine Robertson] -- I think she's just spotted [Akin Gump managing partner] Larry Hoffman.

[Attached is page 73 of April 2002 issue of Esquire magazine depicting a female model sitting on a beach; she is sneering, her tongue is sticking out of her mouth; and she is making an obscene gesture with a finger of her right hand.]

6-11-02 You may have heard that terrorists have been considering building and detonating a so-called dirty bomb (a radiological dispersion device). As I pointed out before, only one thing can help us -- lead. You need to have a sheet of lead to block out gamma rays, etc. GET on this PRONTO ! !

6-12-02 Here's somebody to check out: ALAN BEDRICK, M.D. Subject graduated Central High School in 1970, & went on to get a B.S. & M.D. from Penn State. (He was in the 229 at Central). He specialized in pediatrics (that's kids). He used to hang out with the Chanin brothers at Central. I wonder if he remembers me?

[Bedrick is a neonatologist. The Chanin brothers also graduated from Penn State with degrees in psychology.]

6-13-02 I am an enema combatant. I am opposed to enemas, and I will combat them any way I can ! !

[Note that the message on 6-12 referred to a neonatologist. The reference to enemas on 6-13 may suggest a confusion of anus and vagina. This confusion has emerged in other diary entries.]

6-14-02 I've been writing to you for about a year now. Take a break -- and have a good weekend. I'll have something for you on Monday -- promise. My doctor [Dr. Ruttenberg], by the way, is allowing me to stop taking my anti-obsessive/compulsive medication. Do you see a difference?

[Refers to the drug Anafranil.]

6-17-02 [Pasted at top of page is a note cut out from a publication that states: "CHECK THIS OUT!"] I lied on Friday when I said I would have something for you today. That will teach you to trust a psychotic!

6-18-02 I think I've run into a dry spell -- Nothing to report -- Thinking of a mid-life career change -- I may run for Mayor of Nairobi.

[Nairobi is the capital of Kenya. Refers to high school classmate, Perry Rubenstein, whose stated career ambition in high school was to be Prime Minister of Kenya.]

6-19-02 For the Chapter: "I was a Teenage Homosexual." I can remember the first time I set eyes on the future Prime Minister of Kenya. It was on the afternoon of September 5, 1969 -- a Friday -- in chemistry lab (near the south lawn). I remember looking around, and seeing a face I had never seen before. I thought, "Did he just transfer to "Boys Nation"? This is really queer, but I think I can recall what he was wearing at the time: a banlon shirt (rust in color -- you know, the color of ferrous oxide). Little did I know then that one day he would be elected head of state, and that my own career would be tragically, suddenly, and brutally ended by a mad terminator who had affiliated with someone with ties to Moscow and the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. -- Perry, We Hardly Knew Ya!

[President Clinton, in his youth, was a member of Boys Nation. At about age 16 President Clinton and fellow Boys Nation members got to meet then President Kennedy (on the South Lawn?) at the White House. I suspect there are allusions here to father idealization, the desire to emulate a father figure, but also the homosexual anxiety associated with placing the self in the passive position of fulfilling the father's ambitions. See Peter Blos, "Freud and the Father Complex." The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child. Note my dual identification with both President Kennedy (father figure) and the young Bill Clinton (son figure). The fact that President Kennedy was assassinated suggests Oedipal concerns. Note how I conflate the assassination of President Kennedy with the issue of my job termination, as if I see myself as an assassination victim.

I have a remote association to this message, which can be interpreted as relating to the issue of successorship, a "passing of the torch" from one generation to the next. I associate the message to the opening chorus of Wagner's opera, Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg:

When the Savior [the young Bill Clinton] came to thee [John the Baptist/President Kennedy],
willingly accepted thy baptism,
offered Himself up to a sacrificial death,
He gave the covenant for our salvation
that we might consecrate ourselves through His [Bill Clinton's] baptism
so as to be worthy of His sacrifice.
Noble Baptist [President Kennedy]!
Christ's [Bill Clinton's] precursor!
Receive us graciously
there by the river Jordan.

John Kennedy in becoming President fulfilled his father's ambitions and, in doing so, ultimately met his death. Psychoanalytically, this fact may relate to castration anxiety or homosexual anxiety associated with fulfilling the father's ambitions. See Blos, P. "Freud and the Father Complex." The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child. Note that all the named parties suffered a demise of one sort or other: John the Baptist was beheaded, President Kennedy was assassinated; Christ was crucified (and, according to believers, rose again), President Clinton was impeached (and was acquitted).

6-20-02 LOST OPPORTUNITIES

GEORGE H.W. BUSH: I should have killed him when I had a chance.

ARIEL SHARON: Right. Tell me about it.

[Bush's comment refers to Saddam Hussein. Sharon's comment refers to Yassir Arafat.]

6-21-02 I had an odd impression at the library yesterday (6-20-02). The branch librarian -- I don't know his name -- for the sake of convenience I'll call him "Brian"; well, "Brian" was talking to someone, and I noticed an unusual modulation in his voice, a kind of animated tone. It was as if "Brian" were mimicking someone else who had been talking in an excited manner. Of course, I thought this was related to me somehow. -- Have a good summer.

[Significantly, this is the first instance in which I refer to Brian Patrick Brown by name. Circumstantial psychoanalytic evidence suggests that my association to the beginning of summer ("Have a good summer") is significant. Wagner's opera, Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg takes place on St. John's Day, which is June 21, the first day of summer. Odd, don't you think? The opera features a symbolic father-son relationship between an older, experienced Master (Hans Sachs) and the young, and highly ambitious son figure (Walther von Stolzing). Sigmund Freud had a special fondness for Meistersinger and wrote about the opera in a letter to his special friend, Wilhelm Fliess.

"The Meistersinger afforded me a strange pleasure. A parallel between [my friend and protector] Breuer and H. Sachs is forced upon me by the circumstance that he too was in the theater. I was sympathetically moved by the 'morning dream interpretation melody.'" Sigmund Freud to Wilhelm Fliess.

Of interest is the fact that in the third act of the opera, Walther writes a song but has not titled it. Upon hearing the song, Sachs -- in an outburst of emotion in which he compares Walther's lyrical creation to the birth of a child -- says "I give the song the name 'The Blissful Morning Dream Interpretation Melody.'" Sachs refers to his act of naming the song as "a baptism."

Psychoanalytically, the wider implications of the issue of "the name" probably relates to the issue of personal identity. Incidentally, I was born on December 23, 1953 -- near the beginning of the winter solstice -- the astronomical polar opposite of the beginning of summer (June 21). One of the few occasions on which I made a personal comment to Brian Brown was on about December 24, 2003, the day after my fiftieth birthday. "Brian," I said, "yesterday was my birthday. Do you have a policy of giving a present to patrons on their birthdays? What I had in mind was -- could you give me one of those T-shirts?" ("The Friends of the Cleveland Park Library," a volunteer group, raises funds for the library through the sale of commemorative T-shirts and other souvenir items.) The Cleveland Park Library celebrated its fiftieth anniversary in the year 2003. The library opened in the year of my birth, 1953. Brian Brown's ban on my access to the library (an institution with which I have a strong personal identification), in April 2004, was probably experienced by me as an extreme narcissistic loss.]

6-24-02 So, Malcolm says: "Zibelman? Who the hell is Zibelman? Is it one of his girlfriends?" No, it's not. Jeffrey Zibelman was a student in my 12th grade English class in high school (1970-1971). He graduated from Penn State in Spring 1975, in my graduating class. (By the way, what is EEC [Zibelman's college major])? (Not every Penn State graduate can become a big-time real estate lawyer [like Akin Gump attorney Earl Segal, Esq.]). He looked like a compulsive reader. The only activity he lists in the high school yearbook is "library aide." [See message, above, dated 6-21-04]. Check out my high school yearbook, page 235 (Upper Left). It's Mr. Plummer's English class. You can catch a good shot of my back (my head is directly under the teacher's head). There's a Jeffrey Zibelman who is an elementary school principal at a school in central Pennsylvania (phone 814 796-2060). Zibelman appeared to be a non-joiner in high school and college. He also appears to be anti-necktie.

[My father worked as a garment cutter in a neckwear factory. He had a disdain for people who did not wear a necktie in socially appropriate circumstances. "Look at him, he should be wearing a tie," my father used to say. Note that my father "cut cloth." (Possible reference to castration fears?)

6-25-02 I have a message for Brian -- Your hair looked really nice, yesterday, Brian. -- The body, the bounce, the sheen. Are you using a new conditioner, Brian? --Just keep on doing what you're doing, Brian.

[My father had male-pattern baldness, and I suspected that he envied my hair. Note that hair, like cloth, is "cut." (Possible reference to castration fears?)]

6-25-02 Here's the George Bush Mid-East Peace Plan, as reported in "Variety." WEST BANK STORY. Is it going to be "Sunday in the Gaza Strip With George" or "Two States Side by Side by Sondheim?"

[Stephen Sondheim was Leonard Bernstein's lyricist -- the two had a professional partnership.]

6-26-02 WEST BANK STORY (CONT'D).

YASSIR ARAFAT: There's a place for us.

[Refers to "West Side Story," a musical by Bernstein and Sondheim, based on Romeo and Juliet.]

6-27-02 Here's what I've noticed at the library. For a while Pauline [Jones, who works at the circulation desk] was saying "Hello, how are you?" [to me]. Now, that's stopped, and she's gone back to being the black-ice princess.

6-28-02 A strange and distressing incident happened yesterday afternoon (6/27) at about 3:55 PM - 4:00 PM at the Georgia Avenue/Petworth Metro Station. A Metro transit cop (white male) stopped me near the kiosk on the mezzanine above the track level. He asked me where I was coming from, where I was headed, whether I had anything on me he should know about -- drugs, needles -- He asked to see my arms to check for injection marks, asked if I use drugs or ever used drugs. I told him I was in the neighborhood to visit the mental health center (I had a consult with my psychologist, Dr. Shaffer). He asked me the address (I said 1125 Spring Road). He stated that there was a lot of drug trafficking in the neighborhood. His manner was mildly intimidating, and not at all friendly. The only reason I can see for the stop was that I was white in an overwhelmingly black/Hispanic neighborhood. I think it was racial profiling. What was his probable cause for the stop? At no time did he initiate physical contact. He declined to see my ID, which I offered.

[Note the reference to personal identity: the issue of "the name," in the form of ID. See the message on 6-21-02.]

7-1-02 THE TRIBULATIONS OF THE ENEMA COMBATANT

PRESIDENT'S PHYSICIAN: Mr. President, just say "go" when you're ready.

PRESIDENT BUSH: Hold it right there! You're not doing any inserting in that area!!

Now, onto a totally unrelated topic: Saturday (6-29) I had an idea of reference in the library. In the magazine exchange, someone left a catalogue that was concealed under a magazine. The only part of the catalogue that was visible was the lower right-hand corner (arrow pointing to cutout portion of catalogue). It shows a male model with his hand near the full Monty in his pants -- and the phrase "Escape with Perry." I thought it referred to Rubenstein, the heterosexual from Philadelphia.

[The attached portion of the catalogue says: "Escape with Perry Ellis." Rubenstein "escaped" to Florida during spring break in the 11th grade in high school.]

7-2-02 Message for Brian-- Listen, guy, I don't like being hassled by patrons in the library. Louise, your geriatric friend, is a pain in the ass. But she doesn't have much time left, and the day is coming when she'll be gone. But there's someone else who really riles me. Her name (which I picked up from the computer sign-in form) is either "Lori" or "Seidman." A few weeks ago she got into an ugly dispute with Velvel. Yesterday was my turn. Yesterday, my buddy Ben and I were on the computer. The patron in question signs up, then asks Ben if he's going to take all his time. He says he might. (She asks this of people -- including me -- every time she signs up.) She turns to me -- I KNOW what she's going to say, and I burst out "Yes, I am" before she finished asking me the question. She walks away without comment. Ben gets off the computer and the patron gets on. She says nothing to me. Then I get off the computer, I stand to leave, and Velvel tells me nobody is waiting to get on, and that I can stay on for a bit longer, -- which I do. Then the patron starts in -- saying to me: "He lets you stay on past your time. Gee, aren't you lucky. It couldn't happen to a nicer guy." She looks at me. I said nothing and did not return her gaze. She left me alone after that. My provisional diagnosis-- Borderline or narcissistic personality disorder.

1. Note the envy (She thinks I'm getting special favors)

2. Note the hypersensitivity (she was hurt by my "rudeness" and did not, or was unable, to metabolize her pain -- that pain remained for apparently 15 minutes)

3. Projective Identification -- Her comments to me were an attempt to get me into a scene, thereby transferring her angry state to me. She could, in turn, play the victim, i.e., the victim of my anger toward her.

4. Lack of empathy / intrusiveness (boundary breach) / sense of entitlement: Her act of routinely approaching computer users to ask how long they are going to be on, without regard to how annoying she is by doing this as an invariant behavior. I suspect Velvel's problem is that he let her suck him into her game. Watch out for borderlines -- they're trouble.

7-3-02 Apropos of my letter of 7/2

MARSHALL MACLUHAN: Do you plan to use up your entire 15 minutes of fame?

BEN: I might.

MARSHALL MACLUHAN: And you, do you plan to --

FREEDMAN: YES, I DO ! !

7-4-02 / 7-5-02 Here's a recollection from July 1968, 34 years ago. I was in Atlantic City with my father. My father was talking to Edward Blum. Blum was talking about his two kids: Jay and Susan. He said that Jay (13 years old at the time) was taking guitar lessons, but that he spent his time playing his own stuff, instead of practicing his assigned music. Blum said that his daughter Susan (the older child) was working on "Clair de Lune" (by Debussy), a difficult piece. Susan Blum played piano. She entered Glasboro College (Where Lyndon met with the Commies in '67 -- Do you remember Kosygin's daughter [I think it was] went to a performance of the opera "La Gioconda" while she was in the states with daddy). Anyway, Susan Blum entered Glasboro with the intent to study music. She gave that up and majored in something else. Reportedly, she said music majors had to "eat, sleep, and breathe music" 24/7, which she couldn't do, -- anything connected to music I can recall. What I'm wondering is -- whatever happened to Eddie Lischin? I notice I never read about him in the alumni news letter. Did he ever do anything with his life -- like become a marine biologist? Or did he just end up pretending to be an architect? I remember the last time I saw him -- spring 1968. Jay Blum's bar mitzvah. He was sporting a ponytail. Who has a ponytail in a non-ponytail country? ?

[Compare the message dated 6-25-04 about Brian Brown's hair; the context of the message relates to my father. This message about Edward Lischin expressly refers to my father.]

7-8-02 JOE'S FRUIT STAND

FREEDMAN (on telephone): Hey, Greenberg--

GREENBERG: Yea?

FREEDMAN: Remember when we were in high school?

GREENBERG: Yea?

FREEDMAN: Twelfth-grade social studies?

GREENBERG: Yea?

FREEDMAN: You sat directly in back of me.

GREENBERG: That's right.

FREEDMAN: Did you think I looked like a fag?

GREENBERG: No. I thought you looked like a psychotic.

FREEDMAN: Thanks. (hangs up phone).

FREEDMAN: See? Greenberg says he didn't think I looked like a fag.

RUBENSTEIN: SO? What do you want ME to do?

FREEDMAN: Well, I got calls out to six other guys asking them if THEY thought I looked like a fag.

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode, "The Mango," in which Jerry Seinfeld telephones a former girlfriend to find out if she had orgasms when they were dating.]

7-8-02 SPECIAL EDITION. Could you tell Dave Castleberry that the firemen smashed the window in the door to the roof deck (8th floor -- the Doc Ceaser entrance) -- They also punched out the locks to the door. By the way, I gotta tell you -- 11:00 PM a lot of people are having sex (normal or solo). It's hard to go on when those alarm bells are going. Personally, I lost my erection. I think I'm going to sue WRIT. "Damages for lost orgasm."

[Refers to fire in apartment building to which fire fighters responded. Note the psychosexual implications of the idea of "fire." "They also punched out the locks to the door" -- possible symbolic reference to breaking the hymen. Years ago, I used to masturbate on the roof of the building. Martin Ceaser, MD, a psychiatrist/psychoanalyst, whose professional office is in the building, also used to reside in the building, and would occasionally sit on the roof deck.]

7-9-02 Twelfth-grade social studies -- Everyday the teacher [Jacob Finkelstein] used to call the roll at the start of class.

Adams
Boig
Boi-man
(?)
Cohen
Day-Vuh-Ohno
Eisenstock
Fweed-man
Gween-boig

or translated--

ADAMS
BERG
BERMAN
(?)
COHEN
DEVUONO
EISENSTOCK
FREEDMAN
GREENBERG

[Note that the first Act of the opera Die Meistersinger features a meeting of the Mastersinger guild, where there is a roll call of names -- once again, the issue of "the names" (or personal identity). See the message on 6-21-02.]

By the way, I think Jay Berman was the only person with a brain in this group. This is the only thing I remember about Berman. In the eleventh grade (1969-70 school year) in Mr. Rosenbaum's English class, somebody mentioned that Nasser (Pres. Nasser of Egypt) had died. Berman said: "So, what do you want me to do, say Kaddish?"

[Kaddish is a Hebrew prayer for the dead. As Rabbi Wohlberg would point out -- it's actually written in Aramaic.]

7-10-02 Here's somebody you can look into-- RICHARD ORODENKER (Central High School, 229th class, 1970). Subject sat next to me in 9th grade French class, taught by Edith Procter (who, incidentally, had been one of Linda Miller's French teachers at Girls' High School). Subject thought that my having both Mr. Price and Elliot Cades (Ming the Merciless) in my freshman year, was a brutal fate. In French class I was a freshman in a class of 10th graders. Toby Apel (the professional violist) was in that class. Orodenker was active in his synagogue. [Note the immediate transition from a religious reference to a sexual reference:] By the way, I whacked off for 40 minutes this morning. I had to. It's called "mitigation of damages." You know, if WRIT's lawyer says to me at my deposition, "What did you do, if anything, to mitigate your lost orgasm," I'll be able to say -- "Well, if you really must know" -- If you have to, you have to!

[Several of the diary entries contain associations of sexual content with religious content.]

7-12-02 I heard that Malcolm went to Arnold Shapiro with the idea for an All-Akin Gump "Big Brother" reality-TV series. The only problem was that Malcolm couldn't find 12 Akin Gump employees who could pass the psych test.

[Arnold Shapiro is the producer of the CBS-TV reality series "Big Brother." Note the possible biblical allusion to the patriarch Abraham. God promises Abraham that He will not destroy Sodom and Gomorra if Abraham can identify 10 righteous people in the cities. Malcolm Lassman (a kind of patriarch), together with Robert Strauss, founded the Washington, DC office of Akin Gump, in the year 1971.]

7-12-02 Here's somebody to contact -- The sales representative at Eli Lilly -- The drug manufacturer that makes Zyprexa, the anti-psychotic medication I was taking, and which did nothing for me (even after 6 months.) Paul Booth, Sales Rep., Neuroscience Business Unit, Eli Lilly, Neuroscience Division, 3524 S. Stafford Avenue, Arlington, VA 22208 phone (703) 931-5686. See what he makes of my autobiography.

[Note that Eli is Hebrew for God. As the Big Jew in the Sky once said: "Eli, Eli, why hast thou forced me to take antipsychotic meds?"]

7-16-02 Here are two people to look into: ROBERT FLIEGELMAN - LAWRENCE FOGEL. Subjects were in my home room class in high school. (Central High School, 230th class, 1971). I had nothing to do with these people, but I'm running out of people to tell you about. The two subjects were close friends. I vaguely recall in 12th grade, a substitute home room teacher, Miss Brody, said -- "What, are the two of you brothers?" The relationship between the two was an unusual one. I think Fliegelman was in my 12th grade English class taught by Mr. Plummer. I vaguely recall Fliegelman was excited about getting accepted to Muhlenberg College. Both Fliegelman and Fogel list medicine as their career objective in the high school yearbook (neither is listed in the current physicians' directory). Fogel was super smart; he achieved scholastic honors.

7-16-02 [Cut out from magazine:] Yeah, I'm so fucking bored.

7-17-02

YASSIR ARAFAT: Why did things turn out like this for me? I had so much going for me when I was younger. Well, maybe not academically. But I always knew what people were thinking at a party.

KING ABDULLAH: You've become George.

YASSIR ARAFAT: Don't say that!

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode.]

7-18-02 Please tell Dave Castleberry (he's the resident manager -- his office is on the second floor -- ask Mrs. Joyce for directions) -- The cardboard on the outside of the door leading out to the roof deck -- the door whose glass got smashed [by the fire fighters] -- THAT cardboard fell off & needs to be taped up.

7-19-02 The city wants to cut the library budget in order to help its budget problems. RIDICULOUS! The city needs to get at the root of the problem -- and not simply cut the weeds at their tops. The problem is literacy. -- Too many people reading too many books. My solution-- cut the school budget. Make reading an elective course in elementary school. Let the little six year olds decide for themselves if they want to throw away their lives as literate adults. In my mind, it's a no-brainer. Slash the school budget, and in 10 to 20 years, nobody will even NEED libraries.

7-22-02 No news today.

7-23-02 I've really run low on things to tell you about. I'm really scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one. Here's the name of someone from my high school graduating class (Central High School, 230th class, 1971). DAVID POMERANTZ. Subject was in my 11th grade algebra II class. That was the class in which I heard Rubenstein say I looked like a fag (a male homosexual). Pomerantz was a library aide (maybe he knew Zibelman). Pomerantz won't remember me.

[Note the connection between the message on 7-19 about the library budget, and the message on 7-23 that refers to the high school library aides Pomerantz and Zibelman.]

7-24-02 Here's what I call "The Single Bull-Shooter Theory"

RUBENSTEIN: I make one comment thirty years ago. Who the hell knew he would turn into a one-man Warren Commission?

[Perry Rubenstein called me a fag in high school -- a fact that I seem never to have gotten over. Note the allusions to the Kennedy assassination, namely, the Warren Commission and "The Single Bull-Shooter Theory." Jack Ruby, who killed Lee Harvey Oswald, was originally named Rubenstein.] 7-25-02 I have a message for Alex [Bernstein] -- Listen, Alex, I got a tape of one of your father's [Leonard Bernstein's] Norton Lectures at Harvard, from 1973: Tape No. 3 -- "Musical Semantics." Right off the bat, your father says something that's flat out incorrect. Talking about the semantics of a particular sentence, he points out that it is ambiguous, and susceptible of two interpretations. The sentence is: "The whole town was populated by old men and women." Your father says one can interpret this to mean--

1) The town was populated by old men and OLD women, or
2) The town was populated by old men and women OF ANY AGE.

