Book: Psychologist and a psychopath

The rains have gone... In the morning fog spreading like a huge feathery cloud. Not see the house across the street, the Windows shrouded in steam, the trees like cotton. All around - soft, plush, weightless. I love these in the morning. The calm, the silence, the feeling of a fairy tale. Today, Socrates woke up at five in the morning, something was trying to say, then curled up and fell asleep.
I think he was trying to whisper about how nice to be idle and quiet. I know it is. Without prompting homegrown philosophers. Idleness has taught. Work, including. Paradox? Not at all. Try to spend alone and idle at least twenty-one days. The duration of the quarantine. If you don't decide by the end of the second week to commit suicide from the opened abyss, then begin a new existence. Nothing feels human freedom. It is one thing to obey conventions, to compel myself to work, as a duty, another thing to realize the desire of his heart. But first - a painful return to his real "I". All the breaking of the three-pillar human beings. Flour weakened by the twenty-first day. Why? Say that updated blood composition. And where there is blood there is the spirit. The test is not easy. Sometimes, at night will be without the usual worldly pleasures, and then frantically found the button, which wants to escape from himself, his self. Noise comfortable because it allows you to listen to the silence. There will come from the heavenly bells? Well, as something terrible? Run from yourself, do not want to stop and take a break. I'm afraid to be alone with freedom.
From birth we fall into the slavery conventions. And then can't stand freedom.
(Psychologist and a psychopath)

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.
Alas, I must also be approved by the absurd actions to acutely feel some bubble or mosquito unity, and person. Just not one that sounds good. Leave it for curly-haired boys with guitars that call to hit heads against stone walls. Existentialism, his mother! I do know the meaning of your life, but are unable to implement it fully. Can't get rid of habits that are as far from the truth, as a set of psychological properties of the monkey from the man. Isn't that a big gap? Even too big.
However, you need to live. At peace with itself and the constant enmity with the world.
And indicate the existence of a genuine sense in opening the space of truth.
And even if you're a poet, look often at the night stars. If you're not a poet, still get out on the balcony and watch. Maybe ever notice how one of the stars winked at you. And invited into the flight. Here you can open up to the true moments of life. Don't miss a moment.
But if you don't have a balcony, and you're not a poet, and your head rarely turns to the stars, then go and look at his feet - and there you can see reflected in the puddle star. Well, like wink?

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.



Explanation of the quote:

From the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Cat Socrates and the owner.

And the monk Varlaam? This is truly the figure of a curious, deep, Russian. Such a man lived in the era of Ivan the terrible. Gains somewhere in the North. He served as a priest in a small temple. His name was at that time Vasily. Mentioned his hot temper, the purity of the faith, fearlessness in spiritual work. Since the ascetic is strong, it means that the devil does not sleep. Fought a young priest to idolatry by local fishermen. The devil could not stand, and left, promising to avenge the ascetic. Compelled it to Basil that his wife committed the sin of adultery. Like Vasily it with my own eyes saw. Decided to "chastise" mother, to do religious rites. And during the ceremony - whether by accident, not by chance you? - priestly thrust a spear that the Holy communion in the altar is prepared, in the heart of his beloved wife. Whether the devil so cleverly played their parts, whether the jealousy in the young priest leaped, but the mother was not to blame.
Buried the body of his wife in the churchyard. He went to the Confessor to the monastery. The Abbot gave him a new name Barlaam and put a strange penance. Ordered to dig up the body, to sit in a boat and drive it along the coast of the Barents and White seas. And to fast, to pray until, until the body of his wife will not rot. Three years Varlaam obediently executed the orders of the Abbot, suffered hunger and cold, and prayed, lamented. The day came, when the monk was forgiven. Sent in such cases special signs. In a narrow water Strait, which is due to marine worms were dying ships and people, Varlaam was able to hold the boat. "Drill ship" retreated from those places, and that was evidence of forgiveness. The miracle was performed.
I do not consider this story a fairy tale. In allegorical form the history of this repentance, which changes the human soul as a matrix.
From the point of view of psychology, much is clear: the person who commits a sin, feels a strong physical impact. The stronger the sin, the deeper the wound. If the wound is not treated by repentance, and be drawn into the nostrils the powder, or pour a wine pain, sin for a time ceases to be felt. But the wound is not tightened, it bleeds. There are deep feelings of sin, strong remorse that causes a person to change substantially. He can not be the same. This is not for everyone.



Explanation of the quote:

Thinking of the nature of repentance.
from the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".

The psychologist is more the lawyer, not the devil's advocate. To understand does not mean to forgive. To understand is to characterize the hidden movement of thoughts so as not to have any desire to throw a stone.
Try to be in one spirit with those who did not throw a vicious woman stone. He just said quietly: "If there's anyone of you is without sin, throw a stone at her". It was a long time ago - so long ago, when people had a conscience. For a moment they looked into themselves and they became ashamed. They dropped stones on the ground and left. And she left. The woman approached the man and asked:
And you don't judge me?
"No," he said. - Don't judge. Go and sin no more.



Explanation of the quote:

from the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Reflections of a psychologist.

The second half of the night. The stars hanging over the rooftops like ripe apples. Seems to stretch out a hand and pluck one or two. The stars are large and cool. Silent. Not live some. They are not neglecting me.
Can't sleep. And when you can't sleep, I was plagued by thoughts are various. Better they go somewhere else to send. I mean to put together and send in a creative flight. Or a crusade for a certain idea. Psychological idea, because my education is sometimes oppresses me, oppresses like the flesh of monks-hermits. The idea should be implemented, otherwise it will want to get drunk, and then another and another. And we have to live with me. Where are these to find? From removing it? From the dullness of monotonous routine? Do not go out. The square root of zero is zero. The square root of the unit will unit. Require a different coordinate system. Is Not Euclidean. What to extract meaning? Probably from the fact that a better. Say I had a good psychologist - psychology is not yet started cramping. That is, has ceased to have meaning. One doesn't make sense. And I can't live without acute experience of life. If in my life a long time do not come to the senses, I start to rebel noble...



