A TRANSITIONAL OBJECT…
is a beloved and reassuring
item that stands in for Mom
when she is out of sight.
A late bloomer, I still have
need for Mom, but my own
transitional object is a book.
I tried to meditate tonight
but metaphors came to mock
the books which lined my shelf.
They made fun of the flying monk
who flew around the church wearing
no underpants and became a saint.
Graves, Yeats, Mann and Leibnitz
believe in the monk, as he is
described in Wilson’s The Occult.
At twelve my uncle gave me An
Experiment with Time by Dunne,
and how we dream of future events.
Hillman’s Dreams and the Underworld
scared me out of my Jungian analysis,
with hints of archetypes come to life.
Wilhelm Reich knew that his patient
had an abortion when she reported a
dream of a book standing upside down.
Strangers to Ourselves, The Whisperings
Within, and Sam Harris’ Free Will all
assuaged my need for companionship.
Wilson’s Consilience stirred my mind
and my heart, even though the friend
of a friend says he’s a misogynist.
Intellectuals alerted me to the fact that
Rousseau placed his five newborns in
baskets and left them, unnamed.
Discovery of the Unconscious tells of
a fox who possessed a sick woman and
refused to leave without a fine meal.
I become anxious when’ere I discover
myself all alone and with no security
blanket to comfort myself.
Then I remember blogland.