But there's a third meaning, which Pops omitted (or, of psychoanalytic significance, may have repressed). The possibility is:

"The town was populated by [descendants of] old men and women."

The "deletions" implicit in the third construction are:

1) Old men and women of childbearing age had sex;

2) at least some of the women had babies;

3) the babies grew up, and now POPULATE the town.

Your father limited the phrase "populated by" to mean only that old men and women RESIDE IN the town.

The third meaning construes "populated by" to be a verb, that is "old men and women engaged in procreation" -- the product of which act now populate, or reside in, the whole town.

Psychoanalytically, what is interesting is that the third interpretation can be rephrased to highlight a specific fact that is absent from (or, repressed by) your father's two constructions. That fact is: "Each resident of the town, at birth, had an old man as a father." I.e., your Pops may have been repressing issues relating to his own father complex. (Like Beethoven himself). --Give my regards to [your sister] Nina.

[Interestingly, in the cases of both Bernstein and Freud the respective mothers were about 18 years old when their sons were born; the respective fathers were considerably older. Bernstein and Freud (like the biblical Joseph) had "old men" as fathers. My own father was 47 when I was born, on December 23, 1953. Perhaps a disparity in the ages of mother and father can heighten a child's disposition to create a Family Romance fantasy: "That old man cannot possibly be my father; he is so much older than my mother. Someone else must have sired me." My own mother was nine years younger than my father.]

Something just occurred to me. Assuming Lenny was repressing material relating to his father complex, then you can see a metaphorical quality in his lecture dealing with Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony [no. 6].

--Lenny embarked on a merry jaunt in semantics to escape from the intrapsychic reality of his father complex

--Beethoven embarked on a merry jaunt in the country to escape the confines of city life (which is itself a metaphor, since all Beethoven was doing was setting down notes on a page). Personally, for me, I have to say, "I would rather 'Escape with Perry.'"

7-26-02 Later, dude. By the way, I forgot to mention that July 24 was the 15th anniversary of Daniel Cutler's trip to Philadelphia to attend a David Bowie concert. He went to see the Liberty Bell, too -- but was disappointed by the small size of the pavilion.

7-29-02 I got a bit of a peeve with these so-called supportive psychotherapists. They don't like you to talk about the same thing week after week. --Like you're there to entertain them! I've been talking about Rubenstein for over a month now, -- and my therapist wants me to give it a rest. -- As if, if I talk about something else the content of the other topic won't be determined by the same factors that underlie my current Rubenstein obsession! I thought of a joke. A diabetic complains about his illness -- about his having to prick his finger a couple times a day to get a blood glucose reading. The diabetic's friend says: "Maybe you're not even diabetic. Why don't you prick your foot -- maybe you'll get a different reading!" -- Yea, sure.

[An earlier message -- a joke about the Saudi Middle-East peace plan -- also featured a reference to the foot. The character Hans Sachs in Die Meistersinger was a shoemaker.]

7-30-02 RIDDLE -- Why did the chicken cross the hall? ANSWER-- Because the apartment manager put a new door out to the roof deck, but didn't distribute new keys.

7-31-02 Tell you what I did. I planted orange seeds on the roof. In a few weeks we should be getting our first crop of Valencia oranges. I figure this could be a whole new revenue source for WRIT.

[The French Revolution was triggered when the government attempted to raise additional revenue through taxation.]

8-1-02 Not much happening. I'm watering my orange trees. It's getting really exciting -- Imagine, an orange grove on the roof! I feel like Marie Antoinette at Versailles -- You know, L'Orangerie -- (Ask Dr. Hirshfield).

[For her amusement, Marie Antoinette had an orange grove planted at Versailles; it was called "L'Orangerie." Note the implications of the reference to Marie Antoinette. She was a queen who was beheaded in a revolution. The reference to the Queen (a royal figure) carries implications about the Family Romance Fantasy and Oedipal issues.]

8-02-03 I am so alone, so lonely. It's not like it was years ago, when I used to run around with my buddies, picking up babes. Now, no one writes, nobody calls. All my old friends from years ago -- friends who would support me to the ends of time, or so, they said -- are all gone. What do I have to live for? Sure, maybe a Nobel prize, or a Supreme Court appointment, but who the hell wants to spend a week in Stockholm?

[In the paper "The Fantasy of Having a Twin," Dorothy Burlingham writes that the latency age child, in rebellion against his parents who have failed to gratify his Oedipal desires, may annihilate the parents in fantasy. In his consequent loneliness the child may create an imaginary twin sibling to mitigate the pain of isolation. The fantasy of having a twin sibling is oedipal in origin, and reflects the frustration of the child's Oedipal wishes, his consequent Oedipal rage, and associated annihilation anxiety. "The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child," volume 1.

Note, incidentally, that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is married to a tax attorney (Martin Ginsburg) and also speaks fluent Swedish. Compare message at 7-31-02.]

8-2-02 By the way, Franz Liszt's Faust Symphony was first performed on Sept. 5, 1857 -- EXACTLY 112 years (to the day) before I saw Frankenstein for the first time [in high school chemistry lab]. I remember the Philadelphia Orchestra performed the piece [the Faust Symphony] in the fall 1982 season -- I went to TWO performances! Ricardo Muti conducted, I think. Whatever happened to Muti? I notice I never read about him in the alumni newsletter.

[Frankenstein is a punning reference to Perry Rubenstein. Frankenstein, as an artificial being created in a laboratory, is unique and is therefore unable to find an object suitable for narcissistic mirroring. He is unable to find someone who bears his likeness, a "twin." The character Frankenstein suffered from extreme feelings of isolation. The editor of one edition of the novel states that Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" "offers searching illumination of the human condition in its portrayal of a scientist who oversteps the bounds of conscience, and of a monster brought to life in an alien world, ever more desperately attempting to escape the torture of his solitude."

The phrase "I notice I never read about him in the alumni newsletter" is a quote from the Seinfeld episode, "The Marine Biologist."]

8-5-02 Here's a heads-up on the next big scandal that's going to rock the country-- Sexual abuse by accountants, with Arab-sounding names. You heard it here first.

8-6-02 Nothing to report. Slow news day.

8-7-02 I'll tell you what I think are my two main characteristics:

--I'm dependent
--I'm very good-looking

I suppose you could say that I'm a parasite to behold!

8-8-02 Did Dr. Sadoff ever tell your friends that his cousin, Norman Carroll, was for many years, the concertmaster of the Philadelphia Orchestra? If you talk to Norm, tell him I used to live across the street from the Academy [of Music on Locust Street in Philadelphia], and used to go to concerts all the time -- many of them I can still remember. I think one of the most memorable was when the Orchestra just got back from its European tour in Sept 1982. They played the Brahms 2nd under Muti -- magnificent performance -- the audience went wild.

[Robert L. Sadoff, MD, is a nationally-prominent forensic psychiatrist who used to be associated with the Temple University Law School Unit in Law and Psychiatry. My sister worked as a secretary at the unit while she attended college at Temple. I met Dr. Sadoff when I was thirteen years old.

The phrase "the audience went wild" is a quote from the Seinfeld episode, "The Marine Biologist."]

8-9-02 Here's some background information for Dr. Sadoff and his cousin Normal Carroll. It concerns the internationally-renowned conductor Claudio Abbado. During World-War II, Abbado's parents hid a Jewish kid from the fascists, in their house. Abbado's parents were R.G.'s [Righteous Gentiles] (if you don't get it, you don't get it.) Dr. Sadoff belongs to an organization that gives recognition to R.G.'s.

8-12-02 JOE'S FRUIT STAND -- PART II

LIBRARIAN: If you need help with the computer, I can walk you through it.

FREEDMAN: Help? How can you help me?

LIBRARIAN: I can show you how to press those buttons, buddy.

FREEDMAN: How much time do I get?

LIBRARIAN: 70 minutes.

FREEDMAN: What if it's enough already, and I just wanna get some sleep?

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode.]

8-13-02 Message for Brian -- You seemed put off by me yesterday, Brian -- Was it my breath, my deodorant, or what? You were so friendly last week. What happened? You need to bring that little green monster under control.

8-14-02 Message for Glickman-- Hey man, where's my food stamp re-certification. I'm just a poor, helpless psychotic -- or so your partners say. If you ask me, the correct diagnosis is paranoid scamophrenia -- But just who is doing the scam? By the way, have you talked to Ronnie lately-- What did he think of his uncle Alex? How is Ronnie enjoying his retirement?

[Yellow post-it note attached to page stating:] Message to self-- 1. Put on toupee / 2. Part the Red Sea

[Refers to retired California state court Judge Ronald Schoenberg, son of the great 20th century composer Arnold Schoenberg (who wrote an opera titled "Moses and Aaron.") Judge Schoenberg's uncle was the composer Alexander Zemlinsky. Judge Schoenberg fined O.J. Simpson for spousal abuse in 1989. Yellow note message is a joking reference to the actor Charlton Heston who had recently announced that he suffered from Alzheimer's disease. Heston had portrayed the biblical Moses in "The Ten Commandments." (The note reflects anger about Heston's rude comments concerning President Clinton's gun control policies.) The reference to Moses may be an allusion to the Family Romance fantasy. Moses was the son of lowly Hebrews but was raised by an Egyptian Princess.]

8-15-02 Hey Glickman, What's the deal with mad cow disease? I don't get it -- like cows don't have a right to be mad? They've been herded, confined, slaughtered, milked dry -- and then there's McDonald's -- Don't even get me started on that. My point is, after five thousand years of this -- wouldn't you be Mad? On another matter -- Happy Birthday, Big Bro. -- Time to mark off another year on the calendar, Tristan-man.

["Big Bro" refers to Vernon Jordan, whose birthday is 8-15. The reference to cows and McDonald's ("Old MacDonald had a farm") may be a reference to "sheep fuckers," a possible allusion to a Family Romance fantasy. Oedipus, the son of a king, was banished by his father at birth, and raised by a lowly shepherd. Note that Vernon Jordan is a black man of humble origins
who worked his way to the highest levels of a white-dominated society: suggesting the issue of a man alienated from his origins, like Oedipus himself. The character Tristan, like Oedipus, lost his father in childhood ("Is this the meaning then, you old pathetic shepherd's tune, of all your sighing, pastoral sound? -- On evening's breeze it sadly rang when, as a child, my father's death-news chilled me." Tristan and Isolde, Act III, Scene 1.) Incidentally, "Tristan" was Leonard Bernstein's favorite Wagner opera.]

8-16-02 LUNCH AT TOPPIE'S

FREEDMAN: Try a piece of this pie. It's really good.

GLICKMAN: (shakes head).

FREEDMAN: No, really. It's delicious. Try some.

GLICKMAN: (shakes head.)

FREEDMAN: Do you not like pie? Are you averse to pastry? Tell me! I have to know!

GLICKMAN: Well, if you really must know, I once had a bad pie experience.

FREEDMAN: Apple? Peach?

GLICKMAN: Boysenberry.

[As Clinton Administration Agriculture Secretary, Glickman was the victim of a pie toss by an angry protester.]

8-10-02 So, how is Sally MacVey doing these days?

[MacVey was a coworker at The Franklin Institute.]

8-20-02 JOE'S FRUIT STAND -- PART III

FREEDMAN: Give me my youth back!

RUBENSTEIN: No.

FREEDMAN: Please!

RUBENSTEIN: No!

FREEDMAN: I can make it happen this time. I know I can make it happen. Give me half an hour. -- 15 minutes -- Give me 15 minutes. I know I could turn my life around.

RUBENSTEIN: No!

FREEDMAN: You don't want it to happen. That's it.

RUBENSTEIN: No, that's not it. You know what rejuvenation does to a friendship? It kills it.

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode and Goethe's "Faust." Faust entreats Mephistopheles to restore his lost youth, that is, he asks Mephistopheles to recapture lost time.]

8-21-02 Message for Brian and Velvel-- Your friend Lori was in top form yesterday (8-20-02). Not only was she using someone else's time on the computer, but then she sees another patron (Raaj?) using a cell phone. She asks to borrow it to make a call. The patron gives it to her. Then later, she asks to borrow it again! She's like a butterfly going from flower to flower,-- if there's nectar, she has to take a taste.

8-22-02 Here's somebody to look into: LINDA BUSHYEAGER. She worked at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia in the same office with my mother. She used to edit air pollution abstracts. She was half-Jewish.

8-23-02 Sunday is Lenny's birthday -- 84 years of Lenny.

[Refers to Leonard Bernstein, who died in 1990. The last piece Bernstein conducted, weeks before his death, was the Beethoven Seventh Symphony (coincidentally, like the Prelude to "Tristan," a musical work in the key of A). It was noted, in retrospect, that the tempos Bernstein took were ever so slow, as if he sensed it was his valedictory: as if he wanted, like Faust, to prolong the moment -- the sublime moment. Years earlier, in the Harvard Norton Lectures (1973), Bernstein conducted the Prelude and so-called "Love Death" from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde, and afterwards said to the audience: "I don't think I ever conducted Tristan so slowly. It's as if all the clocks in the world had stopped and we are operating only on Wagner's clock, a celestial clock."] (I am reminded at this moment of Isaiah 25: "He will destroy death forever.")]

8-26-02 I think I saw [former assistant building manager] Bonnie Jensen this morning. I'm hallucinating again. All I can say is -- if I start seeing [former building manager] Elaine Wranik -- well, I don't even want to go there.

8-26-02 I'm comfortable around Brian because, for one thing, I'm very comfortable with my own sexuality. I wonder, though, if Brian isn't a little uncomfortable having an overtly straight man as a friend.

8-27-02 Here's an odd recollection: GARY COHEN. He played the violin in my high school orchestra in my freshman year (1967-1968). I never saw him after that. All I remember is that I heard him playing on one occasion and I was impressed. That's odd, isn't it?

Cohen is not listed in my high school yearbook. He must have transferred out of the school. He had light hair -- maybe the whole thing is homosexual on my part. He had an outgoing manner. -- (How many pages do you think David Rosenbaum has added to his resume in the last week?)

8-28-02

FOR THE CHAPTER: "DON'T YOU MISS THE OLD DAYS?"

FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT: I just have one goal. And it's to get those three the hell out of here.

MARTIN, BARTON & FISH: We thought we were running this game? We weren't running anything.

[Parody of "Big Brother 2." Martin, Barton, and Fish were nemeses of FDR.]

8-29-02 You need to convey this message to Brian. "CPK" is always acquiring new books. There's always a ton of new books. But you don't seem to add that much to your CD collection. You need to start buying new CD's on a regular basis. The hell with new books. You already got plenty of books.

8-30-02 Message for Brian -- Listen, guy, -- Don't let anybody tell you that size doesn't matter. Your's is just so small, I can't get any real satisfaction. Down at MLK, -- The brothers down there -- HUGE, MAN, F'ING HUGE. I don't even think I could fit the whole thing in. My apartment is too small. You really need to increase the size of your CD collection.

9-2-02 / 9-3-02 Good Old Times from the Grand Old Party -- "The Floridian & The Texan"

KATHERINE HARRIS: A lot of these people have no idea of the things that I've done in my life. And, OK, yea, I mean, OK, we can't go as far as the 2000 vote count incident, although that was just the tip of the iceberg. There are so many other little, just nasty, little psychological games, if that's the way they want to play. I was gonna be quiet.

JEB BUSH: I'm scared of you.

KATHERINE HARRIS: No, I was just gonna be quiet, and you said I should say something.

JEB BUSH: You are the baddest bitch. I'm horrified of you. You're so damn scary. [Both laugh.]

[Parody of "Big Brother 2.." Refers to the Florida Secretary of State, Katherine Harris and her role in the election year 2000 vote count affair in that state.]

9-4-02 I thought we were going to get a new exercise room. The room, as it is now, is unbearably hot, at times. To tell you the truth, I'd rather work out in hell -- they say it's a different kind of heat.

[Note the implied relationship between the content and locale of the message on 9-2-03 and the express reference to hell in the message on 9-4: evidence that the messages from day to day are associations to each other.]

9-5-02 This afternoon marks 33 years of Rubenstein. Need I say more? By the way, some Romanian Jews claim they discovered a new chemical element. Its chemical symbol is "Nu?"

[I first saw Rubenstein in chemistry lab on September 5, 1969, in high school. Rubenstein went to Florida on spring break in 1970. In an earlier message I associated Rubenstein to Goethe's Mephistopheles (the devil). Rubenstein attended Penn State.]

9-6-02 More for the chapter: "I Can't Believe I Remember this Crap!"

1. In my second year at college at the Ogontz campus of Penn State, I took a course in Eastern Philosophy (Buddhism, Taoism, etc.) taught by George F. Rieman. This was in the spring term, 1973. One day Dr. Rieman was out, and another philosophy instructor Priscilla Cohn filled in for him. This was my only contact with Priscilla Cohn. At the beginning of the class Miss Cohn (she was a young babe) called the roll. I remember her calling out the name "Malove." Malove was a guy in the class about whom I have absolutely no recollection. He's not in my college yearbook. I don't know what he looks like. The only reason I remember the name is that when Priscilla Cohn stated the name "Malove" -- she laughed, and said, "Oh, does anyone ever say "Mi-love" (like the British term of endearment -- like "Have some more tea, mi-love"). Malove said, "Yes, sometimes." My head is full of junk like that.

2. My freshman year in high school (1967-1968), my homeroom teacher was Barbara Sandler. I can recall that directly across the hall Miss Schubert (later Mrs. Miller) had a tenth-grade homeroom class. I had a thing for Miss Schubert. -- Nothing sexual, of course.

9-9-02 I have a message for Alex [Bernstein]. Listen, Alex, I've been watching tape #5 of Pops' "Unanswered Question" where he lectures on 20th Century music. This is probably just a coincidence, but two of the works Pops plays have something in common. Alban Berg wrote his violin concerto in memory of Manon Gropius, who had died at age 18. She was Alma Mahler's daughter. Then the final movement of the Mahler 9th Symphony -- at the end it contains a brief quote from one of the [Mahler's] Kindertotenlieder --Thought to be a reference to Mahler's deceased daughter.

9-10-02 Yesterday (9-9) they checked for leaks, as you know. As you can hear, the toilet still leaks -- constantly. Apparently the WRIT engineer needs a hearing aid.

9-10-02 (BONUS ISSUE) MESSAGE FOR THE PM -- Did you know that it was the Jews themselves who were behind the surprise attack on Israel in 1973 -- the so-called Yom Kippur War? PROOF: Tens of thousands of Jews didn't show up for work that day-- The Bastards!

[Refers to allegation that Jews were behind the 9/11 attack because, supposedly, many Jews did not show up for work at The Twin Towers on 9/11.]

9-11-02 This is my twin towers memorial. I'm living proof of the saying -- "More people live off of anti-Semitism than die of it." As Alex Zapruder would say: "There's no business like Shoah business." And to all you Jews out there who didn't show up at work on 9-11-02 -- Be advised -- the jig is up.

[Attached are the check stubs for rental payments for October 2002 and November 2002. Originally, the entire checks were attached, vertically, to symbolize the twin towers.

Alex Zapruder is romantically involved with my old friend Craig Dye. She wrote a book about the Holocaust, and has worked at the Holocaust Museum.]

Message for Rubenstein: Listen, Rubenstein, you should have tried Prime Minister of Italy. Those guys serve about three months, at most, get voted out of office, then do nothing but collect a pension. Come to think of it, I should have run for Prime Minister of Italy.

[Rubenstein's stated career ambition in high school was to be Prime Minister of Kenya.]

9-12-02 I had my first meeting yesterday afternoon (9-11) with my new psychiatrist, Dr. Betsy Cooper. Right away, I'm not having good feelings about her. She insisted that Medicare covers routine physical exams, lab work, etc. SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE'S TALKING ABOUT. I have a pamphlet from Medicare saying that Medicare doesn't cover routine physicals. I have to question her competence generally. I may have to file a complaint.

9-16-02 / 10 Tishri 57(whatever) Today is the Jewish Day of Atonality -- A day on which key signatures are strictly forbidden. Support your local tone row!

[Refers to the Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Atonality is a type of music created by the composer Arnold Schoenberg.]

9-17-02 Here's somebody to look into: FREDRIC WEISS. Central High School, 230th class (1971). We were in the same English class in 9th grade (Ming the Merciless). He won't remember me. He sat in front of the window near Michael Shapiro. What I remember is that he once had with him a Hebrew text -- a volume of the Talmud (or something) -- and Ming wanted to see it. By the way, does Shapiro still have his pitching arm, or did it turn into a billing arm. That's what happened to Bob Strauss very early on -- His pitching arm turned into a billing arm. Strauss's arm is useless for anything else. President Carter once asked Strauss to help build a "Habitat for Humanity House" -- Strauss said: "No, Mr. President, I need my arm for billing. -- If I injure my arm, I'm finished -- like Isaac Stern."

[The late violinist, Isaac Stern, has a daughter who is a rabbi. One wonders, given the context, whether the conscious association to the arm carries an implied association to the use of tephillin.]

9-18-02 TENNESSEE POLITICIANS SPEAK OUT ON THE USE OF THEIR CHILDREN TO FURTHER THEIR CAREERS:

KENT: I am not going to play the sympathy card and say, "Oh, my kids need money, and all of this." I don't want people to think I'm sitting here using my children to try to get further in the game. I wouldn't want my children used for that, and I'm certainly not going to do that. --

Then there's the case of Al Gore at the 1992 DNC Convention -- We won't go into that.

9-19-02 Have you ever seen Salvador Dali's portrait of Melanie Klein? I think it's called: "The Persistence of Mammary."

[Klein was a famous psychoanalyst who placed great importance on the young child's internal psychological representation of the mother's breast.]

9-20-02 Dennis ("Victor Frankenstein") Race: IT'S ALIVE, IT'S ALIVE! AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, IT'S STILL A-L-I-V-E!

[Refers to my latest "Campaign dirty tricks." An earlier message referred to my identification with the Frankenstein monster, who suffered painful isolation. This message indicates that I view Dennis Race ("my creator, Victor Frankenstein") as the cause of my problems. The word "Victor," in this context, is a play on words. Dennis Race was victorious in my case before the Court of Appeals.

9-23-02 BONUS ISSUE Akin Gump Management Committee Discloses for First Time: [Attached is portion of cover of a news magazine with the headline:] How We Helped Create Saddam.

[Refers to my personal identification with Saddam Hussein as someone who seemed virtually immune to adversity and the aggression of the great powers.]