Explanation of the quote:

from the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Philosophical reflections.

And even if you're a poet, look often at the night stars. If you're not a poet, still get out on the balcony and watch. Maybe ever notice how one of the stars winked at you. And invited into the flight. Here you can open up to the true moments of life. Don't miss a moment.
But if you don't have a balcony, and you're not a poet, and your head rarely turns to the stars, then go and look at his feet - and there you can see reflected in the puddle star. Well, like wink?



Explanation of the quote:

From the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Thinking about the stars

Night called Irina. Interrupted a dream where I was talking with Socrates about the benefits of ritual in the work of dealer meat market. I argued that you can not see the pork heads and the smell of blood, and to bear philosophical thought. He laughed at my naivety. And convinced not to surrender to the slavery of the animal shop. Isn't flowing there, as on the battlefields, blood, and sweat? No, I smiled, this is not a battle. It's a ritual of pagan sacrifice. I am a priest, not a slave. I cut and I cut a sacred product and not dismembered corpses of animals. Play sacrifice, hone ritual, as Spinoza magnifying glass. But my heart remains untouched. Blood of alien ritual comes to my mind. A robe? Well. Bathrobe will give in the wash. Or throw it like a snake casts of its old skin.
- Do not dissemble to himself, ' replied Socrates. I swear to dog, you won't be able to protect your inner peace from the market of the stench. You're too weak for this. Too vulnerable, though not a poet. The meat shop is not for you. Go to Church and nephrosis temporarily as a watchman. It's yours.
- In the Church? Hmm. As a watchman? But it is impossible to grind lenses. It is impossible to sharpen a ritual where Christ drove out the beach vendors. In the Church you cannot be a worker. You can only serve. And I'm not ready. I swear to dog, Socrates, I am not ready. If you want to live in freedom, to learn to serve. Little patience, Socrates. A lot of ease and very little patience. Perhaps I'll take the wording of the text of the play. And benefited from it. I'll think about it.
And then the phone rang Irene. A dream come true.
Disturbing voice she said,
- Daughter problem. Locked myself in the bathroom crying. Evening came drunk. Said that I raised her wrong. Said I took away her opportunity to be happy. She will never be happy because I taught her happiness. How does it feel to hear of your mother?
- Why all this? Have accumulated? Or reaction to the event?
And reaction, was accumulated. Some Director gave her up. Told her that she is young. And it needs to be taught everything. And what is everything?
- What? Oh, this Melpomene. I believe, not theater arts. Where is she now? In the bathroom?
Yes. Quiet. I'm going through. Wouldn't have done something with us. Silly.
I got out of bed and approached the laptop. Opened the email, found a file with the text of the play "Suicide".
What is there in the play? - I asked. - Don't have time to read. What's up with the heroine?
- Opens the veins, - a small voice said Irina. - What to do? To break down the door?
Break. I'll sit on the phone.
.....
People fell in love with acting. Actors - founders of the mod. The mummers - house on the sand. Open the news feed and rested his eyes in the murk and the husk, which is called life...
(Psychologist and a psychopath)

... called Irina Sergeevna and invited guests. I bought a dry wine in packages, lots of fruit. To cook I don't like. Learned something the circumstances forced. Cost small. Do not eat meat, some fish, vegetables, fruit. When accustom themselves to a small amount of food, the body quickly becomes saturated. At times, the Breakfast is enough hard-boiled eggs and strong tea with breads.
Irina guest welcome. I call it psihologiey. That is not just an impersonal professional and a woman. Or female therapist. It would be more correct. Because there is still a woman. In the full sense of the word.
Long - forgotten morning when you Wake up not alone. Pleasantly weary. In the stream of bachelor of idleness physical intimacy is akin to a little adventure. At the age of fifty you can be inside and outside of psychophysical enjoyment. Lost the rapidity and automaticity, there is a spicy reasonable. And humor. And irony. And enjoying long outdoor experiences. The body has its own memory.
- You can relax and nothing to think? - asked Irina after a morning promenade in bed. - Close your eyes, relax, put your hand on the solar plexus. Don't think about anything.
- Relax, - I smile. - Put your hand on the solar plexus. Think about what thinking about nothing.
- You can not do anything not to think?
I do not know. I don't think about anything in the moment of physical ecstasy. Thinks my body is. Brains do not think. Now I'm relaxed, but not can't think. Sink into oblivion, but I understand that I am sinking. If you erase the "I", something happens. And why is that? What kind of Zen Buddhist thing?
- Don't be afraid. You're not a Guinea pig. I want to reach out to your stubbornness. After all, you're a little despise modern psychologists?
What do you mean? I won't despise. First, the donation is disgusting in itself. And secondly, am I really blind? I think I sometimes don't see ourselves as if from the outside? Just the tail yet. Horns and hoofs strikes.
......
- Understand how people have problems? You know? - gently and persistently formulates questions psychologist, fingering them gently as the cat kneaded shawl. At the same claws to open legs wide open. - If you could only imagine the healing power of training. If I could. Where are the problems? You never thought that? Where a person has problems? In individual. From social unity. A group of people. Where?
- Where? - I smile, looking at her naked body. - All the problems here. Isn't it? From sunshiiine...... - My hand opens, fingers caterpillar gently shuffling from her solar plexus down korogaru. - Women are born boys become men, politicians, rulers, dictators, tyrants, nasty men. They are nothing but trouble. So to blame women who gave birth to these men....
(Psychologist and a psychopath)