So I was doing some reading on abnormal psychology today. I was bored, and I figured if I really am interested in art therapy that I ought to keep abreast of the field.
Wow, psych is kind of bullshit, you know.
I was reading all these articles on research. One was a study on aggression where they had a mixed group, where half were prone to aggressive reactions and half weren't. They gave them a button to push that caused bolts of electricity to be emitted and recorded. They then subjected the participants to blasts of cold air. They found that aggressive people were more quick to push the button and more frequently than less aggressive people.
Wow, you don't say?
You mean to tell me that if you take someone prone to aggression and then you do something that is likely to be annoying that they're more quick to get agitated? Wow, I'm glad you're getting thousands of dollars in research to figure this out.
Or the study where they expose people with anxiety disorders to stressful and non stressful stimuli and learn that they have a shorter attention span when around the stressful stimuli. Oh, you don't say? Someone with anxiety that's exposed to stress becomes distracted? There's brain surgery for you. Wow. What, is this being done for the center for the blatantly obvious?
I am pretty awed by this. I mean, it sounds like something right out of the simpsons. I am even more awed that so many people earn their living by doing this research and even more earn a living by using the results of this research in therapy.
...and so shatters all my illusions about the highly intelligent, insightful therapist. Once again, I am disappointed that life is not, in fact, a movie.
So today I took the cats out for a walk. The blossoms were shedding their petals, and every gust of wind caused them to fall like rain, terrifying Wednesday. It's a damp day out in the mid sixties. Kind of humid but not hot enough to be bothersome. In other words, my perfect kind of day.
I felt on the verge of an epiphany. I thought about art. I thought about school. I thought about the effects of upbringing on our talents, perspective and philosophies. I thought of the gallery idea and why I so often can't write the book and I felt on the verge of something.
And then it all vanished. Some distraction and I lost it. So close to that thing I'm missing, those last couple pieces in that old jigsaw that was bought at a garage sale for fifty cents, and I'm determined to put it together, and I almost had that puzzle piece.
Then it was gone.
So I brought the cats inside, thinking that three pm would be a good time for me to come inside and eat some breakfast, maybe work on that painting that for some reason, I absolutely have no inspiration to do today.
Shit.