9-23-02 Dennis ("George Bush") Race [referring to Saddam Hussein]: It's the same old song and dance we've heard for the last eleven long years. And on the War Front: German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder agrees to Bush war plan ONLY in the event Saddam threatens world supply of Grecian formula. Attorney General John Ashcroft responds to statements of German Justice Minister-- ASHCROFT: Schroeder's tactics are the same ones used by Liberace.

[German Chancellor Schroeder opposed President Bush's plans for war with Iraq, and charged that the President's tactics were the same ones used by Hitler. Schroeder has been accused of using hair dye (like the entertainer Liberace).]

9-24-02 Dennis ("King Richard") Race: A blood-test, a blood test -- my law license for a blood test!

[A parody of "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse." My psychiatrist wanted me to have a physical, and I refused. I wrote a letter of complaint to Eric H. Holder, Esq., at Covington & Burling. In September 2002 I had been assigned to a new psychiatrist, Betsy Jane Cooper, MD, who I experienced as coercive. Note that I discharged my anger with fantasies of aggression against Dennis Race, as usual.]

9-25-02 Message for my friends at Akin Gump-- I hope you don't take any of this personally. It's not personal. I love each of you. This is a game. I'm in this thing to win a half-million dollars. It's just a game that we all signed on the dotted line to play. And I hope that when it's all over, we can all get together for lunch and have a couple of laughs -- assuming there's a public cafeteria at the Federal Facility at Marion, Ohio.

[Parody of statement made by "Big Brother 2" contestant, Hardy Ames Hill to fellow contestants.]

9-26-02 Yesterday (9-25) I attempted to hand over to my psychologist a body of documents that I'm certain would be scrutinized carefully by law enforcement or the U.S. Attorney's Office in the event I was involved in something of criminal interest. I am concerned that Dr. Shaffer refused to accept the documents -- that could pose problems for Doc Shaffer down the road in the event I "pull a Brutus." I have to tell you: I still have fantasies relating to the assassination of a foreign head of state. I've had these thoughts for a long time. Elliott R. Feldman, Esq. -- an attorney in Philadelphia, can certify that I have had these thoughts since way back. As you know I have been under investigation by the Secret Service. Dennis Race diagnosed a "disorder" in me (that still dominates my thinking) that might be associated with a potential for violence. I have been interrogated with regard to an allegation that [redacted].

9-27-02 By the way -- A Happy birthday greeting to Sheryl Dyner! I thought of something this morning while I was masturbating. The Corporation Counsel cited evidence that an incident in work on Friday April 13, 1990 caused me to think of masturbation. There is NO EVIDENCE in the record that those private thoughts occurred simultaneous with the incident. I very well may have thought about masturbation after working hours, off the firm's premises. -- I plan to put that in my letters to employers. "The Corporation Counsel cites evidence that my private, undisclosed thoughts about masturbation (without regard to whether those thoughts arose during working hours on firm premises) were material to Dennis Race's decision to terminate my employment." --That gives a reasonable basis for me to state to a prospective employer -- "I may have a duty to disclose that I sometimes think about masturbation at home on weekends in connection with my thoughts about coworkers." Advice to Dennis Race: Sue the District! Dennis: Just wait till I start sending these letters to federal judges.

[Sheryl Dyner was a coworker at The Franklin Institute in Philadelphia. She earned a B.S. in Biology at Penn State in May 1975; we were in the same graduating class.]

9-30-02 Roseanne once said: "Those who can, -- do. Those who can't, -- teach. Those who can't teach, -- teach gym. And those who can't teach gym, -- become experts." -- Akin Gump consulted not one, but two "experts" before they fired me. What does that tell you?

10-01-02 This is a bombshell-- I finally got evidence,-- as Mayor LaGuardia once said-- "Yes, I have the proof!"

These are the facts in chronological order.

In September 1989 I visited the Sheppard-Pratt employee Assistance Program -- on two occasions. On my second visit I provided the counselor Xerox copies of printed material relating to anti-Semitism. I said I was having problems in the workplace [at Akin Gump] relating to anti-Semitism.

One of the things I supplied was a copy of page 476 of Fritz Stern's book "Gold and Iron." That page discuses anti-Semitism in Germany in the 19th century. I have written, in marginalia on that page, "Uns bleibt ein erdenrest" -- "traces of asbestos" -- It's a quote from Goethe's "Faust" -- (Part II -- Final Scene), the quote is used in the Mahler 8th Symphony.

In 1993 the movie "Schindler's List" was released -- directed by Steven Spielberg.

In July 1993, I went to Sheppard Pratt to get a copy of the contents of my mental health file -- part of my investigation for my lawsuit against Akin Gump. I noticed that there was no record WHATSOEVER of my second visit to the Sheppard Pratt counselor in September 1989 -- The session I submitted the written materials about anti-Semitism. Not only was there no record of the visit, but the written materials themselves were not in the file (including the Fritz Stern page). That was odd, and possibly improper.

In 1999 I saw the movie "Schindler's List" on TV for the first time. I noted that a prominent melody in the movie score was identical to a seven note phrase from Mahler's Eighth Symphony. I thought it was probably more than merely coincidental.

Now, in 2002, you know, I've become obsessed with "Iron Man" Rubenstein and "Mr. Gold" ("Faust"). I've been listening over and over to Mahler's 8th Symphony. A few days ago, I had a Eureka moment. The seven note theme from "Schindler's List" appears in the Mahler 8th Symphony at -- YOU GUESSED IT -- at the very words "Uns bleibt ein Erdenrest" -- the chorus of the more-perfect angels. (The melody also introduces the words "infirma nostri corporis" from Part I of the symphony).

Spielberg, you son of a bitch, you stole my idea -- as if my ideas were nothing more than an old man's used cabana wear! "Schindler's List," my ass. The movie should be called "Swindler's List." You're going to hear from my lawyer!

10-02-02 Ten years ago today I saw [Akin Gump paralegal] Jennifer Meader for the last time (on Connecticut Avenue). I remember it was a Friday -- I had an appointment with Dr. Palombo, arranged by Napoleon Bonaparte [Cuenco], that afternoon -- beautiful warm, sunny day. (10/01) A hushed, reserved quality in the library. I have the idea that my letter to Eric triggered the fire alarm. Somebody left the following magazine in the magazine exchange in the library. "Secrets of Ancient Materials." -- A reference to the Record on Appeal [in Freedman v. Akin, Gump, Hauer & Feld]?

[Attached is cover of the magazine "Science News," January 19, 2002 issue. Features a photo of an ancient Egyptian statue with the caption "Secrets of Ancient Materials."]

10-3-02 Spring 1972 -- I took an introductory course in English with an instructor named Ellen Furman at Penn State's Abington campus. We read Hemingway stories, "The Great Gatsby," The Grand Inquisitor (from "The Brothers"), and some black writer (I forget who -- it was an account of his feelings in prison.) -- and Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying." Ellen introduced me to Faulkner. Little did Ellen know I would turn into the greatest "writer" of the 21st century.

[Ellen Furman still teaches at the Abington Campus of Penn State.]

10-3-02 Message for Dracula-- Every molecule of hemoglobin contains four atoms of iron. "Jewish hemoglobin" contains only 3 atoms of iron. --The lengths those people will go to to cheat vampires of their just due!

10-4-02 JOE'S FRUIT STAND - CONTINUED

DR. COOPER: How are you doing on your medication? You look contented, you have a very contented air.

FREEDMAN: I AM contented. But then, I'm an enigma.

(Sorry for the mess -- But I'm in the middle of big ideas whose time has come.)

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode.]

10-7-02 Here's somebody I can remember from way back, when I lived up North, among the Yankees. DENA SHER. She worked at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia. We shared an office for a time. She was middle-aged, and was fluent in French. She mentioned on one occasion that her husband was reading a book on the impeachment of President Andrew Johnson.

10-8-02 Message for Julie [Chen, host of the CBS-TV reality series "Big Brother"]-- Listen, Jules, what America wants to know is whether Eric and Lisa ever hooked up, and whether Eric ever gave Lisa the big one (as they say south of the border, "El Grande"). That's what we want to know -- not the crap you report on. What the hell do you do all day? Even David Gregory gets his eyebrows plucked faster than you! And THAT guy works for NBC!!

10-9-02 Last night on the CBS Evening News, Dan Rather reported the death of Len Raff, a longtime CBS film guy. You know, Mitch Oppenheim works for CBS News in New York. I wonder if that's the same Mitch Oppenheim who graduated Penn State in May 1975 with a degree in film -- seems plausible. Mitch liked the "Frauleins." [The yearbook] says he's from Jericho, NY. Attended Hofstra? Maybe Gary Rubin, Ph.D. was one of his teachers.

[Gary Rubin was an Akin Gump attorney who used to teach English at Hofstra.]

10-10-02 I worked things out with my psychiatrist, Dr. Cooper. I'll be getting my blood tests from the District health clinic. It's like that brother once said: "Can we all just get along?" Anyway I had an uncanny moment last night watching John Fenn being interviewed on TV about winning the Nobel Prize in chemistry (for developing a process for weighing heavy molecules, like proteins (hemoglobin?)). He talked about his love of working with students -- He said he gets a lot out of it. Then, startlingly, he used a metaphor -- He said "I guess I'm like a vampire, feeding off the blood of my students." -- Amazing, huh?

[See message on 10-3-02.]

_________________________________________________________________

This completes all of the entries for the diary I kept during the period June 2001 to August 2003. I write these words at sundown, December 19, 2004 -- as winter's darkest evenings fast approach.

-- EPILOGUE --

The way in which Beethoven matured inwardly under the hard trials and blows of fate is evident, above all, from his last recorded utterances. On the 14th March 1827, barely a fortnight before his death, he wrote to Ignaz Moscheles in London: " . . . Indeed, a hard lot has fallen upon me! But I resign myself to the will of destiny, and only ask God constantly to grant through His divine will that, so long as I must still suffer death in life here, I am protected from penury. This will give me the strength to bear my lot, however hard and grievous, with resignation to the will of the Almighty." It is recorded that, as he lay dying, he said, "Plaudite, amici, comoedia finita." "Applaud, friends, the comedy is finished." In the sketches for the Missa Solemnis, among the drafts for the mighty Fugue at the end of the Credo the same thought is found: "Applaudite amici!" Here, at the words "et vitam venturi saeculi," there comes to the fore the fundamental idea which gave Beethoven strength in all the trials and tribulations of his life: the sufferer sees a gleam of radiant light -- the hope of life everlasting. This light, and awe before the last and eternal things, brighten the depths of Beethoven's life and work.

The Historiographer: What's Going Down in Mudville?

Brian--

December 13, 2004

Hey, buddy. What's going down in Mudville? Are you in a philosophical mood? Or are you just in the mood for some philosophy? Or is it all you can do these days just to keep your hands clean?

I stick my finger into existence -- it smells of nothing. Where am I? What is this thing called the world? Who is it who has lured me into the thing, and now leaves me here? Who am I? How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted?

That's Kierkegaard. Soren Kierkegaard, one of the fathers of existentialism. He was not a lot of fun at parties; I can tell you that. Human life is not designed for pleasure, Kierkegaard tells us, yet in the time given to each of us for our own existence, we strive for happiness in order to escape anxiety and the deep, hopeless depression which is despair. But there is no escape -- no matter how pleasurable and comfortable we make our lives in order to hide from the truth. For the truth is, Kierkegaard insists, that all of us live in anxiety and despair. This is the universal human condition. We suffer from anxiety even when we are not aware of it, and even when there is nothing to fear, nothing in the objective world to feel anxious about. This is because at bottom, says Kierkegaard, our anxiety is not objective at all, it is subjective anxiety -- it is the universal fear of something that is nothing, it is the fear of the nothingness of human existence.

Wow! And they call economics the dismal science!!

In any event, we -- the residents of 3801 Connecticut Avenue -- had our Christmas party last Thursday, December 9th. The food was good; the food was outstanding, in fact. The entree was lasagna: both vegetarian lasagna and meat lasagna. I am somewhat of a vegetarian. I stuck with the non-meat lasagna. My former psychiatrist, Dr. Rhoda Ruttenberg, "Dr. R" for short -- like Kafka's Herr K., but with a medical degree -- is also a vegetarian. But that's neither here nor there.

The party was held in the building's social room. I sat in the same chair all evening, from about 6:00 till after 8:00. I was seated with a group of young people. The conversation seemed to be dominated by one fellow, an Indian from Bombay. He does "infrastructure finance" -- roads, tunnels, bridges, that type of thing.

He was fascinating. His own "intrapsychic structure" was expressed repeatedly in everything he said. The same psychological pattern repeated itself, time after time. Someone asked: "As for Metro, what's the better way to raise money -- by fare increases or by taxation?" Finance Guy said: "Oh, taxation, of course. That's the only way to raise significant revenues. Fares are nothing. They amount to nothing. They're crap. Fares don't even pay for the electricity that Metro uses."

Later in the conversation he was talking about environmentalism, and concerns about global warming. "The only way to do anything about global warming is to increase reliance on nuclear energy." Someone said: "What about alternative energy sources?" Finance Guy said: "No, it has to be nuclear. Alternative energies are nothing. Take wind power, for example. It's nothing. It's crap. It doesn't amount to anything in the total picture of energy supplies."

Someone asked: "But what about the waste material. Nuclear waste? Doesn't nuclear power generate a lot of nuclear waste?" Finance Guy said: "Nuclear energy produces very little waste. It's nothing. It's crap. It doesn't amount to anything."

Then the interlocutor said: "But even so, the waste that is produced is so toxic. Even a small amount of nuclear waste can contaminate a wide area. No?"

Finance Guy said: "No. That problem is overblown. The problems posed by nuclear waste are nothing. They're crap."

Then later on in the conversation, something amazing happened. Finance Guy was talking about his native country, India. He was talking about the use of the English language in India, and he pointed out that only about 5% of the Indian population speaks fluent English. "Just five percent. But keep in mind, India has a population of over one billion people. So that amounts to about 50 million people who speak English. Fifty million! Think about it. Just five percent of Indians speak fluent English, but in real terms it amounts to 50 million people. Why, that's huge!" You see the split in Finance Guy's thinking? At times he discounted the significance of an object in real terms, emphasizing instead the quantitative smallness of the object as a percentage of the whole. But with respect to one issue (the use of English in his native India -- the Motherland), he discounted the significance of percentage and emphasized the importance of the object in real terms.

Then the conversation turned to Kierkegaard. That's where my mind turned off. I wasn't in a mood for Kierkegaard. Message for Stanley Cutler, one of my teachers at Penn State, who once said to me, "Freedman, you must be a lot of fun at parties." Ironic, don't you think, Stan? A dismal pessimist like Kierkegaard probably didn't get a lot of party invitations. And yet, a hundred years after he died, the writings of Kierkegaard can be a lively topic of conversation at a party. Or is it simply that people will talk about anything -- literally anything, nothing, or "Nothingness" -- just to get off the topic of infrastructure finance?

At this point a tenant, Barbara D'Jebbour (apartment 247) seated herself next to me. She's originally from Vancouver, Canada. Her husband, Kamar (also known as Frank), is from India; his mother is Jewish and his father, Hindu. She's creative and histrionic. They were very friendly with the former front-desk manager, Elizabeth Joyce. My interaction with Barbara was odd, to say the least. We had never talked before. She didn't introduce herself and never asked me what my name was. She launched into a very intimate picture of her life and personality, as though she were a patient on an analyst's couch. I had the eerie feeling she knew all about my background and was parodying what she had heard. "I'm highly intelligent. Yes, very intelligent. Well, maybe not Mensa smart. But close. I'm part scientist, part artist. Right now the scientist part of me is dominant. Kamar and I are involved in biomedical research. Kamar and I are working on an AIDS test for use in Third World countries. AIDS tests, you know, cost about $500 each. We've developed a test that costs only a dollar. We won't get rich, Kamar and I, but we're doing something for humanity." (Like Marie and Pierre Curie?)

"I'm very complex psychologically," she said. "I have about 50 different personalities." At this point, I felt like saying, "Listen, lady, could you switch to one of your other 49 personalities? Right now, this one is starting to piss me off." She then launched into a discussion of her daytime TV viewing habits: Judge Judy and Judge Brown. "I'm thinking about pursuing a career in law," she said. (She's in her early 50's.) For some odd reason, she urged me to visit the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception at Catholic University. (I associated at this moment to "Our Blessed Lady of Pharmacology," the patron saint of biomedical scientists.) The conversation turned emotionally draining when she started to talk about the death of her mother, earlier this year. "My mother died in my arms." Then she talked about all the relatives of hers who died in the past year. "And my aunt and uncle will not live out the year. They're dying." Keep in mind, this is an informal social gathering: a setting for people to get away from their daily cares. What would possess a person to intrude so flagrantly on another person's right to the quiet enjoyment of an informal social event?

"Do you talk to Elizabeth Joyce (the former front desk manager)?" I asked. "Yes," she said, "several times a week. We stay in touch."

All in all my clinical impression was that of a person who already knew a lot about me, was parodying me, and who was venting an intense sadism in the guise of vulnerability. She struck me as highly manipulative. "Of course, you know the circumstances behind Elizabeth's leaving her job (as front desk manager)." Well, quite frankly, I didn't and I certainly wasn't going to play into her manipulative game by begging for details: "No, I don't. Tell me, please tell me the story behind the story." I remained silent, and didn't go for the bait. I think Barbara D'Jebbour was just trying to f--k with my head, that's all she was doing. I shouldn't have let her do that. I shouldn't have let her f--k with my head.

Yes, Stan Cutler was right. I don't know how to interact with people at parties. I'm just not a lot of fun at parties. As Dr. Bash would say, I lack social skills. I never learned how to regale fellow partygoers with the fine details of infrastructure finance or the existential Nothingness of Kierkegaard. I don't have the gall to launch into a bizarrely-narcissistic account of my personality and the intimate details of my life -- in the company of a total stranger, whose name I never bothered to learn. I suppose I'll never fit in. Such is the tragic fate of the socially clueless, like myself. I guess it will be just me and General Bonaparte for the rest of my days. Yes, I am crippled by my social ineptness. (Or do people simply despise me for my mordant sarcasm, and my ability to pierce the social armor of my peers?)

Be that as it may.

I'll tell you who else was probably not a lot of fun at parties. Sartre. The French philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre. They say he would sit at a table at a cafe, book in hand, and read. Read, read, read -- as if no one were around him. And yet, Sartre, like Kierkegaard, can spark a lively debate at a party, especially if the preceding topic of conversation is infrastructure finance.

Have you ever read any Sartre, Brian? "No Exit?" That was Fred Cohen's favorite play. He liked the lesbian character. "No Exit" has only three actors, and no change of scenery. It's kind of like the CBS-TV reality series "Big Brother," but without the half-million dollar prize money. The three characters, a man and two women, one of whom is a lesbian, walk separately into a brightly lighted room furnished with three small sofas, knowing that they are dead and have been sent here to hell. Yet there are no instruments to torture them, there are no hell fires to burn them, there are only the other two people. Soon the horrible truth dawns upon them that they are one another's tortures, their damnation is for all eternity to torment one another. By the end of the play they have tortured each other excruciatingly and they have made the discovery that in hell there is no need for hell fire -- as the male character says, "hell is other people."

Have you read "No Exit," or "Being and Nothingness," or "The Flies?" What about "Nausea?" Nausea, not morning sickness. The book, not the physical state. Have you ever read "Nausea?"

One of the first products of Sartre's philosophical reflections was a novel, the philosophical novel with the title "Melancholia," which Sartre's publishers changed to "Nausea." Why a novel? Sartre is already finding his way toward a philosophy of existentialism which will use literature -- novels, plays, short stories -- to grasp concrete human existence, the human condition, the lived life, as distinct from the overlay of essences by which philosophy, science, and theology conceal, distort, and explain away my existence as a conscious being.

Sartre had been working on the novel "Nausea" for almost a decade, ever since his years in graduate school.

When "Nausea" was published in 1938 it was an immediate and huge success. In the following years, the principal character of the novel "Nausea," Antoine Roquentin, has become a recognized, staple part of our literary world, as have other literary figures like Shakespeare's Hamlet and Lady Macbeth, or Dickens's Oliver Twist and David Copperfield, or James Joyce's Bloom and Molly, or Kafka's Gregor Samsa and his characters whose names begin with the letter K. References to Roquentin's melancholy concrete existence, his depression and nausea, and his crisis of anguish occur in the fields of psychology, literature, and philosophy, and wherever the consciousness of modern man is examined.

Who is Roquentin and how has Sartre's most philosophical novel made him into a personality so real that he lives among us outside the novel itself? What are the moods and thoughts of this fictional character and how have they come to be perceived as expressing moods and thoughts which are characteristic of contemporary human life?

The novel is shrewdly presented by Sartre as Roquentin's own diary, a first-person account of his daily life, written only for himself, and thus as a direct and truthful statement of one man's subjectivity, his concreteness, here-and-now existence. The scene is a port city in France which has the name of Bouville (literally, Mudville). It is clearly a description of the actual port of Le Havre, the main port of France, the ugly commercial city in which Sartre lived in cheap hotels near the railroad station and other decaying infrastructure while he was teaching philosophy there.

In many ways Roquentin is similar to Sartre; he is living on a small inherited income, he is an intellectual and a writer. But Roquentin is represented as having no family ties, no job, no friends. He speaks no Hebrew and never attends his local synagogue, despite the repeated exhortations of his psychotherapist. That is the tragedy of Roquentin. He is too proud, too stubborn, and too fearful to visit his local Temple, where crowds of people assemble each week; yes, crowds of potential comrades wait to befriend poor, lonely Roquentin. Each week the rabbi asks the congregation, "What are you waiting for?" And the congregation replies, "Waiting for Roquentin." But Roquentin never arrives.

Although he had traveled widely, and had various adventures, Roquentin is now somewhat bored and world weary. But he is a free man, free to do what he wants, and he has come to Bouville to do research in the archives of the city library for a biography that he is writing, on the life of an eighteenth-century adventurer and diplomat, the Marquis de Rollebon.

But from the very first page we know that something is wrong. The first page of the diary mentions that a change has come over him, and we soon learn that the whole point of keeping a diary is to determine what this change is and what it means for his life. "The best thing," he says in the diary, "would be to write down events from day to day." And above all, he says, "I must tell how I see this table, this street, the people, my packet of tobacco, since those are the things which have changed." With these words, Sartre has taken us into the psychology of a mind that is aware that it is slipping away from its normal states, aware that his world is beginning to take on a strange new appearance, and yet sufficiently in touch with reality to want to observe his own mental states, to keep a day-to-day account of the changes in his perceptions and thoughts.

When did it all begin? It began on a day in the middle of June . . .

