Sunday, 5 January
 |
| Sigmund Freud: marvelous story-teller |
I've come to the conclusion that philosophy is going to be
my science. I simply haven’t the time to
patiently wait for physicists to develop their hypothesis, design and run their
experiments and then analyze the results in order to arrive at some
conclusion. I won’t be around to enjoy
their final act. What I intend to do,
instead, is to brush up on what is already known and then, using my best
efforts, extrapolate from these facts in order to fashion my own ending. The careful, earnest nature of my effort
should qualify my thoughts as being mildly philosophical. Of course, I could be very wrong in the
conclusions I draw but, for me, the greater danger is to have lived life
without having drawn much of any conclusion at all. I would like to go on record as having said
something more than a short parting word on my tombstone.
I am immersed with reality but I respond to only carefully
measured snippets. These are mostly
simple impressions about how I feel after glancing at a colorful shirt,
partially untucked. What is the meaning behind
that downturned mouth? Soil is
rich. Soiled is diseased. Hug the woman with smiling eyes. Price checks add forever to an already too
long line. I make it a rule to only add
and subtract when it comes to math.
Health comes first unless it tastes really good.
Anyone remember B. F. Skinner? His friends called him Fred. I think he said something to the effect that
people have no inner life. There is only
this biological organ called the brain that processes information as it is
designed to do. I think his study of
pigeons led to this idea. It’s easy to
think his parties are a pretty stale affair.
What lively nonsense can one expect from someone making a living as a
scientific behaviorist? Actually I’d go
to his party were I lucky enough to be invited.
These guys can really surprise you.
He’s probably got a bowl of dried prunes in place of Doritos just to get
a few startled laughs. Hey
everyone! The party’s moved to the
bathroom.
Have you ever seen a toad smoke a cigar? When’s the last time you saw a photo of Sigmund
Freud? Don’t let the beard fool
you. I bring him up only because he made
his reputation selling us on the richness of our own inner lives. I can’t help wake from a dream without thinking
of my own gurgling subconscious. I’m far
more fascinating than I would have ever thought thanks to Freud. There’s a family quarrel going on right now
within my head and my id and my ego are barely speaking to one another because
of it. It turns out I’ve been
fantasizing about sex since the age of six months. What’s not to like about Freud? Now here’s a guy you might think would throw
wild parties. The fact is, though, he’s
anal retentive – very big on punctuality.
Can you imagine all his guests showing up precisely at eight?
Fred Skinner thought Freud a hopeless romantic. Freud always saw neurotic behavior as a
symptom of some deep inner maladjustment that needed intense
investigating. Skinner said Freud was
weaving fairy tales. Fred would have
flunked any of his students that wanted to analyze mental processes when they
should be measuring neural brain activity.
You don’t waste time putting someone on the couch and play word games in
order to solve their problem. You work directly
at modifying their behavior – positive rewards to encourage the desired response
and a dose of punishment to discourage unwanted actions. How do you think they get rats to run a maze
in record time? For extreme problems a
couple of prescription pills can work to get your brain back in its proper chemical
balance.
I’d like to rethink the party invitation. If Freud would only invite me during office
hours and I could come and sit on his couch.
He’d smoke cigars while I drank coffee.
We could swap stories about our childhood. I suspect he has a truly droll sense of
humor. I’d look forward to our weekly
talks.
Love,
Dad
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