Vicissitudes of Solitude: Inner and Outer
A Sense of Internal Peace
Solitude emphasizes the value of allowing us to formulate our feelings, thoughts and behaviors away from the influence of others. One seeks solitude, because our personalities are not unlike permeable membranes. When actively involved with mutual interpersonal relatedness, we tend to absorb the feelings, thoughts, moods and opinions of others.
We separate from others to sort through all that we have taken in, to review elements of our social exchanges and to evaluate them. Ultimately, solitude can enable us to reach a sense of internal peace, within which we can attentively listen until we are able to hear our own notes amidst the discordance surrounding us. The essence of productive solitude, as with all privacy, is the achievement of a sense of choice and free will, as well as of personal control.
This is about the clearest, most succinct statement that I have been able to write about my thoughts and feelings with regard to creative solitude, the internal and the external, internal peace, a relational interpersonal perspective and a sense of the potential effect of the opinions of others upon one’s own personality (however, the threads of this perspective have been the embedded subtext of many of my previously published clinical papers and books). In addition, it provides a tight integration of ideas about social interaction, self-evaluation, freedom, choice and self-control. Thinking in this manner does require one to adapt to a new way of reflection.
This adaption can be made smoothly once one begins to participate in consciously (and pre-consciously) co-constructed interpersonal relationships. In terms of this model of a contemporary analytic approach, I participate in ongoing conversations of this kind with the many young people with whom I am engaged in longer-term individual psychotherapy. These types of empathic conversations, I believe, are what energize the collaborative development of a mutually examined new kind of interpersonal relationship, which in turn appears to be a critical mutative factor in group settings.
With regard to the preceding comments, I very deeply hope that you will be able appreciate how this perspective is reflected in the selection of images that makes up The Photographic Essay, which I have created for you: Creative Solitude.
Thanks to all of you very, very much.
The Background Music for Creative Solitude: Marconi Union: “Sleepless”
Creative Solitude: A Photographic Essay
It so happens I’m tired of being a man.
It so happens I enter clothes shops and theaters,
withered, impenetrable, like a swan made of felt
sailing the water of ashes and origins.
The smell of a hairdresser’s has me crying and wailing.
I only want release from being stone or wool.
I only want not to see gardens and businesses,
merchandise, spectacles, lifts.
It so happens I’m tired of my feet and toenails,
my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I’m tired of being a man.
Still it would be a pleasure
to scare a lawyer with a severed lily
or deal death to a nun with a poke in the ear.
It would be good
to go through the streets with an emerald knife
and shout out till I died of cold.
I don’t want to go on being just a root in the shadows,
vacillating, extended, shivering with dream,
down in the damp bowels of earth,
absorbing it, thinking it, eating it every day.
I don’t want to be so much misfortune,
I don’t want to go on as a root or a tomb,
a subterranean tunnel, just a cellar of death,
frozen, dying in pain.
This is why, Monday, the day, is burning like petrol,
when it sees me arrive with my prison features,
and it screeches going by like a scorched tire
and its footsteps tread hot with blood towards night.
And it drives me to certain street corners, certain damp houses,
towards hospitals where skeletons leap from the window,
to certain cobbler’s shops stinking of vinegar,
to alleyways awful as abysses.
There are sulphur-coloured birds and repulsive intestines,
hanging from doorways of houses I hate,
there are lost dentures in coffee pots
there are mirrors
that ought to have cried out from horror and shame,
there are umbrellas everywhere, poisons and navels.
I pass by calmly, with eyes and shoes,
with anger, oblivion,
pass by, cross through offices, orthopedic stores,
and yards where clothes hang down from wires:
underpants, towels and shirts weeping
slow guilty tears.
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