Check you out next week, buddy. Call me, Brian. I'm serious. We need to consult. (Why was I not consulted?) The way I see it, if you can pick up the phone to call the cops for no good reason, you can just as easily pick up the phone to call ME for no good reason. But then, it wasn't you who called the cops on me, was it? Never mind.

Mudville: a place where head librarians never do the dirty work, and where "Les Mains Sales" [Dirty Hands] is not just a book, but a physical, concrete state reserved for assistant librarians.

THE DIARIES.

[During the period June 2001 to August 2003 I believed that the resident manager of my apartment building, David Castleberry (2000 - 2003), used to enter my apartment surreptitiously each day. I used to leave him a handwritten message taped to the inside of the front door. I had begun that practice in mid-June 2001 and continued writing notes and taping them to the door until the summer of 2003, when David Castleberry quit. The messages were addressed to "Friend." I pretended that I didn't know it was David Castleberry who was reading the notes. It was my (paranoid) belief that David Castleberry reported back to attorney managers at Akin Gump the content of the message I left on the door each day. I further believed that Akin Gump's attorney managers then informed Brian Brown at the library of the content of the daily message.]

6-13-01 I hope you enjoyed your visit. This is where [imaginary] Brian and I have hot passionate sex. You know the great thing about Lewinskying a guy with a two-inch penis? No gagging! Get it? Come back now, hear?

[At the outset of the diaries, I refer to librarian Brian Brown as "the librarian." I pretend that I do not know his name. At the beginning of the diaries, the individual identified as "Brian" is an imaginary figure.]

6-14-01 I've decided to communicate with you every day. Tell your friends to look into Sally. Crackpot Sally is a volunteer who waters the plants in the library. She climbs up on chairs and takes other risks, and if she slips and falls, and proceeds to sue the city -- Well, I'm sure Tony would love that. She seems to be granted unusual privileges. The librarian [Brian Brown] lets crackpot Sally use his computer in his private office. What's up with that? Some time ago Sally sneered at me prominently the Monday after I told law enforcement about "Mr. Intellectual" and identified him by one of the books he had returned. She had a look of "How dare you!" Lady, maybe you should douche your brain instead of watering the plants. Happy Flag Day! God Bless America. They should have fried TMV [Timothy McVeigh] -- literally.

[Attached is message from the Tenants Association with my marginal notes:] Hi, 3801 Residents! The very last line of the recent Tenants Association newsletter said: "Please remit to Jeannette Smoot, Treasurer in Apartment 9." It should have said "Apartment 920." Also, should you wish to join the Tenants Association, your check should be made payable to 3801 Connecticut Tenants Association. Thank you for your interest and attention! Julie Sherman, Association President. [My marginal note reads:] Left outside my Apt on 6-14-01 (AM) not left in front of any other apartments.

["Mr. Intellectual" is a middle-aged patron who lives in the neighborhood. He visits the library several days each week and borrows numerous books. He is tall and thin. He has the serious, piercing gaze of an intellectual or highly-intelligent person. I've sensed for years that he knows who I am. He doesn't appear to hold a conventional job.]

6-15-01 I have nothing to report today. Sorry. Yesterday was a slow news day. One thing -- [the library patron named] Dave (Mr. Washington Times) gave me that "invisible look" when he passed by me in the street. Dave--that's [library patron] Frank Green's friend. Dave used to be friendly with [the librarian] Bruce Snyder. Enjoy the weekend.

[Frank Green is now deceased. "Dave" still lives in the neighborhood. Bruce Snyder now works at the Chevy Chase Branch of the DC Library.]

6-14-01 Look into Richard [Peyton Howard]. I have picked up vibes on him since at least 1990, when I was still working. I have the feeling he knows all about me -- confidential stuff. He is a graduate of Brown University; I think he works for the U.S. Information Agency. He plays tennis and goes to church. I think he's active with the Tenants Association. I think he's creepy. What's his story? Say, aren't we coming up on the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo? More tomorrow.

6-19-01 The library staff were icy yesterday. I think they've been ordered to have a more professional demeanor -- I owe that to you, friend. But it won't last. I guarantee it. Did you look into Richard [Peyton Howard]? What does he know? If Elizabeth Joyce doesn't come clean, I will report her to the British Embassy. Riverside dinner with riparian entertainment -- my ass ! ! Later, Dude. (Yosh [Shirazzi, co-owner of the Brookville Supermarket,] looked angry yesterday.)

6-20-01 This morning, while I was riding on the elevator, here at 3801, a tenant, David Grady, got on and pushed the button for the 2d floor -- using his middle finger. I'm still thinking about whether that was intended as a message to me. David Grady is an attorney at Hogan & Hartson, where I used to work. I told federal authorities about him. Later, Dude.

6-21-01 Here's something to look into. Last spring and summer, a young man used to visit the Cleveland Park Library to use the computer. His name was Brad. Medium height, very good-looking, blondish hair, curly hair, athletic appearance. He used to chat with Dave (Bruce Snyder's friend). I used to think of Brad as "Dave's Boy-Toy." The librarian [Brian] knew him by name. I can recall the librarian talking for some time to Brad on one occasion. I think Brad used the computer as part of a job search. I'm thinking of getting a masturbator for [the imaginary] Brian -- but they don't sell his size -- extra-small. Bye-bye.

6-22-01 Look into the tenants in 247. He's Indian, about 50 years old. His wife [Barbara D'Jebbour] is European stock. She's creative & histrionic. They're very friendly with Elizabeth Joyce. The husband chats with Joyce, and a few weeks ago, when Joyce was ill, the wife comforted Joyce be stroking Joyce's cheek with her hand (THAT'S intimacy). They travel a great deal. I think his car was stolen a time ago. I may be mistaken, but I think the husband owns a liquor store in Southeast, DC. See the connection? Note that Cleveland Park Liquor & Wine (Where I make beer purchases) is owned by Indians. They may be part of a subcontinental Mafia. Anyway, I get funny vibes from both tenants in 247. This is serious. (Don't let those people fuck around with you.)

[My impression of Frank and Barbara D'Jebbour is that they are a pair of grifters.]

6-23-01 Stop back on Monday.

6-25-01 Several startling developments: Early on Saturday afternoon, about 1:00 PM, I was walking up Connecticut Avenue. "Mr. Intellectual" was leaving the Brookville Supermarket. He saw me, had a slight startle response, then looked straight ahead, with that invisible look. Upon seeing me, he started to whistle. He ("Mr. Intellectual") has never reacted to me like this before. I believe he was angry about my letter to you dated 6-14-01 (that talked about him & Crackpot Sally). I have been thinking about contacting the FBI for my own protection -- these people may gang up on me -- I can't rule out physical violence against me. At least Freeh (Clinton's lackey) is gone. Tom Pickard is in charge for now. In another development I have discovered that Dr. Lawrence C. Sack may be a Communist. He subscribes to a publication "The New Federalist" -- very anti-American. To think I paid over $300 to Dr. Sack in 1991, before the party breakdown in Moscow. My money probably went straight to party headquarters in the Kremlin via Comrade Sack. ([Imaginary] Brian and I went to Seaworld this weekend. I got lucky with a hot female and Brian -- well, let's just say, Brian probably won't be sitting down for a while.) Dolphin sex -- the phenom of the future.

6-26-01 Things were quiet in the library yesterday. An uneasy calm, though. I feel they don't like my letters to you, and they feel helpless about them. -- They would like me to stop, but they have no control in the matter. -- A quiet desperation. They don't even try to elicit evidence of paranoia, as if some authority has told them my powers are real. Barbara largely ignored me. The librarian [Brian Brown] (who, for some reason, didn't sit down at the information desk) also ignored me; he chatted briefly with Peter (the aging fag volunteer). I picked up negative vibes from Charles [Davis], the brother. [The patron named] Tanner sat at my table; THAT was exciting. The double entendres centered on "zoo animals" and "Judge Judy" and a person named "Peoples." What will today bring? Parting is such sweet sorrow, friend.

6-27-01 Another quiet day yesterday. The librarians were at a meeting while I was there. Hillary (the children's librarian) took the information desk responsibilities. Double-entendres from Hillary were "Nobel Prize," "fiction" (referring to the defamation of my character), and "shipwreck" (a reference to Jack London's Sea-Wolf?) As I was standing up and leaving the computer, "Mr. Intellectual" was entering the library. He spotted me, and smiled -- He usually doesn't smile when he sees me. Background on Caprice -- She was born in Mexico. She spent time in a red Chinese prison. Trotsky was a family friend.

6-28-01 They were supposed to clean the windows yesterday. My windows are still dirty -- another promise broken. No wonder I don't trust people. Saw Dr. Shaffer for first time at Spring Road. Thought she was fishing around for fears that she thinks I have about my SSA benefits being cut off. Sign that she knows about these letters to you. She thinks I write these letters (which I have never told her about) to make a case that I'm crazy, so that SSA will continue my benefits -- as if anybody who was under surveillance would not be concerned. I think the thing is SHE'S afraid of her own job getting cut, especially in view of the recent restructuring at P Street. Sat next to [library patron] Carlos [Chalbaud] at the computer yesterday. I ejaculated in my pants -- quietly, of course, after all, it's a library! June 28, 1914 -- Francis Ferdinand assassinated in Sarajevo. June 28, 1984 -- complaint filed in Fed Court by David Tatel in Milwaukee School Desegregation case. Moral: Whatever you start on 6-28 will never come to an end.

[Appended is page 845 of the August 2000 issue of "American Psychologist" that lists my former therapist (August 1998 to June 1999), Lisa A. Osborn, as having received her psychologist certification. Includes handwritten note:] I took this from a journal left in the library magazine exchange -- coincidence?

Interestingly, Dr. Shaffer was in fact later cut from the staff of the DC Mental Health Department, in February 2003. She was unhappy with the action, as evidenced by her filing a grievance with the union. My suspicions about Dr. Shaffer's fear of termination, described in the message on 6/28/01, may not have been unfounded.

I continue to see Carlos Chalbaud in the neighborhood. He seems to live on Macomb Street. He is originally from Venezuela. He has the appearance of a sweet, sensitive individual. He may be a student.]

6-29-01 Yesterday, someone left a gay (homosexual) publication ("The Advocate") in the magazine exchange in the library. It's a special issue of the magazine dealing with "The Millennium March on Washington," on Wed 6-27-01. I told Dr. Shaffer about Aristotle [my name for "Ari" (last name?)], the good-looking young guy who used to live here at 3801. I described Aristotle to Dr. Shaffer as "A Walker." -- that he appeared to take long walks [which I associated to "The Millennium March" for homosexuals]. -- As I was sitting at the computer, the custodian [Alex Chandler] who replaced Keith Peoples, bent down next to me and said: "Does that feel better?" He was talking about the air conditioning that had just been fixed. -- But I knew what he really meant. If he wanted to ask me out, he should have just said so! Oh, brother!

7-2-01 This is [imaginary] Brian's idea of protection. I keep telling him "It's not going to work, man!" [Attached is page from "Vanity Fair" magazine that features a photo of a nude male model with an inflated rubber toy covering "the area of interest."]

[Imaginary] Brian was here this weekend. You can never be too safe with that guy. "He sleeps with the dolphins." Brian charges me a late fee if I don't come on time. [Attached is a "LifeStyles" condom wrapper.] Did you ever hear of such a thing? Brian's balls are in the shop right now -- beyond repair.

7-3-01 Have the home office look into Richard & his wife -- I think they live on the sixth floor. They are middle-aged, with grown children -- both previously married. He is stocky and has white hair (a perfect running mate for Ross Perot, I might add). They moved in while John Reuss was still manager. Get the home office to look into them. I thought I heard he was in real estate -- maybe I am wrong. Dr. Shaffer was in a state yesterday. I thought she was especially aggressive, and looking for an argument. I think these letters are getting to her. The librarians have a noticeably different way of interacting around me. Very cold, frigid. It's since I started communicating to you. It's obvious to me they are reacting to something. -- That tells me my letters are being read. (Richard's wife works out in the ex[ercise] room.)

["Richard & his wife" later moved to 3701 Connecticut Avenue, a condominium.]

7-5-01 Elizabeth Joyce is very circumspect around me, knowing I will report anything of interest that she says. I noticed in the library on 7-3-01 that Barbara seems really different. No more of that sucking-up crap, like: "Oh, Mr. Freedman is our most conscientious patron. If we can trust anyone, it's Mr. Freedman." What a passive-aggressive ass-licker she is!! [The circulation desk employee] Pauline Jones was back on Tuesday. The sister looked admiringly at me. She was using heterosexual double-entendres. Carlos was there. I think somebody talked to him about me. He no longer gives me that look like I'm gonna pull him behind the stacks and hump his ass. -- Poor Carlos, I sure did give him a scare for a while. The bricks [I stole from the building site at 3883 Connecticut Avenue] are in the oven -- makes great pizza.

7-6-01 Tell David Castleberry that he's got a problem with the tenant in 436. 436 has two bird feeders attached to the outside window. First, that's a lease violation. Two, there's a potential negligence problem for WRIT if those things fall off and bop somebody on the head or crash through Elizabeth Joyce's windshield (especially, since it's a lease violation that David has acquiesced in). Third, birdseed falls down on my window ledge, and I get birds pecking on my window. Do I have to contact WRIT to get management here to enforce leases? -- Find out why the branch librarian [Brian Brown] has allowed, for years now, a patron named J. Connolly to sleep at a table in the library. Connolly is middle-aged. Gray hair. Uses (or sleeps in) library every day.

7-9-01 Here's your assignment for today: 1. Look into David Dickinson on the 9th floor. He is a lawyer who's admitted to practice in California. What's his story -- give me a report. -- 2. There used to be a married couple on the first floor. They were both obese and had a little girl named "May." Elizabeth would remember them. The woman once said to her little girl (as she pointed to me) "May, that man doesn't like children." (They were goof balls). Well, in April -- wouldn't you know, I heard the woman chatting in a familiar way with Bruce Snyder, who's now stationed at the Chevy Chase Branch of the DC Library System. Yesterday I saw them at the Giant Supermarket. They moved from 3801 in about 1995.

7-10-01 1. I was thinking of contacting Judy Glassie [a management employee at WRIT, which runs 3801 Connecticut Avenue] about a covenant not to sue WRIT. Quid pro quo -- I agree not to sue, and WRIT lowers my rent. What do you think? Talk to David Castleberry. It could, in the end, be a good investment. I was thinking of contacting WRIT's accountancy firm. 2. If I'm summoned for jury duty, I'm going to submit the entire "archives" [that is, these messages] to the chief Judge as material to the evidence placed in controversy by Chuck Reischel (Esq.) about my mental state. Wait till Judge Johnson reads these letters: "Who the hell is Brian?" [Imaginary] Brian was here last night. He said to me: "Where do you want me to put the cigar?" I said: "In the ashtray." He said: "Is that what you call it?" [A reference to President Clinton's use of a cigar to stimulate Monica Lewinsky sexually.]

7-11-01 Went to the library yesterday. While Carlos was there, the branch librarian [Brian Brown] was talking to Justin (who used to volunteer at that branch). They talked about Rock Hudson -- and his movies with Doris Day. Justin talked about being on a train -- there was a drunk on the train -- The conductor was calling Justin's name over the P.A. System. I might have all this confused, but I see it as related to me. Then, the branch librarian was talking on the telephone to somebody about the children's librarian at that branch. I thought that was a reference to Anna Freud and her work as a child analyst. Just days before I had added material to my autobiography about Anna Freud. [The patron] J. Connolly mentioned that he lived in Brazil as a Peace Corps volunteer. It just occurred to me that there were some other odd things in the conversation yesterday (7-10-01) between Justin & the branch librarian. Justin used the word "proclivities" a number of times and mentioned "young boys." All the while, Carlos Chalbaud was at the computer. Tell me that's just a coincidence!

[Attached is something cut out of a magazine: an ad for the year 1916 Tournament of Roses, Brown University vs. State College of Washington. Includes my handwritten note:] The one bending over to receive is [Akin Gump managing partner] Larry Hoffman. Brown class of 1918. Half-man, half-amazing!

[Note that the phrase "the one bending over to receive" is a symbolic reference to anal intercourse. Hoffman was the managing partner at Akin Gump during my tenure. The sexual allusion to Hoffman suggests my psychological act of discharging feelings of overstimulation by fantasizing about Hoffman being anally raped.

Note a significant contemporaneous event: The CBS-TV reality show "Big Brother 2" began airing on 7-5-01. The show has aired every summer since the year 2000. "Big Brother 2" featured my favorite contestant, Hardy Ames Hill -- an individual who might be termed a "moral narcissist." Hill protected the weaker contestants against the aggression of the stronger contestants. A newspaper article about the show referred to Hill as "The Enforcer." At a later point in the season, an aggressive contestant (who was angry with Hill) used Hill's toothbrush to scrub the toilet in the guest house. Hill was enraged, and said at one point: "You're fucking with the wrong bull, I'm telling you. You're fucking with the wrong bull." My handwritten note "Half-man, half-amazing" is a quote from a statement made by "Big Brother 2" contestant Will Kirby, MD, about himself.]

7-12-01 The date today 7-12 reminds me of my 7th grade homeroom class (712) -- the homeroom teacher was Miss Lillian Camaioni (pronounced CA - ME - OH - NEE). She told my mama at a parent/teacher conference that I was a "scholar and a gentleman" -- that was then (1965-1966). Look at me now! -- Now, down to business. So, what's the story with Michael Ellsberg (146) -- the Ellsberg kid? He graduated from Brown [University]. Couldn't he get into Harvard? The Ellsberg smart genes skip a generation? Maybe the kid's got toy trains on the brain. [Michael Ellsberg's mother, Patricia Marx Ellsberg, was the daughter of Louis Marx, the toy train manufacturer.] -- Dr. Shaffer is a nincompoop ! ! ! -- Interesting thing happened at the library yesterday (7-11). Insight into Barbara. There were two good-looking jocks in the library, using the computer (Chris Block & Mike Doyle). I noticed Barbara eyeing Doyle. She seemed to get sexual pleasure out of it. (Personally I thought Chris Block was the hot one). Then later, Barbara says to me: "Oh, Mr. Freedman, this young man (pointing to Doyle's name on the computer sign out sheet) just stepped out. I'm saving the computer for him." THAT VIOLATES THE LIBRARY RULES. Then, I came back to the library later in the afternoon. A guy named "Pablo" signed up for the computer, then stepped out, and in the interim, Barbara the librarian called out his (Pablo's) name. She put him down as a "no show" on the sign out sheet (correct procedure). I guess if you're young, hot and f---able, Barbara gives special privileges. Does this fit the profile of a vindictive, passive-aggressive wench? -- Ask [former FBI profiler] Jack Douglas. [Blocked off in corner of page:] The shit hits the fan corner. I'm thinking of driving Dennis Race up the wall by sending out inquiries to major law firms, requesting legal counsel to negotiate my covenant not to sue WRIT -- mentioning that [former Akin Gump partner and later Treasury Department General Counsel] Ed Knight approved the burglary of my apt.

[Note that this is the first message that mentions Dennis Race. The reference is associated with a negative comment about my psychologist, Nancy Shaffer, Ph.D. This tends to confirm that whenever I'm feeling angry (overstimulated) about anything (particularly my therapists), I redirect (or discharge) my hostility (or overstimulation) to Dennis Race in a passive-aggressive manner.

Psychoanalytically, note the association of the phrase "young, hot and f---able" to the remote idea of burglary of my apartment (symbolically, a violation or rape). The association to the idea of rape is related to Daniel Ellsberg: the Nixon White House approved the burglary of Ellsberg's psychiatrist's office. Ed Knight, a former Akin Gump partner, was General Counsel of the Treasury Department (the rectum? [psychoanalytically, gold = feces]) in the Clinton Administration. Note the reference to "shit" [hits the fan] and the reference to Dr. Shaffer as a nincom"poop."

Compare the message on 7-10 that refers to President Clinton's use of a cigar to stimulate a vagina. Note my apparent confusion of vagina and anus: an ashtray is a waste receptacle (like the anus or a toilet). The joking reference (in the message on 7-10) confuses "ashtray" with "vagina" (a receptacle for a penis or, in the case of Monica Lewinsky, a cigar).

Oddly enough (or "oddly enough") it would be weeks later that, on the CBS-TV series "Big Brother 2," a contestant used an implement (toothbrush) that is intended for use in the mouth to scrub the toilet (a receptacle for anal material). It is not beyond the realm of possibility that I unconsciously identified the interpersonal relations of the "Big Brother 2" contestants with early childhood relations in my family, and, at some level, foresaw (or fantasized) the interpersonal outcome of those disturbed relations. In any event, I subjectively experience this material as uncanny. It's as if these messages in early July symbolically adumbrate the later events on the TV series "Big Brother 2," namely the action of the contestant Shannon in using Hardy Hill's toothbrush to scrub the guest house toilet.

Perhaps Dr. Shengold would see this message (and those immediately preceding it) as a significant expression of feelings of "too-muchness," overstimulation, and anal violation. See message on 7-11 that contains a symbolic reference to the rape of Larry Hoffman, a graduate of "Brown" University. The Branch Librarian at the Cleveland Park division is Brian Brown.

In any event, this material supports the view that as early as the year 2001 I associated my experiences at the Cleveland Park Library to feelings of overstimulation and anal rape.]

7-13-01 Yesterday (7-12) Elizabeth Joyce gave me, what I would call, an exasperated look -- as if she wanted to say something, but, felt she had to restrain herself and say nothing [note the projection of feelings of "overstimulation" to Elizabeth Joyce, the front desk manager at my apartment building]. I infer that something has been going on. Well, was I right about [the library volunteer] Justin, or not? Amazing, eh? Assignment: There used to be a front desk person here (I specifically recall she was here in mid-1997) -- her name was Beverly -- She was a sister. She seemed to fit Drew Weston's Type I personality: Good language skills, perfectionistic, diligent, self-motivated, preoccupied with food & eating. She was especially friendly with Elizabeth, the tenant from Australia (Rickey's honey). What's Bev's story?

7-16-01 Yesterday morning (7-15-01) about 9:30 AM, walking home from the supermarket I walked past one of the former volunteers at the Cleveland Park Library. It was in front of 3801 Connecticut. She gave me an obscene look -- as only someone who knew about me would do. I don't know her name. She is short, pudgy, walks around with a Walkman radio, light hair & looks like a mongoloid (Down's Syndrome). Also last week, someone left the following issue of Smithsonian in the library magazine exchange. Was it a reference to Paul Bloom, Ph.D., or Harold Bloom -- or both? [Attached is Smithsonian magazine cover for the April 2000 issue featuring a picture of a flower with the caption "The Art of the Flower." I don't recall now who Paul Bloom, Ph.D. is.]

[The library volunteer, identified as a Down's Syndrome victim, still lives in the neighborhood.]

7-17-01 The atmosphere in the library yesterday was FRIGID -- and I'm not talking about the air temperature. Barbara was acting out in her passive aggressive way.

[Imaginary] Brian was here last night. He said to me: "Would you be angry with me if I cracked your head open with this carpet sweeper." (Brian swings carpet sweeper). I said: "Does this mean you don't want to sweep with me anymore?"

[Parody of both "Big Brother 2" and a Seinfeld episode.]

7-18-01 I sat across from Julian Bond on the northbound Red Line, yesterday afternoon (about 1:45 PM). He was wearing light tan pants, yellow print tie, and a seersucker jacket. He was reading the "Science" section of the NY Times. I thought: "There's one brother who doesn't buy custom-made shirts." But as Vernon Jordan would say: "Maybe he should."

7-19-01 This is a [vacation] postcard that my dear friend Jesse Raben sent back to the folks at my old firm [Akin Gump]. He says that all he does is sleep, ski, and eat. Of course, he left out the most important thing -- [the] flossing.

[Attached is postcard from Killington, Vermont addressed to Constance Brown: "Dear Constance & the file room -- Skiing is wonderful. Vermont is beautiful. I really hope you guys are not working too hard while all I do is sleep and ski and eat. Anyway -- I hope to see you Tuesday -- Jesse"].

[Fortunately, Raben didn't say: "P.S. Enjoyed the cabin." Then -- THEN -- I'd start to worry.]

-- In Memoriam -- Katherine Graham -- She outlived John Mitchell and she kept her tits after all.

[Refers to the death of Washington Post owner, Katherine Graham. Former Attorney General John Mitchell had made a crude remark about Graham during the Watergate matter, to which the message alludes.]

7-20-01 I have noticed that since I communicated to you about J. Connolly (the middle-aged white male who sleeps in the library), he looks intently at me when he sees me -- not angrily, or with any emotion, just the appearance of the physical behavior of looking. As I say, he didn't look at me this way in the past. Why do you think that is? Thelma (a tenant here) [now deceased] was talking to Elizabeth Joyce yesterday (7-19) -- You know, Thelma? She's friendly with that nut job, Anne Gaddis (is that her name? -- I think even Elizabeth Joyce, who is friendly with everyone, finds Anne Gaddis hard to take) -- well, Elizabeth was talking to Thelma about Thelma's dental and eye problems, and Thelma said she'd talk to Elizabeth on Sunday -- that's what I think I heard. Is Elizabeth working on Sunday? Did I hear correctly? Listen, I have a complaint. There are these couple of young people (girl and guy) -- I think one or both moved in a couple of months or weeks ago -- they drive a dark green SUV and sometimes park out under my window. Well, I had previously formed the impression that they were unusually loud -- even rowdy -- well, late yesterday afternoon or early evening (around 6:20 PM), they were drunk and rowdy, they drove up the driveway hooting and hollering, and dropped off a couple of Styrofoam coolers, numerous beer cans, what looks like a wine bottle with a cork in it -- I'm looking at the crap right now (8:00 AM 7/20). Well, they dumped that crap by the driveway side of the tool shed. Ask Sergio [one of the housekeepers] about it, -- he's parked just next to it. Well, I don't care about the mess (I can be a pig myself) -- but, the crows got to it, and, man, you would not believe how those crows went at that stuff -- like a bunch of kids at Disneyworld!! I thought it was a person out there. I looked, and it was like I was in some Hitchcock movie [with all the crows pecking at the trash]. Dark green SUV -- Check it out -- Hope to get lucky this weekend. Later, --

7-23-01 The pigs with the dark green SUV dumped a bit more trash out by the tool shed on Saturday. The clean-up guy who came Sunday morning (7-22) had to clean it up. I caught the license no. -- TEXAS LICENSE NO. RCZ 52L -- It's a jeep Grand Cherokee -- (Dark Green) -- probably friends of Bob Strauss. Friday afternoon Jerry Zwirn came to visit at the library & chatted with Velvel Dacosta. Jerry used to be a librarian at Cleveland Park -- till he retired earlier this year. The branch librarian [Brian Brown] talks in hushed tones when he talks about where Jerry went -- obviously, the branch librarian (I think his name is Brown) doesn't want me to know where Jerry is. Anyway, in the conversation between Dacosta and Jerry Z., Dacosta used words and phrases that I thought were directed at me, symbolically.

Dacosta used the phrases:

The Central Library -- [a manifest reference to MLK] which I took to be a [symbolic] reference to my old high school

Brian is going on vacation (whoever "Brian" is) Jesse Raben's vacation in Vermont?

I don't know where he's going. He's not going to Italy (I went to Italy 23 years ago) Jesse Raben's vacation in Vermont?

10-mile hike -- possible reference to Aristotle [Ari], who used to be a tenant at 3801

Hold -- masturbation

Cute -- something sexual there -- Jesse Raben was not cute -- he was smooth but masculine, his hands were milky white

"For the birds" -- Jesse Raben (Raben = Raven) [Raben = Raven = Crow, see message at 7/20/01]

7-24-01 Yesterday (7-23), at the library, somebody ripped-off Barbara's wallet. Don't you know, Hillary asks ME and only ME if I saw anything. So if I'm observant and see things, I'm labeled "paranoid." But if I don't see anything -- like who it was who stole Barbara's wallet, then I'm no good either. Did you have David Castleberry talk to those pigs from Texas who dumped their trash by the tool shed? You should do that. Let that be your assignment for today. Pauline [Jones] & Charles Davis in the library had good feelings about me yesterday -- I could tell -- it's one of my powers.

7-25-01 Yesterday, at the library another strange coincidence occurred. In the magazine exchange someone had left a magazine on top of the others. The magazine was the March 2000 issue of "Outside" -- a sports magazine for outdoorsmen. The magazine was folded in a way that the contents of two pages were revealed. Over to the side [pointing arrow], I show you how it appeared. One page has the words "It's not a feeling you can get" -- the facing page depicts a man swimming with dolphins. [See message dated 6/20/01.] Incidentally, the head librarian started his vacation on Monday -- I think his name is Brown. Do you believe them -- they are so blatant! I'm thinking of sending this to the FBI ("Freaks Behind the Instigating").

7-26-01 This past weekend (7/20-7/21) I heard David Dickinson (or the person I think is David Dickinson -- I don't really know who he is)-- well, Dickinson was in the lobby talking to a young lady about "Matsui." I had no idea who that was. All I heard was "Matsui, Matsui," -- and references to the internment of Japanese-Americans during WWII. Then, yesterday, I found out that "Matsui" is Robert Matsui, a Congressman from California. -- Your assignment for today -- Find out what David Dickinson has to do with Matsui -- and what Matsui has to do with all this. Get on it! David Dickinson is openly bi-coastal.

[Dickinson is originally from California, and is licensed to practice law there.]

7-27-01 Not much to report. I picked up a possible reference to Toni Morrison at the library yesterday. --"It's not LIKE anything else." That's what Professor Morrison says: "I'm not LIKE Faulkner, I'm not LIKE -- etc." When I was at Cleveland Park Liquor yesterday to pick up a six-pack -- the chief guy -- the "Nabob" -- he had that admiring quality and Robbie had a funny quality to his "Thank you." Elizabeth Joyce has been in this "walking-on-eggshells" state since I've been writing to you. Does she know she'll be prosecuted if the authorities find out about her activities? -- It would be a shame if she spends the last years of her life behind steel bars. ASSIGNMENT: What does Darla know? -- She's Elizabeth's bosom buddy.

[Darla used to work in the rental office at 3801.]

7-30-01 Brief message -- But it's a major assignment: Neil Sagot's first wife, Lois Sagot, had a close friend named Flossie -- find out what she knows. FOR THE COINCIDENCE FILE: A day after I mentioned Robert Matsui to you, the following issue of Sports Illustrated made its way to the top of the magazine pile at the library. [Attached is cover of Sports Illustrated for May 28, 2001 featuring a photo with caption: "Red Hot. Japanese sensation Ichiro Suzuki of the Seattle Mariners."]

7-31-01 Mailing in my attorney license form, I got to thinking about what happens when I send these documents ("The Archives") to the U.S. District Court -- as submit them I perforce must.-- If I am summoned for jury duty. As you know Neil Sagot (a Pennsylvania lawyer) filed a fraudulent lawsuit on behalf of my brother-in-law in 1977. That's fraud. Is there a statute of limitations to that? When Judge Johnson reads these documents, what will she do? Can I direct her not to read certain passages? Can I make it known that I never colluded in insurance fraud, illegality, or any act of moral turpitude (other than masturbating on the roof of 3801 Connecticut Avenue)?
8-1-01 My brother-in-law had a friend Arthur Calhoun ("Art") -- they rented office space in the same suite. Art attended my mother's funeral in 1980. Art liked to dabble in homosexual liaisons. He and his wife, Joy Calhoun, divorced. Find out what Joy knows -- they had a son named Chris who would be about 30 years old now.

"For the German-Jewish Emigre File." In the early 1940's my mother worked with a young female German-Jewish immigrant named Hertha. In about 1945, Hertha married another German-Jewish immigrant named Helmut Haas. They got married on a Saturday evening (after sundown -- of course!). My mother attended the wedding. Helmut & Hertha Haas later lived down the street from us on the 1600 block of Barringer Street in Philadelphia. They had a young daughter. Hertha said that Claire Brister [1613 Barringer Street] tried to befriend her. I think Hertha said she didn't care for Claire -- Can you imagine? Maybe Chuck Strauss knew the Haas family.

I have a theory that Elizabeth Joyce is actually the illegitimate daughter of Adolf Hitler and the Queen Mother (Elizabeth Bowles). If you think about it, it all begins to make sense.

Joyce was born in 1930

She speaks with a British accent

She's from London

She doesn't talk about her father (Let's face it -- if Hitler were your father, would you be talking about him?)

She works in a confined area behind the front desk -- and seems happy doing it (consistent with her being raised in the basement of Windsor Castle).

She won't retire, just like her half-sister, Elizabeth Windsor

She used to manage properties -- again, like the Queen.

8-2-01 I've been watching a summer TV show called "Big Brother" -- on CBS 3x/week. It's been on since July 5, 2001. Tuesday July 31, 2001, I talked about the show for the first time with Dr. Shaffer, my psychologist. I offered Dr. Shaffer some of my observations and insights about the show. The show was on last summer -- last summer, the show featured a consultant (Dr. [David Drew] Pinsky) who gave his observations about the interpersonal stuff on the show. Where is this leading you ask? Yesterday, at the library (8-1-2001), on the top of the magazine exchange was the attached issue of the NY Times Book Review (7/29/01) folded in such a way, as shown below, that the phrase "Reviewed by Robert Pinsky" appears noticeably.

8-3-01 In early October 1987, Daniel Cutler told me that, sometime previous, he had been to a party where he witnessed local TV anchorman Jim Vance using cocaine. Check this out. It was Daniel Cutler who I believe purchased marijuana on company time [at Hogan & Hartson] and distributed it to selected coworkers in about April 1987. Message for Judge Johnson -- Ignore this page!

8-6-01 I had a really paranoid experience at the barber on Friday (8-3). First of all, the owner "The Maestro" (Puglisi) wasn't there. A young, good-looking (but slightly chubby), Spanish-speaking guy cut my hair. By the way, excellent haircut, dude! But, anyway, the young barber used words and phrases that seemed aimed at me personally, and [it seemed] that he knew about my personal background, and [that he was] referring to personal facts. (The possibility is that someone who read my dream "Prelude to a Bris" -- about Jerry Seinfeld (May '98), [and] mentions Il Maestro (Puglisi) -- and that someone contacted the shop. Anyway, I thought the barber was testing me -- trying to see if he could get me hot and bothered. I could give you the words and phrases he used, but that would be meaningless to an outsider, like you. Later--

8-7-01 A few interesting developments yesterday. I saw Carlos [Chalbaud] yesterday, as I was walking home from the library. He averted his gaze. But he had a pained expression on his face. (It reminded me of the expression that David Callet, Esq. had, sometimes, when I saw him). Why would that be? What is Carlos reacting to? You tell me!

Earlier, I had confirmation of my insightfulness about Barbara, the librarian. A young man (with his small child) wanted to use the library telephone at the information desk. His name was Robert. -- Like it was something really important. Barbara said: "We're really not supposed to let patrons use the phone -- but go ahead. Make it brief." Robert proceeded to use the phone to place an order for Mexican food! -- So she lets the young attractive guy break the rules. A brief time later, an old woman (nanny) with a couple [of] small children asked Barbara if she would place a call for the old woman for a cab. Barbara turned her away -- and suggested the old woman use the pay phone at CVS across the street. Do I know Barbara? You tell me! Exactly as I pointed out before. If you're not young, male, and fuckable, don't bother asking Barbara for a favor. As Anna Freud would say: "He was right the first time."

8-9-01 Slow news day yesterday. I had the feeling, though, that Barbara the librarian knew what I wrote about her to you. I have to tell you, -- after my morning shower -- especially in the summer, I like to walk around my apartment naked -- totally nudam -- as the ancient Romans would say. I think it gets to those Clark construction guys -- I like to fuck with their heads. By the way, I got the message about the WRIT survey. I can't promise I won't tell them about Elaine Wranik and the other related & crazy goings on here. Sorry, dude.

[At the time Clark Construction Company was building an apartment adjacent to 3801 Connecticut Avenue. My apartment window was directly across from the construction site.

The Washington Real Estate Investment Trust (WRIT) sent a resident satisfaction survey to residents to fill out.]

8-9-01 Pardon the mess in here, but I'm on a roll. In fact, I'm too busy to write today.

8-10-01 I filled out that survey & gave it to David Castleberry to mail in. We really need on-line rent payment! Could you talk to David or Judy [Glassie] about that? Yesterday, I assigned special meaning to certain phrases the librarians used. Barbara referred, in a loud tone to "CIA" or "Central Intelligence Agency" & Velvel used the word "scenario." In the magazine box, there were a lot of magazines about astronomy. (Galileo, Berendson?)

[Richard Berendson, an astronomer, is the past president of American University, where I earned an LL.M. degree. He was a victim of child sexual abuse, and wrote a book about his experiences. I formed the impression that Akin Gump managers had contacted Berendson.]

8-13-01 Yesterday (Sunday) I went to the Brookville market to buy a tomato. [The owner] Mike Shirazzi saw me, and noticeably and unmistakably turned away & avoided eye contact. He usually says hello. Assignment for today: My brother-in-law had a friend named Bert Shaman, who, I believe, was a few years older than my brother-in-law. Bert's wife's name was Esther. Bert had a brother who was religious and moved to Israel. Find out more about the Shaman meshpuchah. Incidentally, Wednesday is Vernon Jordan's birthday -- what do we get him?

8-14-01 This is background on my sister -- specifically, her romantic involvements prior to her meeting her future husband in February 1965 -- when she was 17 years old. It won't take more than a page. My sister met her future husband by way of a friend at my sister's high school (an all-girls school). Coincidentally, my brother-in-law had previously "dated" the older sister of Alice Diamond, who was a classmate of mine in the 7th grade (Wagner Jr. High). I guess you could say the Diamond family's gain was the Freedman family's loss. Alice Diamond played violin in the school orchestra. I once told her that she resembled Queen Victoria. My sister had one previous "boyfriend." He was the cousin of my sister's close friend Nedda Weiss (nee Cohen). He was a few years older than my sister, and was a student at the University of Pennsylvania -- my sister was in the 11th grade at the time. I don't remember his name. I have to laugh when my psychologist, Dr. Shaffer, praises my sister's social adjustment. Basically, my sister was conned by a psychopath at age 17.

8-15-01 Brief note -- but big assignment. Gabriella Komlos. Pennsylvania State University, BS, May 1975 (Nutrition Major). Parents were concentration camp survivors from Hungary (Magyar). (Note the preoccupation with food, as evidenced by her field of study). [See Freedman, M. "Survivor Guilt and the Pathogenesis of Anorexia Nervosa, "Psychiatry," February 1985.] We attended the same Junior High School (Wagner Jr. High). She played violin in the school Orchestra. She spotted me once at Penn State -- during a performance of Handel's Messiah at Christmas time. She noticed I didn't stand during the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus.

8-16-01 So, what did you end up getting Vernon Jordan for his birthday? I didn't get him anything. What did he ever do for me? We all know the answer to that. I don't have much to talk about today. I saw Carlos on the street yesterday. I don't see him in the library anymore. What happened? Did Carlos get his own computer? I have a funny feeling about that tenant who lives with his young son. He used to smile when he saw me. Now he looks at me really strangely. You know who I mean? He speaks with a British-like accent -- Like South African or something. Where do you get these creeps?

[The son's name was "Sebastian."]

8-17-01 I had a big one this morning -- man, did that white sticky stuff fly! I don't have any material left to share-- See ya.

8-20-01 I have another different assignment for you, but I know you can do it, brother. As you know, in 1990 I told Dr. Palombo that I had a classmate in elementary school named Susan Marks; she had a genius level IQ. Well, of course, Dr. Palombo told "The Powers that Be" and they contacted Susan Marks (in 1990 & perhaps thereafter). Susan Marks would have graduated from the Philadelphia High School for Girls ("Girls High") in the year 1970 (211th graduating class). What I never told anyone is that Susan Marks had a female cousin, the same age as she, who was in my seventh grade homeroom class at Wagner Junior High School. I do not recall the cousin's name. The cousin's mother (Susan Marks' aunt) died when the Marks cousins were about 11 years old. (Cancer, I believe).

8-21-01 This is just a reminder. As you know I had two school mates in elementary school (K-6) (Rowan Elementary School -- "Education is not a mere means to Life -- Education is Life" -- if you don't get it, you don't get it.) They were fraternal twins -- Steven and Howard Chanin. [Central High School, 229th class, 1970.] I knew them in high school. Their parents owned a grill eatery in the neighborhood. They majored in psychology at Penn State. What you may not know is that they had two older brothers. One of their older brothers was a mathematical genius (literally). -- Robert Chanin. He went to Penn State as a Guggenheim Scholar (225th Class CHS). He was smarter than [Stanford University Math Professor] Robert Osserman -- but probably not as smart as Earl Segal. (Yea, sure!)

8-22-01 Who's the new guy in apt 137? Is he an orgy guy? Do you think David Castleberry would let me punch a hole through the wall between 136 & 137? Invite some folks over -- and let the good times roll. Plenty of egress and ingress. Know what I mean? I could invite my [imaginary] friend Brian -- his two-inch penis would be a real conversation piece (Message for Blair -- Give my regards to Tootie and Mrs. Garrett -- Thanks).

8-23-01 As you know I had a friend in elementary school named Lee Fuiman and that on one occasion I went to Lee Fuiman's birthday party at his house. What I never told anybody was that there was another kid at the party -- another classmate named Raymond Weisbein (a smartass). Weisbein also went to my high school. At the Fuiman birthday party Weisbein said to me: "I wish you hadn't been invited, Freedman," and he proceeded to tell me how he disliked me. Then in September 1967 -- freshman algebra in high school, Weisbein complained to the teacher (Mr. Nicholas Grant) that he (Weisbein) thought the teacher assigned too much homework. (As I said: --Smartass). Well, the teacher blew up at Weisbein -- "If you want less homework, there are a lot of other high schools where you can get less homework -- Go to Olney, or Germantown, or South Philadelphia." I thought: "Payback time, baby, payback time." By the way, did you ever stop to think that Urbana spelled backwards is "Anabru" -- if you don't get it, you don't get it.

[Lee Fuiman, Ph.D. is now a marine biologist.]

8-24-01 Someone I forgot to mention from High School freshman algebra: Joe Breitman. He's now a dentist and a member, a proud member, a proud, card-carrying member of the Scottish-Jewish Defense League. Arlen Specter truly represents Breitman's interests in the U.S. Senate. Also, please don't tell Elizabeth Joyce that I steal tea bags & Sweet & Low. She doesn't know and doesn't need to know.

[Breitman played the bagpipes in high school.]

8-30-01 I had a session with my psychologist, Dr. Shaffer yesterday. It was a wild scene. She became really discombobulated. If you heard a tape of it you'd really be shocked by her behavior -- she regressed really bad. She doesn't seem to understand I could really screw her. I was thinking of starting up a "pen pal" relationship with a staff attorney (anyone would do -- maybe Ross Wiener, Esq.) at the Justice Department. Not any inflammatory things -- Just my thoughts and feelings. That guy is going to wonder -- "What the hell is going on here--? Why can't he discuss these things with his therapist?" It will be the beginning of the end for Dr. Sh--. Believe me that crap is neither beyond me nor behind me (no pun intended). I can fire the missiles from the silo at any time. Anyway, I couldn't even talk about anything that was on my mind yesterday. And Dr. Sh-- is the only outlet I have. Can you say EXTREME LACK OF EMPATHY boys and girls? Help me! HELP ME! It may be my imagination, or my projection -- but it just seems to me that she becomes really difficult to work with at some sessions immediately preceding a holiday. The last session where she went off, coincidentally, was in late June -- just before July 4th. Then THE WORST session I ever had with her was one just before Christmas in 1999 (I think it was Dec. 22, 1999). She spent the whole session bitching about a letter I had written to Dr. [Albert H.] Taub in late October '99 -- which she had just received. She was in a terrible state about that. Talk about hypersensitive. I have more to say -- But, I'll save it for tomorrow. By the way, do you have the address for the Justice Department?

[Ross Wiener, Esq., practiced law at The Department of Justice. I suspected (but never confirmed) that he was the son of the late Jerry M. Wiener, MD, former head of the psychiatry department at GW. Dr. Wiener had a son named Ross who would have been the same age as Ross Wiener, Esq.]

8-27-01 Assignment. My brother-in-law had a cousin Joyce Norman (nee Robbins). She was divorced from her first husband, Freddie Norman. Freddie Norman, I believe, graduated from Penn State. My brother-in-law's parents resided in a duplex apartment -- Joyce Norman's parents, Sam & Francis Robbins, lived upstairs. Look into Freddie Norman -- what does he know, and when did he know it? Report back to me. Message for Carlos -- Hector is very lonely. Won't you come and play with Hector?

8-28-01 Fall 1971 -- 30 years ago -- Freshman year at college (Penn State -- Abington campus). I took a course in philosophy taught by George Frederick Rieman -- (Yes, just like the famous mathematician of the same name). In that class were two people I had known previously-- William ("Bill") DeVuono -- Central High School (230th class) [and] Gloria Goldsmith -- Wagner Junior High School, 7th & 8th grades. Get me a report! ASAP

8-29-01 I thought I'd give you a break today. I know you've been working hard. -- I've given you some major assignments. I'm still waiting for your reports. Get them to me ASAP. By the way, I noticed this morning that Elizabeth Joyce has a new attitude about my tea bag/Sweet-Low proclivities. A hands-off policy. So you talked -- when I asked you not to!

8-31-01 Ninth grade English class. Elliott Cades ("Ming the Merciless") was the teacher (1903-1986). This was school year 1967-68. A student named Elliott Feldman sat next to me. He was supersmart. We didn't say anything to each other all year. But in about June 1968 I came to school in bright yellow pants (canary-shit color). Feldman said: "Wow." There's a lawyer in Philadelphia named Elliott R. Feldman (born 4-15-54) BA/JD Temple U (summa cum laude/cum laude). Do you think it's the same person? Look into that -- will you please? Thanks. I'm fed up with Dr. Sh-- for now.

9-3-01 How was your holiday? I gave you a break yesterday. I hope you appreciate that! Now let's get down to business: from August 1980 - August 1983 I resided at an apartment house in downtown Philadelphia, "The Sylvania House." Address -- 1324 Locust Street -- Apartment 415,. (I lived there immediately prior to relocating to 3801 Connecticut, DC). My next-door neighbor during the (ran out of ink--sorry) entire period (8/80-8/83) was an individual named E. Chambers Fowler (E. = Edward). Subject was a white male, between 35-45 years of age. A practicing homosexual. Worked at PSFS -- a local bank (Philadelphia Saving Fund Society). Subject was a Navy veteran. Subject visited mother every weekend. Left after work, Friday afternoon and returned Sunday night. Apartment manager was a woman named "Claire" (last name unknown) -- appeared to be Jewish.

9-5-01 This is going back a ways. I don't know if you will find anything on this: During the period August 1979 - August 1980 I lived in Spokane, Washington (then represented in Congress by Akin Gump partner Thomas Foley.) I resided at E15 1/2 Augusta, Spokane 99207. My next-door neighbor was an older gentleman who rode a motorcycle. His name was Dale Green. The rental agent was James T. Bertis Realty. My telephone no. was (509) 322-2017. I ran a drug-smuggling operation from that site. Did a lot of business with the Pacific rim.

9-6-01 I saw Dr. Ruttenberg for the first time yesterday (9-5). She recommended that I take anti-psychotic medication (Zyprexa). She says you don't really come into my apartment every day. Silly Lady!! I think I'll try it (the med). It won't work, because my ideas are not delusions. I'm going to send out letters soliciting legal counsel for a lawsuit against Akin Gump. Put down in writing the whole crap about the guns, the fears of homicide. The "purely coincidental" fact that the U.S. Secret Service refused to investigate while at the same time a former Akin Gump partner (Ed Knight) was General Counsel of Treasury. This is going to every major law firm -- with Dennis Race's telephone number on it. But hey -- If my thinking is delusional & the meds work, of course, I'll stop writing the letters -- get it? Dr. Ruttenberg is going to have heck to pay!!!

[Note again that my anger toward my psychiatrist is redirected to Dennis Race.]

9-7-01 I gave a lot of thought to the matter and have decided on the following course of action. I will forward to Dennis Race and Dr. Ruttenberg (and the U.S. Attorney) a copy of (1) the informed consent statement I submitted to Dr. Taub & (2) the statement affirming my continued adherence to a body of beliefs, placed in controversy by the Corporation Counsel, -- beliefs termed delusional. I will include a Consent to Release confidential psychiatric information to Akin Gump. I will request Dennis Race to review the documents & advise Dr. Ruttenberg of any facts about which he or his partners have first-hand knowledge that would affect Dr. Ruttenberg's diagnostic determination that my beliefs are delusional and her medical recommendation (which I will accept) that I take anti-psychotic drug(s). -- If Dennis Race does not provide to Dr. Ruttenberg information material to her decision to prescribe a neuroleptic (which I will take) -- that's the material current harm. I will then advise D. Race that I plan to find a lawyer & sue Akin Gump. To make a long story short -- I vote to evict Dennis Race.

9-10-01 Here are some more people you may want to look into: I believe one or more of the following persons have been contacted by Akin Gump:

Michael Strong, MD: Cardiothoracic surgeon, now affiliated with Hahneman Hospital in Philadelphia. Operated on my father in 1976. Born in 1941.

Gerald Lemole, MD: Cardiologist -- Head of my father' surgical team. Nationally prominent cardiologist.

Mehmet Oz, MD: Nationally prominent cardiologist -- son-in-law of Dr. Lemole. Article about Dr. Oz in The NY Times Magazine in about the year 1995.

[Arrow pointing left.] This is a mint condition $4.00 magazine. Take it back if you want it. It's a "sin" to throw these things away. What about poor sick people in hospitals?

9-11-01 Do you notice that it's getting darker and darker in here? I think Clark [Construction Company] just got it's own little easement -- Ask Earl about that. Did they pay you for that? You know the electric usage is going to go up here, because this entire side of the building [will be dark] -- Tenants will have to have their lights on all day long when they're home. Suggestion, don't rent any apartments on this side of the building to retired people or psychotics like me. If you ask me, Judy [Glassie] ought to call Clark and tell them: "Just pull the whole thing down, put the dirt back where you found it -- and replant the trees!!"

9-12-01 The bombing in New York yesterday reminded me of an additional person you need to look into: During the summers of 1975 & 1976 I worked at The Franklin Institute in Philadelphia with a young woman named Joan Fleischman. Subject was a college student enrolled at Temple University. I believe Akin Gump contacted subject in the spring or summer of 1991. Akin Gump was probably alerted to subject by Sid Dorfman (Central High School, 1966, 225th class) (Temple U., B.S., 1970). Ask Dorfman about the great snow storm on Christmas eve 1966. Anyway, Fleischman's parents were Jewish immigrants from Nazi Germany. She stated that from her parent's stories she herself was terrified of bombings and flying glass. Remember 1938? Very bad year.

9-12-01 [supplement] You may not believe this, but I wrote the following note before I heard about the buildings being leveled in NYC yesterday -- Amazing, huh?

[Refers back to statement in message dated 9-11-01 -- "If you ask me, Judy [Glassie] ought to call Clark and tell them: "Just pull the whole thing down, put the dirt back where you found it -- and replant the trees!!"]

9-13-01 I have uncovered what may prove to be an important lead in this case. This concerns Jerrold Zwirn ("Jerry"). Subject was employed as a full-time librarian at the Cleveland Park Branch of the DC library system from at least 1991 until his resignation from the system earlier this year. He now works for an as yet unidentified employer. Subject worked closely with the head librarian [Brian Brown] (a nice young man, whose name escapes me). I believe subject (Zwirn) had full access to all the information about me that was channeled to the library staff. I have just learned that subject served as a "community observer," for a study of the DC Superior Court carried out by the Council for Court Excellence. Subject is also a veteran of the U.S. Army and is originally from New York City. Your assignment -- Look into this.

[Attached is cover of report "Council for Court Excellence. Report and Recommendations of the Court Community Observers Project in the District of Columbia Superior Court and its Civil Division. July 2001." Includes handwritten note:] I may contact Chief Judge King about this.

9-14-01 I know this has been a rough week, so I won't give you an assignment.-- Just some information. 1. Tom Pierce in 926 is a homosexual 2. Jeremy Schwartz in 429 is a lawyer. Also, I need a report on Jerry Zwirn. Did you find out anything?

[I did not know either Tom Pierce or Jeremy Schwartz.]

9-18-01 First -- Medication -- As you know my psychiatrist has recommended antipsychotic meds, but refuses to provide a written informed consent. I did some research; under AMA policies, a doctor is strongly recommended to provide written informed consent (AMA Policy E-8.08). Check out the AMA website. Also under the D.C. Code, the ethical standards set by the various medical professional organizations are enforceable under District law. If Dr. "R" refuses to provide written informed consent I may contact the U.S. Attorney's Office. Also, Dr. "R" used fallacious reasoning in refusing to provide a written informed consent. She said basically, "Since I am not requiring that you take meds, that is, you may refuse treatment, I (Dr. R) have no duty to sign a statement." WRONG!! The triggering event for informed consent is the patient's act of embarking on a treatment procedure. The triggering event for informed consent is not that the patient is required to embark on a treatment or procedure. Poor reasoning, Dr. R! Under the AMA policy statement I have a right to know:

1. What is my diagnosis

2. The nature and purpose of the treatment (if my thinking is delusional, what portion of my thinking constitutes the delusions)

3. Risks/benefits - (If I take meds, will I no longer believe I was terminated illegally? Will I no longer believe my supervisor is a court-adjudicated racist?)

4. Alternatives (regardless of cost, or availability at Spring Rd)

5. Risks/Benefits of alternatives

6 Risk/Benefits of not receiving alternative care

Also, your night [front desk] person, Stanley, is a nut case. This morning before 7:00 AM, I got some coffee and was looking through the discarded mail. I did this for about 45 seconds. Stanley saw me, was watching me, and didn't say a word, when I walked over to the discard boxes (which were not labeled "Do not touch") and I heard him mutter -- "God damn trash picker" -- Why did he stand there and say nothing while I was "In flagrante Delicto" -- passive aggressive fellow.

9-17-01 A small, peculiar thing happened on Friday (9-14-01), which I read meaning into. As I was walking up Connecticut Avenue, from the library, I passed by a regular library patron, Jeremy Wittes. Subject is unusually friendly with everyone and always calls out to me to say hello. But on Friday he was looking down as he passed me and said nothing. I assume someone has talked to subject about me.

9-19-01 All Quiet on the Western Front -- All I can say is -- At least the sister made it farther than the good-looking white boy.

[Refers to CBS-TV series "Big Brother 2." Hardy Ames Hill was evicted before the African-American contestant, Monica Bailey.]

9-20-01 Last week someone left the attached book by Linda Miller in the magazine exchange in the Cleveland Park Branch of the DC library system. I had previously told my psychologist [Dr. Shaffer] that my high school French teacher was named Linda Miller. I feel like I'm being psychologically raped every day of the week!

The only way I have to work off the extreme tension is to whack off on the floor next to the window -- I find that exhibitionism negates intrusion (rape). HELP ME! HELP ME!

[Attached is cover of romance novel by Linda Lael Miller titled "Just Kate," published by Silhouette Desire. My high school French teacher, Linda Miller, was young and physically attractive. Fredric L. Cohen, MD, was one of her students.]

9-21-01 People say: "What does he want?" "What will make him stop?" -- How about if I just get my job back -- is that a lot for a "perfect" employee to ask? Maybe Judy [Glassie] could talk to WRIT's lawyers and have them talk to Dennis Race. By the way -- I have a seven-digit number in my head (The last two digits are "28") [Refers to Dennis Race's office telephone number, 887-4028]. Here's what I'm thinking -- I could find out what law firm represents Clark [Construction Company] and send them a letter with some interesting documents attached. I tell them that I was "raped" by friends of President Clinton -- Now that's an attention grabber. Explain that I'm forced to whack off in public -- It's a consequence of my "rape" -- and ask for a written statement directing me to cease the activity. (Akin Gump gave me the name -- hey -- I'm just playin' the game!)

9-24-01 Strange coincidence on Friday at the library-- On Thursday (9-20) I gave my psychologist [Dr. Shaffer] some written material about novelist Michael Chabon, and I scrawled a notation on the material. In the notation I referred to the psychoanalyst Heinz Kohut [now deceased]. On Friday, at the library, someone left the attached document in the magazine exchange. -- The document is a press release from the Pew Research Center -- and the director's name is Andrew KOHUT. The document was folded exactly as you see it, to the right, drawing attention to Kohut's name.

9-25-01 Assignment -- Look into Lewis Lipshutz. Subject was in my graduating class (230) at Central High School (1971). Subject took piano lessons with Elisabeth Griffith, my piano teacher. Subject performed at piano recital given by Griffith in June 1968 at the Strawbridge & Clothier Dept store in Jenkintown, PA. Subject (I believe) was in my 9th grade algebra I class (first period '67-'68 -- Nicholas Grant, teacher). In spring 1972 (first year college) I took a phys ed course -- bowling -- class was held at the Del Ennis Bowling Lanes in the Northeast Sect of Phila -- used to see subject there.

[Lewis Lipshutz is now deceased.]

9-26-01 No assignment today -- You need to get on the assignment I gave you yesterday. Just a word on what's been going on in the Big Brother House -- [Attached is photo of President Bush captioned "The battle ahead." Includes my own handwritten caption attributing the following statement to President Bush:] You're fucking with the wrong bull, I'm telling you. You're fucking with the wrong bull.

9-27-01 God Bless America. [Hand drawn picture of U.S. flag.] I told my psychologist [Dr. Shaffer] yesterday about my war preparation plans. I plan to seal my windows with duck tape -- this is a protective measure against germ/chem warfare. Also, I want to get a gas mask. I already have a 7-months food supply on hand, but I need a store of water. I think David Castleberry needs to seal the whole building -- and think about other civil defense issues. I think a revolving door at the front entrance is advisable. Close the garage -- People will just have to park somewhere else. -- Carlos, wherever you are, take care of yourself. Good yontif, y'all. (Dave & Jesse).

[Refers to Jesse Raben and his brother, David Raben, MD, a radiologist who practices in Montgomery, Alabama. The Rabens are from Greensboro, North Carolina. The phrase "Good yontif" refers to the upcoming Jewish High Holidays.]

9-28-01 I think Dennis Race should take a cue from President Ford. In 1974 Ford concluded that it was simply more practical to pardon President Nixon, than to let things drag on indefinitely -- with prosecutions and so forth. That's what DMR needs to be thinking -- Is it better to have a loose cannon out there -- or bring him back (pardon him, if you will) where we're in a position to control him. So, anyway "Clark [Construction Company]" says to me -- "Where do you do it?" I say: "On the floor." Clark says: "When?' I say: "7:00, 7:30. Mornings." Clark says -- "Ever do it later in the day?" I say: "Fuck NO -- What do you think I am? -- Some kind of PERVERT? In the middle of the day??"

[Refers to my masturbating in front of the construction workers employed by Clark Construction Company. Note the association to "loose cannon," a phallic projectile object; the phrase "loose" cannon suggests "out-of-control" sexuality.]

10-01-01 I thought I'd start off October with a light assignment. Don't put much time into it. Kramer or Cramer. (Don't recall the spelling). He was a year ahead of me in high school, that is, 229th class -- 1970). Outstanding pianist. Played the celesta part in the performance of excerpts from Strauss' "Der Rosenkavalier" our high school orchestra did in March 1968. -- He was a homosexual. Reason I mention him -- He was the only homosexual I knew about in high school. I didn't know him. He didn't know me. The Chanin brothers knew him (not in a biblical sense).

10-02-01 Assignment -- Look into Charles Leon Green ("Chas"). We worked together as agency temps at Hogan & Hartson from Sept - Dec 1985, for a client named AVCO (billing partner, William Bradford, Esq.). Subject was born in about 1960; graduated Bethesda-Chevy Chase HS in about 1978; bachelor's degree U. Maryland (about 1982); Emory Univ. Law School (about 1985). Published paper in law school bankruptcy journal; trained as a chef. Upper middle-class background. Girlfriend named Karla Grasse (cohabited). Grandfather was law professor at Yale Law School. Joined Army JAG Corps in 1986. Current whereabouts unknown. We spent some time talking about renaissance men and the ever-popular pastime of recreational whacking off. Knew Sandra Smalls (data-entry operator at Hogan). Knew she was a scam artist. Once said to me: "Someday you're going to screw around with the wrong person, and they're going to find your body, face down, floating down the Potomac, with a knife in your back." That day may be approaching.

The Historiographer: A Grant of Immunity

November 29, 2004

Brian--

Hey, buddy. How was your holiday weekend? Are you still lying (as in resting, lying down, stretching out, reclining, or reposing), or are you just lying low?

This letter, like all my letters, does not begin as the statement of a fully grasped idea. How could it? I don't invest sufficient energy (intellectual or physical) in any one object to achieve anything fully, completely -- or to the fullest extent of nature's laws, as one might put it.

I've been doing nothing at all. I've simply been lying low -- as I have been for years -- safe and undetected within the heart of my apartment building, forswearing the world around me. There's nothing to prompt me to become active and do anything of a useful sort. What will cause me to become active, if I ever do so, isn't entirely clear at the moment. There are many mysteries about me that cry out for unraveling.

I trust you got your flu shot. You need a flu shot, you can't live without a flu shot. Immunity is always important. It's a good thing. Without immunity your whole life -- as you know it -- could unravel; you could be laid up for weeks. Once the viruses find you, once they make their inevitable discovery, you're finished. Don't believe the old wives' tale about informal immunity: there is no such thing. Last year's flu shot won't help you one darn bit. Of course, no one can force you to get a shot: it's purely voluntary. Watch out for corrupt doctors at public clinics, though. Deception and false promises of immunity are a common scam by public officials. They trick you into coming down to the clinic, and once you get there -- they tell you they've run out of flu shots. Likely story. Anyway, invoke your privilege. Get immunity. You look like a healthy guy, buddy. I think your constitution can stand it.

I confess. I didn't get a flu shot this year. I have no immunity. But then, I'm insane. One flu over the cuckoo's nest, and all that. If the virus got me, I wouldn't know what was going on anyhow. I'm oblivious. Isn't it obvious?

I thought I'd continue with the presentation of my diaries. This week I present the concluding portion that covers the period January 27, 2003 to August 19, 2003. That period of the diaries charts the development of my obsession with you, Brian. It's a sordid tale of false hopes and roads that should never have been taken. In any event, I plan to take you to the end of the line, so to speak -- a veritable "journey to Karlsbad."

Indeed, I have been taking you on a journey for the past several weeks. A journey includes at least a going from place A to place B, or to put it in terms of one of Freud's favorite Jewish jokes, from here to Karlsbad. The relevant story (Freud called it "the constitution story") is worth recounting. It concerns a Schnorrer: "An impecunious Jew had stowed himself away without a ticket in the fast train to Karlsbad. He was caught, and each time tickets were inspected he was taken out of the train and treated more and more severely. At one of the stations on his via dolorosa he met an acquaintance, who asked him where he was traveling to. 'To Karlsbad,' was his reply, 'if my constitution can stand it.'"

I have recorded in these pages my pain, my grief, and my sorrow. No outsider can follow the winding, internal path that leads a man like myself from despair to discovery, but the sensation of hitting bottom can sometimes stimulate an artist to abandon old commitments, embrace new ideas, and finally, confront what must be said or acknowledged. By early 2003 I had hit rock bottom, as the following entries attest. The loneliness I experienced during the dark days memorialized in these pages was acute, my binges catastrophic, my relationships with the several librarians in my life reflections of my instability, rage and confusion. But it was also at this time (as you will witness in the pages below) that I discovered the power of friendship -- albeit of the imaginary kind.

The imagery of the following diary entries interconnect with that of the journey and include views and prospects, locomotion, ascents and descents to heights and depths, explorations, demonstrations, light and fire, darkness. They are all involved with the map of the world within and the world outside the mind -- with how the world outside is registered within. The metaphors are aspects of the journey that lead to insight and outlook.

The unit of my communications, as I experience it, is not the Collected Writings, which I may some day attempt to publish (Good Luck with that endeavor!); nor is it the individual volume, or the sequence or group within the volume; it is the single message. Every written communication of mine is autonomous, or feels so to me in the writing, and consists of an effort to exhaust my present sense of the subject. It is for this reason that a letter sometimes takes a bit of time to finish. No message of mine is ever undertaken as a technical experiment; the form, which it takes, whether conventional or innovating, develops naturally as the message develops, as part of the utterance. Nor do my letters ever begin as the statement of a fully grasped idea; I think inside my lines and the thought must get where it can -- along the journey to Karlsbad, as it were -- amongst the moods and sounds and gravitating particulars which are appearing there.

My letters develop like the psychoanalytic narrative of the patient resting, lying down, stretching out, reclining, or reposing on the analyst's couch. Utterance follows utterance, immune from the censorship of the analyst, who listens to the patient's confession with evenly-hovering attention. Patterns of thought and feeling emerge over time. The inevitable outcome is a delineation of the individual human comedy. With the termination of the analysis, one might say: "Comoedia finita est."

Freud's great work "The Interpretation of Dreams" has been described as a journey through a landscape. Leonard Shengold writes: "In my paper on Freud's use of metaphor I examined some implications of a few of the images that Freud intertwined with his central metaphoric plan in the dream book -- that plan being a journey through a landscape. I indicated what I feel is a crucial place in the journey of that book: a turning point at the beginning of chapter 7 ["a fresh start," one might say], where Freud changes direction to plunge into the depths of the wishes of the unconscious (a 'veritable hell' -- like Dante, Freud undertakes a cosmic exploration involving the mind and the universe). That turning point is marked by the dream of the burning child. The speech in that dream is, "Father, don't you see I'm burning?" The dream and therefore the dream question are not Freud's own, but they can be linked with the exhibitionistic urination of the child Freud in his parents' bedroom (which brought on his father's unforgettable comment 'That boy will come to nothing'), and with his own dream after the death of his father: 'You are requested to close the eyes'. Both dreams refer to sight, to the metaphor of sight as understanding: and both dreams are to be connected with the mature and measured assessment of Freud's achievement, addressed to the fathers of this world, to heed or ignore at their peril: 'Insight such as this comes to one's lot but once in a lifetime.' By 1931 the child's burning had been tempered to a cool glance backward at the white heat of inspiration that marked the years following the death of his father."

Check you out next week, buddy. Remember, when you glance backward, keep your eyes on oncoming traffic. As an ancient Greek king was destined to discover -- with tragic consequences -- the road can be a real killer. Always think ahead.

_________________________________________________________________________

The Diaries

[During the period June 2001 to August 2003 I believed that the resident manager of my apartment building, David Castleberry (2000 - 2003), used to enter my apartment surreptitiously each day. I used to leave him a handwritten message taped to the inside of the front door. I had begun that practice in mid-June 2001 and continued writing notes and taping them to the door until the summer of 2003, when David Castleberry quit. The messages were addressed to "Friend." I pretended that I didn't know it was David Castleberry who was reading the notes. It was my (paranoid) belief that David Castleberry reported back to attorney managers at Akin Gump the content of the message I left on the door each day. I further believed that Akin Gump's attorney managers then informed Brian Brown at the library of the content of the daily message.]

1-27-03 Did you see the Sunday NY Times Magazine article about George W. Bush? They say he makes Pres. Reagan look like a moderate. What they meant, but didn't say, was that George Bush makes Ronald Reagan look like a fag! You heard it here first! -- Like I said 12 years ago: New Key Rock!

[In the early 1970s, while running for Mayor of Philadelphia, then Police Commissioner Frank Rizzo said that he would make Attila the Hun look like a fag.]

1-28-03 Message for Mr. Castleberry [please transmit]. This is the right and prudent time to institute on-line direct payment of rent. With a war coming -- and all that entails, including homeland involvement such as terrorist attacks, germ/chem/radiological warfare -- people may not be able to transact business at their bank. With on-line rent payment, tenants won't even have to leave the building. Think about it. It's the patriotic thing to do. Talk it over with the WRIT home office. -- [hand drawn picture of the American flag, then the message:] God Bless Rent. In just a few months Washington could be a far different place from what it is at this moment. Different from anything we can now imagine -- Only the prepared will survive!

1-29-03 Ignacio, from the library is gone for good, I think. And he didn't even kiss me good-bye. What kind of person is he?

[Ignacio (last name?) worked at the circulation desk at the Cleveland Park Library.]

1-30-03 Last afternoon, at my psychologist's, we talked about Steve Routh, an attorney (partner) at Hogan & Hartson. Routh's wife (Linda Stein) had a baby boy Robert Martin Routh in January 1987. Routh had a degree from the London School of Economics. I wonder if Routh knew Glenn Fine, an economics major from Harvard (Routh was a Harvard grad). Routh and Fine worked in nearby offices, when Fine was a law clerk at H&H. I wonder if Routh knew that Fine was VERY SPECIAL. I knew that.

[Steve Routh clerked for DC Appeals Court Judge John M. Ferren, who heard my appeal, Freedman v. DC Department of Human Rights in the year 1994, which was dismissed for lack of jurisdiction. (I believe that Judge Ferren himself had once practiced at Hogan). Routh worked in the education practice group at Hogan; Routh was a member of a large team of attorneys, under Elliott Mincberg (now with "People for the American Way" -- a constitutional rights advocacy organization) and David Tatel, Esq. (now an associate judge on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the DC Circuit) who represented the Milwaukee, WI public school district in desegregation litigation. I worked with Routh on a document production task in late December 1986 to early January 1987. Routh was an idealist who named his first child, Robert Martin, for Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. I always wondered what a psychoanalyst would say about the Oedipal (or other) implications of naming one's son, a first child, for two persons who were murdered. Glenn Fine is now Inspector General of the United States. He was a Rhodes Scholar and a star basketball player as a Harvard undergrad; his law degree is from Harvard. Esquire magazine's December 2003 issue featured a one-page article on Fine (page 200): "Glenn Fine: The Conscience of the D.O.J."]

1-30-03 Richard Reid gives a whole new meaning to the phrase-- "He has his foot in the door."

[Richard Reid, the so-called "show bomber," was a terrorist who concealed explosives in his shoe.]

1-31-03 Here's another Hogan partner who may remember Glenn Fine from the time in 1985 that Fine worked as a law clerk at the firm -- George H. Mernick, III 637-5726. Mernick worked on the 2nd floor at 815 Conn Ave in fall 1985 -- near Nancy Kent (in accounting).

2-3-03 I'll tell you my one recollection of George Mernick. It was the final days at 815 Connecticut Avenue in early April 1987. The building management at 815 Conn Ave was already starting up its renovation for the new major tenant. There was drilling of the terrace outside the building. The drilling was very noisy. Somebody (apparently not with the firm) asked Mernick what was going on. Mernick said we were moving to a new building, the other party said: "A new building?" Mernick said "A brand-new building!" -- Thus spoke George Mernick in April 1987.

[Hogan & Hartson moved to Columbia Square (555 13th Street, NW) in April 1987. One of the tenants at 815 Connecticut Avenue was Clark Clifford, Esq., former Secretary of Defense and a friend of Robert Strauss. Clifford's law partner was Robert Altman, Esq.]

2-4-03 Today's Birthdays: Stanley R. Palombo, MD (69) / Daniel D. Cutler (40). -- The above is the most persuasive evidence against the validity of astrology!

[Stanley R. Palombo, MD, was my treating psychiatrist in the year 1990. I worked with Cutler at Hogan & Hartson; he later went to law school (Seton Hall in New Jersey).]

2-5-03 Yesterday David Grady gave me a testy look when he saw me. Is it just coincidence that Grady is a Hogan attorney & I've been communicating with you recently about Hogan attorneys -- such as Steve Routh and George Mernick? That's a case in point about why I can't practice law. The jealousy is so EXTREME.

[David Grady, Esq. has been a tenant at 3801 Connecticut Avenue since at least 1990.

A preoccupation with envy or jealousy is a diagnostic criterion of a narcissistic personality disorder (NPD). My current treating psychologist, Israella Bash, Ph.D., denies that I suffer from NPD.]

2-6-03 Like I told my psychologist yesterday-- I felt that Brian at the library was reacting to something that made him jealous. He was having a quiet "tantrum" -- Brian that is. What was Brian reacting to? I think Brian is just a jealous M-F'er. -- Then Dr. Shaffer [my psychologist] said she's getting cut from the system. That the city's no longer going to provide psychological services. What am I going to do? I'm just a helpless psychotic. I'll have to go elsewhere.

[The term "M-F'er" might be an Oedipal allusion.]

2-7-03 / 2-10-03 I've been so depressed since I heard that I'm losing my psychologist. I stayed in bed (more or less) all weekend (Fri-Sun) just sleeping and staring into space in a stupor. This is bad. The District has been systematically dismantling the mental health system. All that's left is psychiatrists to prescribe meds. It's inhuman. It's going to take me some time to get past this.

2-11-03 I'm still depressed about the mental health situation here in the District. What I'm thinking about is contacting some high-ranking official, and ask if I can become his pen-pal. That should get some attention.

2-12-03 Here's the name of Sid Dorfman's predecessor at The Franklin Institute: Castle Freeman. Freeman left in about 1972. He and I had no contact. Freeman can give insight into the culture of the Institute at that time. -- You know, I could die in a terror attack at any time. I want you to know it's been good knowing you.

[I worked with coworker and friend Sid Dorfman at The Franklin Institute in Philadelphia. Dorfman obtained a B.S. in biology at Temple University in 1970. We attended the same high school.]

2-13-03 I've mentioned this before-- But you need a civil defense plan. Duck tape, duck tape, duck tape. As far as I see there's no plan at all. It's each tenant for himself. What is wrong with you people?

2-14-03 Later, dude.

2-17-03 / 2-18-03 / 2-19-03 I'm starting with a new psychologist -- Meghana Tembe at GW's Center for Professional Psychology -- a new beginning. -- Did you survive the storm? --

FREEDMAN: I'm coming back to GW!

DR. WIENER: Over my dead body!!

[Jerry M. Wiener, MD, was the chairman of the psychiatry department at GW, where I was in treatment from September 1992 to June 1996. Dr. Wiener died in early September 2001.]

2-20-03 I think that Mr. Pius and Mr. Doug did an outstanding job with the snow. They selflessly battled the elements during and after the storm of the century, all for the greater good of the residents. I recommend that those fine men be given a bonus of $50 each. Remember, a storm like this is a once-in-a-century occurrence.

[Doug and Pius were the building engineers at 3801 Connecticut Avenue, my residence.]

2-21-03 Message for Brian-- Please get the "A-Drive" fixed on the computer. Sure, it was cute in the beginning -- humorous, even -- but now it's just plain annoying. And I'm getting really p.o.'d. Get the damn thing fixed, Brian.

2-24-02 I had my first session with my new psychologist at GW on Friday (2-21-03) -- Meghana Tembe. She's good, if you can get through her accent -- She's from India. You can call her at the clinic (202) 887-0775. -- By the way, if I run into financial problems, I'm thinking I could move in with Brian -- I could be his butler -- Put his clothes out for him, run his bath, get him his coffee, arrange secret trysts with babes!

[Note that the very first reference to a friendship with Brian Brown (in the guise of a professional relationship) seems to be a negation of my relationship with my new psychologist, Meghana Tembe. Arguably, from the outset, my fantasies of closeness to Brian were a reaction to a relationship with a psychologist who I did not like at first sight.]

2-25-03 I have my second assessment session this morning with my new psychologist at GW. Meghana Tembe. I can't tell you how many evaluations and assessments I've gotten in my life. -- Brian hasn't voiced any interest in my becoming his butler. I'd be willing to do his wife. In fact. I could sleep with his wife, and Brian could sleep in the servants quarters. It's Oedipal.

2-26-03 Message for Brian -- Listen, Brian -- I was over at the West End Branch of the library system yesterday. That place was like a real library -- no chatting librarians, no noise, no librarians talking about their wive's first homosexual husband. I'm sorry to say it, but, you can't run a library. Cleveland Park is run like a social club. Moreover-- they have four computers over there, and you don't have to be hunched over to use them. They have privacy screens right on the computers. What's up with that?

[William Dacosta's wife, Debra (also a DC librarian), was previously married to a homosexual. Dacosta himself is a medicated bi-polar psychotic who takes lithium and Risperdal to control delusions and hallucinations. Isn't it odd that a patron should know all that by simply sitting in the library? On one occasion Dacosta permitted a patron to talk to him (in a loud, disruptive voice) about masturbation and fellatio. William Dacosta is Brian Brown's only male colleague.]

2-27-03 Did you catch Doug Feith last night on the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather? He's the Under Secretary of Defense. Douglas Feith -- Central High School, 230th class, 1971. Do you think Dan knew that?

2-28-03 / 3-3-03 Message for Brian. Brian-- would you sleep with me? It's not sexual. It's a Michael Jackson thing. Sure it might generate a lot of gossip. But, you know, let people talk!

3-4-03 It's almost 24 years to the day in March 1979 when Malcolm Lassman and Larry Hoffman snagged that giant fish and had it mounted in the lunch room at Akin Gump. An amazing catch.

[The lunch room at Akin Gump features a gag "fish" made of metal, with a plaque that indicates the date in March 1979 that Malcolm Lassman and Lawrence Hoffman caught it.]

3-5-03 Message for Brian-- What do you do on Mondays, Brian, now that the libraries are closed? You know, I was thinking we could make Monday "our day" Brian. We could hang out, go places, do things. We could be buddies Brian -- and Mondays could be "our day." I'm thinking, in the summer, we could head up to Baltimore and take in a ball game and have a hot dog or two. What do you say? Sounds good, huh? You need a friend, Brian. You spend too much time at the library. You need a buddy who'll show you how to live a little. That's me, buddy! Call me (202) 362-7064. I'll be waiting.

3-6-03 / 3-7-03 I had my last session with my psychologist, Dr. Shaffer, on Wed 3-5-02. Onward and upward to GW I go!

3-10-03 / 3-11-03 I think the DC Gov't is screwed-up. My mental health clinic pharmacy ran out of my sleep medication early last week (a common med) and still hasn't received its order. I was given the old standby this morning (3-10) on the telephone: "Could you call back tomorrow?" -- You know, it's the Jews who are behind this!

[The reference to anti-Semitism alludes to Congressman Jim Moran's allegation that it was primarily the Jews who were in favor of going to war with Iraq.]

3-12-03 I just got a letter from Social Security saying they're reviewing my case. I got a big case of the "war jitters" -- What will the outcome be? I could lose this thing -- or win it in a matter of weeks. -- Message for Jim Moran-- I didn't know Tony Blair was Jewish.

3-13-03 Things are quiet at the library. Brian is on vacation to the 19th of March. I still have war countdown jitters.

[Note the connection between the subject matter of the message on 3-12 (war) and the reference to the "quiet" at the library: a possible association to the war novel "All Quiet on the Western Front." I read the novel in ninth-grade English class in high school. (See message dated 3/14).

3-14-03 Slow news day. Beware the Ides of March, which is coming up.

[The Ides of March is an apparent association to "Julius Caesar," a Shakespeare play I read in ninth-grade English class.]

3-17-03 I've got the war jitters really bad. I can't tell you how nervous I am about this. What is that expression Americans use? "The shit is being frightened from my anus?"

3-18-03 / 3-19-03 BUY BONDS TODAY! WAR! As you can see I'm stocking up on supplies. This is only the beginning of a massive stockpile to insure my ability to last out a major siege of Washington. I plan to survive this thing. Now, what about direct payment of rent online. Remember -- only the prepared will survive.

3-20 / 3-21-03 / 3-24-03 The Iraqi Ambassador to the United Nations -- Mohammed Al-Doury -- is in violation of the No-Comb Zone. Did you see that guy? He's bald, but he has one of those "comb-over jobs."

3-25-03 SHOCK AND AWE.

SADDAM HUSSEIN: I have seen it all. You can't shock me, you can't even annoy me. --

I'm lovin' the new exercise room-- Thank you, WRIT!

["WRIT" is the Washington Real Estate Investment Trust.]

3-26-03 Tell you what I really like in the new exercise room is the "natural runner" machine. You get a good aerobic workout-- and it's very low impact. Good choice of machinery! [Cut out from magazine article referring to Bob Strauss and his wife:] "All Bob would have to say was 'It would be nice if I had a newspaper.' It would be midnight [and] Helen would run out to get a newspaper."

[If I could have found a wife like that, I'd have gotten married years ago.]

3-27-03 / 3-28-03 David Bloom-- You put the "B" in NBC.

[David Bloom was an NBC reporter who was killed several weeks later, covering the war in Iraq.]

3-31-03 IN MEMORY OF THE FALLEN

IGNACIO (Hot Latino)
DEBRA (Ghetto Fabulous)
TERRI (Ebony Hottie)
BREW SNYDER (Wittiest)
LYNNE BOZE (Best Southern Accent)
RONNIE (Least Vulnerable)
MR. PEOPLES (Biggest)

R. I. P.
e n e
a a
d c
e


[Refers to former library staff persons. I believed that all of the named persons knew about Brian Brown's communications with Akin Gump managers. Bruce Snyder replaced Lynne Boze as one of the librarians in about 1992. Ronnie was the children's librarian. Mr. Peoples was the custodian who preceded Alex Chandler. Terri and Debra worked at the circulation desk.]

4-1-03 I have a feeling your contacts have already contacted Richard & Bonnie Moses, so I won't bother giving you background facts on those people.

[Richard Moses, D.O., a gastroenterologist with a law degree from Temple University Law School, was in my graduating class in high school, Central High School, 230th class, 1971. His wife, Bonnie, is a lawyer who worked for Leonard Sagot Associates, and may have known Jeffrey Orchinik, Esq., who used to practice at Sagot & Jennings.

Inserted at this point is a solicitation from The Central High School Capital and Endowment Campaign: an invitation by Judge Lawrence S. Margolis (Central High School, 199th class) for Cocktails and Conversation on April 8, 2003 at The United States Court of Federal Claims, Washington. Judge Margolis' chambers is (202) 219 9581.]

4-2-03 Brian -- Psy-Ops. I hope you understand I've just been fucking with your head -- nothing more. It's all good, clean fun.

4-3-03 Anyway, like I was saying -- on Tuesday, 4-1-03, I was walking along 23rd Street, and I saw Jim Stewart of CBS-NEWS. He saw me, gazed at me, I looked away -- turned to him -- and he was still looking at me. I was sure he recognized me. But how? He was carrying a "carryout" lunch -- a few steps away from the CBS studio on 23rd Street. I'm Famous!

[The phrase "Anyway, like I was saying" suggests to me that I had already begun to leave messages to Brian Brown on the library's public access computer hard drive by this date, and that I was continuing a message that I had begun at the library.]

4-4-03 Here's a flash from the past: MARCIA CHASE. She worked at The Franklin Institute in Philadelphia in the early 70s. I and some other folks had lunch over at her apartment in (I think) the summer of 1972. Marcia Chase made gazpacho. She worked with Barbara Van Horne. They worked for Joe Pitts. Those were the days! I was 18 years old and moving up in the world (briefly).

4-4-03 BONUS Elizabeth Joyce is always going on about the British -- the defenders of liberty! I notice she never talks about the Queen's uncle -- he was a Nazi sympathizer. Actually, I'm a lot like the Duke of Windsor, myself, except for the money, the sex, and the Nazi connections.

[Elizabeth Joyce used to work at the front desk at 3801 Connecticut Avenue. She retired in the summer of 2003, after about 17 years at the building. I thought that she knew all about the invasions of my privacy by Elaine Wranik and David Castleberry. I also think she knew all about my difficulties at Akin Gump.]

4-07-03 / 4-8-03 So much for Bob Simon's advice on surviving in Iraq!

[Refers to the death of NBC-News reporter David Bloom in Iraq. Simon, a CBS-News reporter -- who was captured by Iraqis during the Persian Gulf War in 1991 -- had written that there was one sure way to survive in Iraq: "Just keep your eyes and your balls covered." In 1991 Simon and his news crew had been captured along a desert road in war-torn Iraq, and held captive by Saddam loyalists for forty days.

Excursus: It was in a trifurcation of the road, where Oedipus "had killed the old man who had tried to thrust him out of the path -- the old man who has turned out to be his father, Laius: 'For now I am found evil and of evil birth. O ye three roads, and thou secret glen -- thou coppice and narrow way where three paths met -- Ye who drank from my hands that father's blood which was my own, -- remember ye, perchance, what deeds I wrought for you to see, -- and then, when I came hither, what fresh deeds I went on to do?' Karl Abraham held the trifurcation of the road as the symbol of the maternal genitals, the place of traffic with the father and the son. (This interpretation is certainly reinforced by the words 'secret glen' and 'coppice and narrow way.') In the speech, the mother's genitals become charged with oral-sadistic libido and drink blood. The 'place where three paths meet' is called on to witness the past, 'the deeds I wrought for you to see.' This is after Oedipus has destroyed his own sight, has symbolically castrated himself. (Eyes are related to testicles symbolically and etymologically -- note the German Eier (egg) [compare message at 5-15-03, below, that refers to eggs] and Auge (eye) -- and testicles literally means 'little witnesses.') I have stated that part of soul murder is the consequences of seduced children taking on the guilt of the seducing parent. By assuming the adult's lies and denial, the children renounce their own ability to see what is and has been. They cease being reliable witnesses to the past and to present repetitions of the past." Shengold, L. "Soul Murder: The Effects of Childhood Abuse and Deprivation" at 48 (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1989).]

4-9-03 Brian-- Pick a day -- and order the tickets. How about June 30 -- Orioles/Yankees. Just you & me, buddy! [Attached is the Baltimore Orioles Camden Yards Home Game Schedule (2003).]

4-11-03

GEORGE BUSH: Hello, Madame.

SADDAM HUSSEIN: Madame? What are you calling me Madame for?

GEORGE BUSH: Those are ladies glasses.

SADDAM HUSSEIN: Ladies glasses?

GEORGE BUSH: Sure, says right here, "Gloria Vanderbilt Collection."

SADDAM HUSSEIN: That son of a bitch sold me ladies glasses!

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode. Saddam Hussein had appeared on television with large-framed glasses, a rare sight. Note the connection between this note and the preceding one dated 4/7 ("Just keep your eyes and your balls covered") as well as the note on 4-9 ("Take me out to the 'ball game'")]

4-11-03 THE BAGHDAD CAFE

SADDAM HUSSEIN: I gotta get out of this city!

GEORGE BUSH: So, you're tunneling to the center of the earth?

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode.]

4-14-03 Could you tell Mr. Castleberry that it's about time to start thinking about putting the summer furniture up on the roof. We're heading for some warm, summer-like days. -- Also, speaking of the roof -- on Saturday (4-12) at about 5:30 PM, somebody was barbecuing on a grill on the roof. Can you do that? Isn't that a fire hazard? Hot coals and all that.

4-15-03 MESSAGE FOR SYRIA

GEORGE BUSH: We demilitarize countries the old-fashioned way -- One regime at a time.

4-16-03 As you know, 3883 Connecticut Avenue, across the way. is now renting to tenants. The apartment directly across from my apartment -- the first terrace above the tool shed -- has been rented to a good-looking young guy. He comes out onto the terrace from time to time, to smoke a cigarette. Maybe you could induct him into providing covert information about me to you. He frequently looks across to my apartment and sees me. (I've been behaving -- no nudity and no masturbating in front of my neighbor across the way).

[Note that the message on 4/14 refers to a smoking barbecue; the message on 4/16 refers to a smoking tenant.]

4-17-03 Tell you who I think about from time to time -- "Ari" -- (not Ari Fleischer) -- He used to be a tenant in the building. Elizabeth Joyce will remember him. He looked like a fine young man -- A young man with character. I had identified him as someone who was probably going places in life. Now, several years later, I wonder what he's doing -- whether he has fulfilled his "early promise." Tell him to give me a call if you talk to him.

[Note that the messages on 4/16 and 4/17 both concern the issue of tenancy. In the message on 4/16 I refer to the issue of "being peered at" and in the message on 4/17 I refer to the act of "peering at" a tenant.]

4-17-03 Message for Malcolm Lassman: This is the 12th Passover you've ruined for me! When will the insanity end?

4-18-03 Happy Easter to my Christian friends. -- Did you talk to Ari? Is he on a safari?

4-21-03 TO TELL THE TRUTH

KITTY CARLISLE: I think Saddam No. 3 is the real Saddam. He's the only contestant who knew about the 60% discount at J&T Optical.

SADDAM NO. 3: Retail is for suckers!

[The message is a parody of a Seinfeld episode.]

4-22-03 Message for Condaleeza Rice -- In a novel titled "The Cobra Event" published in 1997 (6 years ago) (a book about germ warfare), Richard Preston writes that the French Unscom inspectors weren't interested in finding any WMD in Iraq -- that the inspectors were ordered by the French Gov't not to find anything in Iraq -- That was six years ago! See p. 115.

[The French were supposedly opposed to war with Iraq because of their commercial interests in Iraq. The previous message (4/21) refers to concealing the truth and commercial interests at a retail level.]

4-23-03 If you're wondering where all this paper comes from, a tenant, Mike Epstein, threw it away. It's all "Star Wars" crap. I thought that kid Epstein was a nut-job. -- By the way, today is Shakespeare's birthday (and the anniversary of his death -- He died on his birthday).

[Epstein was a tenant in apartment 108. He was a graduate of Utica College, I believe.]

4-24-03 Jonathan Belmont, MD, -- graduated first in his class at my high school -- Central High School, 230th class, 1971. Smart guy. He's signed up for classmates.com -- so he's obviously willing to talk. He can give you the inside dope on another class star, Doug Feith -- Now Undersecretary of Defense. By the way, in the class yearbook, Feith was elected "Honorary Faculty Member" -- He hasn't changed.

[Belmont is an ophthalmologist. Once again, a reference to the eyes. Incidentally, Belmont was sports editor on the school newspaper. (Eyes = balls = baseball? See messages for 4/7, 4/9, and 4/11).]

4-25-03 Sheldon Kanfer graduated third in my high school class (230th class, 1971). Smart guy. He was in the school orchestra; I think he played the flute. He can give you the inside dope on Douglas Feith, Undersect'y of Defense in the Bush Administration. The Internet lists Kanfer as a donor to the Columbus (Ohio?) Symphony Orchestra.

4-28-03 4-29-03 I've got something big planned for you for next week. It's going to be stupendous -- but you'll have to wait.

4-30-03 Stephen I. Kasloff, Esq. Central High School, 228th Class (1969). He was two years ahead of me in high school. He didn't know me, but we attended the same elementary school (Rowan Elem Sch). When he was in the 6th grade, I was in the 4th grade. I remember him because we were both library volunteers in elementary school -- under Mrs. Mary Stevens, a teacher. Kasloff was on the Bd of Managers of the CHS Alumni Association.

4-30-03 BONUS Did you check into Santo Diano, my 10th grade geometry teacher? (and homeroom teacher). He was a graduate of Central High School and was an alumnus, served as the school archivist.

5-1-03 Yesterday, Mrs. Joyce said to me, "Hello Gary, how are you?" -- Well, I didn't want to cause a row, but it's not appropriate. The downstairs staff should not be addressing me directly. After all, how does Mrs. Joyce know that I am not a peer, in which case I would be addressed as "Lord Freedman." I'm not a peer, but Mrs. Joyce doesn't know that. The bottom line is you need to remind staff of protocol. Long live the empire!

[Elizabeth Joyce was the front desk person at 3801 Connecticut Avenue. She was from London, England.

Note that the word "Peer" (an English lord) has a double meaning; it also means "to look at," or peer at.

Note that the Upstairs/Downstairs dichotomy in the message on 5/1 parallels the respective messages at 4/11 ("tunneling to the center of the Earth) and 4/14 ("going up to the roof"). The reference to "Lords" (persons of elevated status) and "downstairs staff" (persons of debased status) might allude to a family romance fantasy. (See message below, dated 5-5-03).]

5-2-03 Have a good weekend. I might get together with Brian, if he gives me a call.

5-5-03 / 5-6-03 [Message appended to a picture of a farmer holding a hoe. Background depicts a farm house, windmill, and silos.] I'm a sheep-fucker, and my grandson is a librarian. We've moved up over the generations!

[Refers to Brian Brown, whose grandfather lived in Montana. The term "sheep-fucker" might be an allusion to Sophocles' Oedipus. Oedipus, the son of a king, was banished from Thebes in infancy and raised by a lowly shepherd.

According to Dorothy Burlingham the fantasy of having a twin sibling is a latency fantasy, Oedipal in origin, in which the child imagines that he has a twin sibling who will provide narcissistic mirroring and thereby propitiate the loneliness engendered by the child's Oedipal rage and associated annihilation anxiety. Burlingham, D. "The Fantasy of Having a Twin." The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, volume I. (See message below, dated 5-7-03).]

5-7-03 Brian, buddy, I like you. Why won't you be my friend? I feel so sad and alone.

[My first meeting with Israella Bash, Ph.D. occurred on about May 2, 2003. At this time the only human contacts I had were with three female mental health professionals whom I disliked: Dr. Bash, Dr. Cooper (my psychiatrist), and Meghana Tembe (my psychotherapist at GW).]

5-8-03 Somebody to look into: Leonard Goldstein, MD. Classmates.com. Central High School 1971 (230th class). I have a funny anecdote about Goldstein. In 10th grade, the hygiene teacher was talking about the evils of masturbation, cautioning students not to engage in such activity. I was sitting next to Goldstein. Apparently, Goldstein didn't know what the word meant -- he started leafing through his dictionary trying to find out what masturbation was. Jerry Seinfeld said he didn't find out till he was in college. Maybe I was precocious.

[Goldstein was in my graduating class at Penn State, May 1975. He was a pre-med major.]

5-9-03 Happy Birthday, Bonnie Jensen! I didn't get you a gift, Bonnie, but remember, Life is a gift!

[Jensen is the assistant manager at 3801 Connecticut Avenue, my residence.]

5-12-03 / 5-13-03 Somebody to look into: Scott Nunamaker. Central High School, 230th Class, 1971. Supersmart. Was in Ming the Merciless's English Class in the ninth grade -- 67-68 sch year. I don't know anything else about him.

[My ninth-grade English teacher, Elliott Cades, known by students as "Ming the Merciless," was a very demanding teacher. He was a graduate of Central High School himself, and had taught there at least since the 1930s. He had a law degree. Perhaps he vented his frustrations in life on his students. He was unmarried, and died at age 83 in the year 1986.]

5-14-03 Here's the inside dope on Bill Einhorn, Esq. -- The great and glorious Bill Einhorn. (Central High School, 230th class, 1971.) He was not one of the super smart kids in high school. He made Barnwell, but he wasn't scholastic (and he wasn't involved in any athletics). In the immortal words of Lloyd Bentsen -- "You're no Jeff Orchinik" (Orchinik was brilliant).

[Einhorn, a graduate of Temple Law School, practiced at the Philadelphia firm of Sagot & Jennings at the time I clerked there (1981-1982). The Barnwell Award is an academic honor at Central High School. Einhorn's father owned a fruit/produce/fish market on Stenton Avenue, in Philadelphia.]

5-15-03 Mrs. Joyce needs to lose some weight. Those extra pounds are not good for her health. I've been following the following diet -- and I've lost about 10 pounds. It's high protein -- low carbohydrate. -- Spinach (10 oz.) -- a little bit of cheese for a snack -- omelet (main evening meal) [compare message at 4-7-03, above, that refers to eggs] -- skim milk (for snack in evening). No bread! No potatoes! No rice!

5-16-03 The crazies were out last night! I must have gotten about 5 to 6 bizarre telephone calls last night.

5-19-03 / 5-20-03 Michael Morrison, MD. Central High School, 230th Class, 1971. According to the most recent alumni newsletter Morrison made a financial contribution to the Central High School "General Fund" -- Super bright kid -- Didn't know him.

5-21-03 Mr. Pius or Mr. Douglas -- Thank you for changing my air filter.

5-23-03 Have a safe and enjoyable holiday weekend -- and I'll see you Tuesday!

5-27-03 If you're looking for the "story behind the story" on Ming the Merciless, contact Dr. Norman S. Knee, Central High School, 186th class. [Attached is blurb on Dr. Knee, DO, FACOFP, who sent the alumni bulletin "a fascinating story of a series of memorable contacts with teacher Elliot Cades (who he referred to as 'Ming the Merciless'), during Knee's stay at Central, during his service in the United States Army of Occupation in Japan, and the aftermath of those experiences."]

5-27-03 THE ROAD MAP

BIBI NETANYAHU: What about the terrorism, the violence, the settlements, the refugee problem?

THE PRIME MINISTER: I propose that for the moment we place all these questions aside, and pursue our way further along one particular path.

[Refers to the Middle-East conflict. Note Dr. Shengold's observation that the metaphors that interconnect with that of the journey are all involved with the "map of the world" within and the world outside the mind. The line attributed to "The Prime Minister" (above) is, in fact, a quote from Freud's "Interpretation of Dreams."]

5-28-03 I'll tell you who I think is a weirdo-- Stanley Schmulewitz. He works out in the exercise room in his street clothes. Isn't that against the rules. Gives you an idea of the mentality of the tenants association as a whole!

[Schmulewitz, who has lived at 3801 Connecticut Avenue for the last 35 years, used to be president of the tenants' association.]

5-29-03 Did you see Mr. Pius' new car? Beautiful. I keep checking it out -- The design, the color -- tres cool!

5-30-03 Here's another item I picked up from my high school alumni bulletin-- The current rabbi and immediate past president of Jewish Congregation Beth El in Bethesda are graduates of my high school (Central High School in Philadelphia).6-2-03 / 6-3-03 After all these years we find out that Richard Chamberlain is homosexual. Right. Big surprise! Do you remember, back in 1992 when Aaron Ezekiel told Malcolm about how he tore up my "Dr. Kildare" collectible cards [in the fourth grade]? I know all & see all!

[Ezekiel and I were friends in elementary school. I mentioned Ezekiel in a letter I sent to my sister in 1992. I believe Akin Gump managers contacted Ezekiel.]

6-4-03 WMD

BABU BAAT: You said there were weapons of mass destruction. But there ARE no weapons of mass destruction. Where are the weapons of mass destruction?

PRESIDENT BUSH: The wheels are in motion, Babu. The wheels are in motion even as we speak.

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode.]

6-4-03 BONUS Could you tell Mr. Castleberry-- What I heard -- I heard Msairi talking about his undergoing diagnostic tests for cancer. It could be serious.

[Msairi used to be a front-desk employee at 3801 Connecticut Avenue.]

6-5-03 Check this out. The front inner courtyard of 3801 -- you know, where the entrance is -- if you look at the south side of the building, a tenant on the sixth floor has a lot of crap in the window -- multicolored junk. It reminds me of when I was a kid. I would put things in the window of our house. My father would say: "Get that crap out of the window. It looks like a shit-house from outside!"

6-6-03 Bonny Jensen's life is like a country-western song. When she filed for divorce her husband said: "I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden."

[I had overheard Bonnie Jensen talking about her marital difficulties that led to her divorce. Her husband objected to her hobby of gardening.]

6-9-03 / 6-10-03 Yesterday (6-8) I saw Ben Wattenberg in the Giant Supermarket. What happened to his TV show "Think Tank?" Did it get tanked? -- 6-10 / Strauss' birthday. 139 years old today.

[Refers to the composer Richard Strauss, who was born June 10, 1864.

Wattenberg -- who lives off Connecticut Avenue in DC's Van Ness area -- is a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.]

6-11-03 Did you know that Bill Cosby and I are good friends? That's right. I call him Bill, and he calls me Gary. We've been on a first name basis or years. [Cosby (204th class) and I attended the same high school in Philadelphia. Attached is form letter from Cosby addressed "Dear Gary," soliciting financial contributions to Central High School's capital improvements campaign.]

6-12-03 I'm in a deep funk. I'm just going through the motions of being alive. Things don't interest me anymore. I don't listen to music much anymore. Is this what they call depression? My friends don't call anymore. I guess I'm no fun to be around.

6-13-03 / 6-16-03 / 6-17-03 Happy Friday the 13th. You should wear garlic around your head for good luck. Enjoy the long day light while you can. Have a good weekend! Library is closed today. How will Brian get on w/o me?

6-18-03 Sorry. Got a hot date with Ms. Amos at the welfare office [concerning food stamp recertification].

[Note that the letters have become brief and uninformative, unlike the earlier messages. By April 2003 I had begun writing daily letters to Brian Brown at the library (and saving them to the computer hard drive), a medium of communication that had replaced, in large part, my letter writing to David Castleberry.]

6-19-03 Idea of reference on 6-17-03. Tues afternoon I added material to my autobiography on the computer at the West End Branch of the library. The material concerned the [recently-decided] Charles Sell Supreme Court case, which concerned anti-psychotic meds. Later in the afternoon Velvel [at the Cleveland Park Library] started talking about "Zorba the Greek," which I saw as a reference to Dr. Georgopoulos [my former treating psychiatrist at GW], who used to recommend I take meds.

[The U.S. Supreme Court opinion in the Sell case quotes expert testimony to the effect that anti-psychotic medication is very rarely effective in treating delusional disorder. My diagnosis is delusional disorder.]

6-20-03 / 6-23-03 / 6-24-03 Has David Castleberry ever thought of using my services at the front desk? -- Maybe the pressure would be too much for me. I don't know.

6-25-03 3801 was featured briefly on a TV news story last night on WRC-TV (Ch. 4) about emergency preparedness re: terrorist attacks. One of our tenants was asked if we have evacuation plans. The tenant basically said, "Da?" I talked to you about this before. We need civil defense preparedness. That's more important than a new lobby, don't you think? -- Dead tenants don't pay rent -- do they? We need to encase 3801 in lead to ward off radiation!

[Management remodeled the lobby beginning in the fall of 2003.]

6-26-03 How do you like my "new" Chinese chochkas? I picked them up in the trash room. You can pick up a lot of good stuff in people's trash - computers, picture frames, scrap paper -- an endless variety, really.

6-27-03 FYI -- HUNKY TONY

STEPHEN BREYER: I must confess that I was born heterosexual, but I sign on to the homosexual agenda now and then.

[Refers to a recent U.S. Supreme Court opinion in which Justice Antonin Scalia referred disparagingly to "the homosexual agenda."]

6-30-03 / 7-1-03 A few days ago I heard David Castleberry talking to Elizabeth Joyce about capital improvements. What about a pool? Yes! A big Olympic-sized pool for tenants. 3883 Connecticut has a pool and the tenants are loving it!

7-2-03 I was going to go to the party, but I decided against it. I'm basically a monarchist. This whole American independence thing was a bad idea. -- God Save the Queen!

[Refers to a July 4th party at 3801.]

7-3-03 Did you talk to Judy Glassie about installing a swimming pool, here at 3801 (using the capital improvements budget)? I think tenants would enjoy that more than sliding doors [at the front entrance]. -- I was thinking -- Isn't there any job I could do around the building? What about emptying the trash rooms every day at, say $5/day ($35/week). I think I could handle that. Plus I'd get first dibs on the "good" trash. -- Happy Fourth of July. See you Monday 7.7.03.

[undated] 3801 Masturbation Policy. It may not be done in common areas. This may only be done in your apartments.

[Parody of the new "smoking policy" which was posted in the building.]

7-6-03 BONUS -- LATEST THINKING AT THE WHITE HOUSE

PRESIDENT: What do we do about the growing numbers of unemployed?

SECRETARY OF STATE: We could ship 'em off to Iraq--

NASA ADMINISTRATOR: We could put them in the space shuttle program.

ATTORNEY GENERAL: I say we execute 'em all.

PRESIDENT: (aside to Treasury Secretary): How many billions more do we have to give away in tax cuts? This fiscal policy is hard work!

7-7-03 BONUS This is the 3-month anniversary of the death of my friend David Bloom.

7-7-03 / 7-8-03 Saturday afternoon (7-5-03) I learned about a dark, ugly side to Dr. Sack. He forgot about his 4:00 PM appointment. The poor patient had to wait in his waiting room -- You know how hot that was? She had to sit there with the door open, with her husband. They were helpless pawns of the powerful Dr. Sack. At one point the lady stood up and said-- "I think he stood us up." It was tragic heart-rending - and it exhibited a streak of callousness and indifference in Dr. Lawrence C. Sack that heretofore I did not know existed! ! Shame, shame, shame, Dr. Sack!

7-9-03 I got a notice from Social Security that they're not even going to bother doing their regular 3-year review, based on the preliminary information I gave them. Apparently, they can see I'm very, very sick!

[Attached is SSA Notice dated July 8, 2003.]

7-10-03 My psychologist has been on vacation the last two weeks. My mental state is deteriorating. Maybe I should get together with my friends.

[The psychologist took several vacations during my therapy with her, which spanned the period 2/03 to 5/04. She took off the entire month of December 2003 plus the first two weeks of January 2004. When I complained to my psychiatrist, Dr. Cooper replied: "Your therapist is not allowed to take vacations?"]

7-11-03 Nothing to report. Not much chance of going to the All-Star game with my buddy Brian. It's HIS loss! I PITY Brian!

7-14-03 / 7-15-03 Ten years ago today, my girlfriend dumped me! How can I ever enjoy Bastille Day? How can I ever be with another fraulein?

[Refers to my friend Craig W. Dye. We spoke for the last time, by telephone, on July 13, 1993.]

7-16-03 ELLEN DOES THE SHANGHAI MAFIA

FREEDMAN: Well, Jeffrey, did you talk to Ellen about resigning from the Court? Tell you what, there's an extra $50 bucks in it for you if she does.

ELLEN: Don't tell me later that there was something extra I was supposed to do like renounce my citizenship and disown my first born child.

FREEDMAN: No, no. Just resign from the Court and sign a contingency-fee agreement.

ELLEN: I'm doin' it!

[Parody of a Seinfeld episode, "The Chinese Restaurant." Note the phrase: "disown my first born child," a possible allusion to Sophocles' play, "Oedipus Rex." Oedipus' father, Laius, disowned the infant Oedipus. Compare the message on 1-30-03 that referred to the first born child of Steve Routh, a Hogan & Hartson attorney. The phrase "renounce my citizenship" might be an allusion to the punishment imposed on Oedipus; he was forced into exile from Thebes.]

7-17-03 For my friends at the Gump. -- Think of this as a terrorist attack in very, very slow motion: Only nobody dies, they just end up getting disbarred!

7-18-03 Happy 97th birthday to Clifford Odets -- By the way, how are Walt and Nora. -- Good to see Luise Rainer on the Oscars this year.

[Odets was a playwright, whose children were named Walt and Nora. Odets was married to the Oscar-winning actress, Luise Rainer. Odets was born in the same year as my father: 1906. My father had been a close friend of Odets' cousin, Benny Rossman.]

7-21-03 / 7-22-03 I heard that 20-year tenants get a $500 bonus. -- August 2003 will be my 20th anniversary here at the beautiful 3801 -- Please make my bonus check payable to "Gary Freedman."

[Message is a joke.]

7-23-03 Last night I was thinking about the sorry end for those two partners in crime -- I thought: "It's like a Greek tragedy, only they're not Greek and it's not particularly tragic." I don't know what nationality Race and Hoffman are!

[Refers to two management partners (Dennis M. Race and Lawrence J. Hoffman) at Akin Gump. Note the implied allusion to Sophocles' play "Oedipus Rex," a Greek tragedy. Also, note that the reference to Race's nationality seems to allude to the record on appeal in Freedman v. D.C. Dept. of Human Rights: "At this point Malcolm Lassman turned to Dennis Race and said, 'Dennis, you're not Jewish. Jews don't eat pork'" (see message below, 7-24).

7-24-03 I signed up for food-stamp recertification last week. I'm hoping they will increase my benefit. I gotta talk to Glickman -- Hey, Glickman! -- There needs to be a kosher premium for food stamp recipients who eat kosher. That kosher crap costs like 20% more they treyf. I think the current program violates my 1st Amendment rights!

[Refers to Dan Glickman, former Secretary of Agriculture in the Clinton Administration, and, as of 2003, a lawyer at Akin Gump. The word "treyf" means "non-kosher."]

7-25-03 I'm getting inappropriate pressure to return to work from Dr. Bash. I'm beginning to identify more and more with John Hinckley!

[Refers to the fact that the government has consistently fought to preserve Hinckley's status as a ward of the state; while I, an innocent person who never committed a violent act, was being pressured by a state employee, Dr. Bash, to give up his government benefits.]

7-28-03 Somebody in the apt bldg threw away a perfectly good DVD player! My gain.

[I learned later that the DVD player didn't work.]

7-29-03 I started on a new anti-depressant medication this morning -- Effexor. Let's see what this does!

7-30-03 They didn't increase my food stamps! What's up with that, Glickman?

7-31-03 I hear there's a big meeting with the WRIT folks. Why don't you raise the issue of the $500 bonus for 20-year residents? I know you have a lot of influence in the organization.

8-1-03 On a couple of occasions in the library -- the following picture was displayed prominently in the magazine exchange. It looks like an age-enhanced picture of Rubenstein. How would they know what Rubenstein looks like? [Attached is AT&T ad featuring a photo of the actor Cliff Robertson holding a telephone with the following advertising copy: "The better we sound. Touch Someone.]

8-4-03 I'm hoping to tighten the noose this week. They shoot horses don't they?

[Refers to a letter that I contemplated sending to GW President Stephen J. Trachtenberg about my psychotherapy at GW; the letter described my job termination by Dennis Race at Akin Gump. My therapist at GW (Meghana Tembe) later persuaded me not to send the letter.]

8-5-03 This morning when I looked at Mr. Cookson, he turned his eyes away, and would not look me in the eye. That tells me things are heating up (Ouch! that's hot! Something's cooking on the hot stove ! ! !)

[Pius Cookson is the building engineer at 3801 Connecticut.]

8-6-03 I just wish this thing were over. Then I could sue the bastards -- and rent a penthouse at 3883 Conn. I'd keep this apt for storage.

8-8-03 OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT, I will NOT run for Governor of California. I'm sorry to disappoint all of the California out-of-state voters here at 3801.

[Refers to Arnold Schwarzenegger's announcement that he will run for Governor of California.]

8-8-03 I'm submitting these notes -- ("The Archives") to my psychologist.

DENNIS RACE: I got Bashed!

[Refers to my simmering anger about Dr. Bash's statements that she thought I was employable. Dr. Bash's statements about my employability were especially troubling because SSA had just renewed my benefits without even doing a review, which suggested to me that SSA believed my disability was serious.]

8-11-03 / 8-12-03 I was thinking about ending this line of communication, but I decided against it. My instincts tell me it's not time. Still got some lawyers to screw! As they say: A lawyer who fucks a lawyer is twice a lawyer!

8-13-03 People ask: "Does Israel have the bomb?" The way I see it, it misses the point. In terms of destructive potential, they have Dr. Bash! Does it matter whether they have the bomb?

8-14-03 Tomorrow (8-15-03) is a big day. No, not Vernon Jordan's birthday. No, not Napoleon's birthday -- 32 years ago tomorrow Richard Nixon got on TV in the evening (a Sunday evening in 1971) to announce wage & price controls. I don't know why I remember that -- I wonder if Ben Stein remembers -- you know his old man was a Nixon econ. adviser.

8-14-03 BONUS #135 (John Walsh) keeps his TV on all day-- Is he nuts? Aren't there better ways to scare off demons?

8-15-03 My illness is so devastating at times that I wonder how I can get through the day. "It's so sad"-- That's what Pat Nixon said on the plane back to San Clemente after Pres. Nixon resigned.

8-18-03 MESSAGE FOR DAVID GREGORY: Caught you on the Today Show. Good to hear you speaking English. Sincerely, George W. Bush.

[Gregory was the NBC-TV White House reporter in 2003. His fluency in French at a press conference with French President Chirac once irked President Bush.]

8-19-03 I guess it's the end of an era. I just found out that [resident manager] David Castleberry left-- All of a sudden. Then I learned that [my former treating psychiatrist] Lawrence C. Sack, MD, died. There was a note on his [office] door on Sat 8-16 advising patients to call his son, Dr. Robert Sack -- La comedia est finita!

["La comedia est finita" refers to Beethoven. A few day