None of us really changes over time. We only become more fully what we are. -Anne Rice


T
herapy is not about change – when you sow a tomato seed, you grow tomatoes

A few aeons ago, I asked: 'what is the difference between peer support and therapy?' And the answer a fellow therapist gave was, 'well, therapy is about creating change in a person's life, and expecting change to happen, whereas the peer support model has no such expectations'. This lingered in my thoughts like a prickly needle through my skin; but for years I could never digest this idea about expecting or even aiming towards change in one's life, or in a personality (that is, the outward expression of how a person expresses themselves in the world). We can monitor outcomes of therapy based on changes, if they have occurred, likewise we can monitor the outcomes of peer support. But this does not mean that a therapist should want his patient to change. This is a great deal of pressure on both therapist and client. 'Why is my life still so difficult after so many years of therapy?' asked the patient. 'Well, shall we think about that together?', replied the therapist.

Therapy is not about getting to the root cause of the problem – when you plant a tree, it grows outwards into a complex web of multiple roots

The domino-effect is very real. But in human terms, we are talking about masses of dominoes splurged out in a gigantic pool of intricate pattern and shape that splurges in and out and up and down and diagonally, and side to side and round and round.... So really, there is no such thing as a root cause for a problem. This is oversimplifying humanity. It is the same as attempting to diagnose a person's mental health. For believe you me, these are ever changing attempts to describe certain experiences and frame them as symptoms. They are not tangible, hard facts based on worldwide evidence. I encourage you; no, I dare you, I implore you; the next time someone talks to you about feeling autistic, depressed, crazy, manic, being psychotic, or alcoholic, or uses any kind of diagnostic/trendy/ fashionable jargon to describe his or her experience – please ask that person what being these things means and feels to them, disentangle together what that experience really is like for them. And I guarantee you, the answer will live far away from your assumptions, or from what you read in wikipedia or the DSM. And if it sounds like an answer from wiki or gobbledegook from a book, then ask them even more questions. Just keep asking until the stars fall down, and the moon rolls round, and the sun bursts out. All this jargon is nothing but irrational man-made nonsense designed to box in earthling puzzles that are impossible to solve! Just get over it, YOU ARE NOT God. We are all a complex, organic mystery in spirit.

Therapy is not about unearthing the past – when you dig the flower out of the earth, it stops growing

Shed the past, get rid of the negative, throw it in the bin, stop thinking about the bad things that happened in your life… But before you do all that talk about it in your therapy, munch it up real well, the magical word: process it, then poop it out forever flowing in the sewage of human bestiality COUGH I meant society… Right? BEEP Wrong! Yes, talking about the past is a lot of what one might do in therapy, but really; one is never really talking purely about the past, are we really that naive to think so? If, in the present moment we are talking about something that happened in the past, we are also talking about how you and me are shaped together right now, how me/you and the world are shaped today, how I/you are shaped these days. Nobody forgets, nothing is really ever forgotten. We all live on and exist in each other, blood to blood, feeling to feeling, word to word, we carry our stories like secrets, and spread them in cocktail fantasies of allure and disease. Is it possible to pluck out a chapter of a story, dump it out into the cold, and then expect the rest of the story to make coherent sense? We'll be left with phantom stories haunting us for evermore.

Therapy is about learning when the mint is pruned, another will start to grow

Thinking bodies, not zombie floppies. Need I say more?

 

Therapy is about learning how you are in relation to the worldwhen a bumblebee feeds, it fertilizes the flower

It is not just about the universe of I. It's about the I in the world, it's about how I interact with you and you and you and you in this environment. It’s about discovering the immense power we all have on/over each other. A power, or influence emanating from good or bad intentions, that we may or may not be aware of. A therapist points out when this influence takes place, whether it be from an external source, family, friends, etc. or even an internalised voice within you that takes hold of you and leads you down a certain path you may or may not want or need in your life.

Therapy is about people becoming people – when the strawberry plant is not fed, it will never grow a strawberry

With the right therapist, therapy can become food for the soul.

Hello web-travellers!

I want to share some fizzy news:

  1. I am building this website from scratch and it feels like a humongous task. Perhaps some may recognise posts that were previously on quantifyluck.com - welcome back!
  2. I made music (first time in my life) for a very special indie game that you can find on Steam. And the full album (36 tracks, over two hours long) is officially on sale here for £7!
  3. The macrame, Love Knots store is still under construction. Turns out shopping carts are complicated creatures, but I will be adding items over the next few weeks.
  4. You can listen to some of my tracks on soundcloud. Hip hip hoorraaayyy so hit me with your thoughts

That's the main chunk of news for now, bada boom bada bing.

God bless

Amelia

If books were mortal humans, and readers the immortal vampires; then I tell you, drink from the words of Anne Rice and you will thirst for every last drop. And by the end, when your books lie dormant, no more pages to devour into your soul; you will feel the sadness of Louis, the most humane, miserable bastard of them all. Your body will feel invigorated, full of power and golden life, but oh how your heart will yearn, and wish, and hallucinate for more!


Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles are better than drugs, or any shamanic meditation. Open yourself to her stories, let the devil in, and allow him to shake you with his tantric, body shivers, let his tentacles grip into your brains, and fall into the unconscious flow of Anne Rice’s stories. Yes, obviously I’m a nut, I’m a nut, and I’m crazy! But bear with me, there is a point to my madness… I think!


An outpouring of thoughts and feelings stemming from the glorious, and precious Vampire Chronicle books of Anne Rice. The true Queen of the Damned that has given thousand-fold-dimensional life to what is considered gothic-horror fiction. The lady of wonders who has crafted the modern vampire of our world today, for without her, none of the modern vampires would come to existence.


This is not intended as a literary criticism as such, nor as a description of characters, but as a heartfelt thank you to Anne Rice, bearing reference to the cosmic beauty of her world. Spoilers not intended, but brashly executed, for that I apologise. Let me begin by quoting Justin Boyer, from his piece on ‘Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles and the Psychological evolution of the vampire’:

By reading Anne Rice’s books in a psychoanalytic way, the reader does not only learn about the psychological depth of these fictional characters, but readers are unconsciously educated about the deep, enigmatic layers of his/her own psyche.


Anne Rice has built the ideal wish fulfilment of all humanity, well in a paradoxical kind of way. A life where the body is transformed into the perfect immortal instrument. Whilst death is possible with every dawn, for the new fledgling vampire, the safety of the starlit sky proposes a marriage to immortality. Live forever, in eternal youth. Now already, I hear Dr Yalom’s voice creeping in discussing the fear of death, as the primal source of anxiety, but I will leave existentialism for now…The vampiric body grows stronger, faster, senses are heightened to what the world considers as superhuman proportions, or paranormal extremes, all at the cost of living off the blood of mortals. Now Rice’s uncanny resemblance to vampiric sneakiness seeps through her writing, making this guilt-ridden picture of barbaric vampirism a little easier for us.


By drinking blood, vampires see into the soul and life of the ‘victim’, but learning and practicing ‘the little drink’, or killing off only the ‘evil doer’ eases and relaxes the vampires guilty conscience. Or as Boyer described our beloved vampire Lestat with a ‘morally relativist’ view, or ‘flexible Id’, Lestat is able to adapt his world view throughout the centuries. And let’s face it, it masks the monstrosity of murder, whilst allowing the vampire to survive and be loved by myriads of readers.


Anne’s sensuality creeps into every blood drinking scene. Yes, sex is replaced with the drinking of blood. And love, painful, protective, parental, flirtatious, innocent love is mixed with the evocative, wisdom, and history of ‘the ancient ones’. Ancient vampire makers entertain platonic friendships, so borderline romantic, but never consummated in the human act. So much alike the teenage need and fear of sex, need and fear of the parental figure, need and fear of independence; the vampire walks through an everlasting path of need and fear of loving sensation, and platonic flirtation.


Rather strange to see Rice dipping the tips of her fingers into the modern world of science in ‘Prince Lestat’, showing a glimpse of potential in the sexual act, but rather convincingly keeping it trimmed and safe and unimportant as an act in itself. Whilst quickly drying off her fingers to say ‘I can’t handle all this scientific jargon’. But in fact, it reminded her readers how vivid and luxurious her vampire world is even without sex, and science, which frankly, to this day no other modern vampire writer has managed to pursue. No monsieur, even in popular demand for sex and science, Anne Rice has managed to keep her hands clean off this raunchy, in your face, stupidity, and unconscious zombiefied ‘Fifty shades of grey’ society. And for that, I hail her. She has remained in her rich world, moved the vampires into 2014 with dignity, continuity, and consistency.

[In all honesty though, mademoiselle Anne Rice, we believe in you, and we are waiting for Atlantis to come to life, because we know you will do it better than anyone else. I do not believe, for one instant that scientific jargon is out of your reach! You’ve already touched base, if that’s where your heart takes you, just keep rolling with it!]


My mortal dumplings, whoever said vampires go to school (laugh), shine in the sun (puke), wear magic rings and burn with vervaine (gasp); must read these chronicles, then attempt to tell me how sad, pathetic, glitzy, and stupid vampires are!


If you are the literature lover and not convinced that you should read her books, than screw the story, if your human bodies can! Just follow Anne’s lush words as they drip out, rolling and tumbling into delicious heaps of rich, intelligent liquor, satin, philosophical sheets, velvet, indulgent chocolate, silk, historical underwear, and spicy juicy beef, through Egypt, Druids, Romans, of course New Orleans, Paris, New York, and the list goes on through time and space. Such are the sensations she evokes within her readers. Fuck! She is the QOTD! Screw Lestat, Anne is the true God of the vampires, better than Gremt, even beats Amel. How can you deny her evil goodness? Saturated in her Libran scales of beauty and perfection, Anne makes us remember the richness of life. Lures us into her world and invites us to see through a vampire’s eyes. This alone is enough to knock down any human misery. Her books beg us to remember and appreciate our precious life. See it as it is, rich, complex, dreadfully painful, yet morbidly fun and sensational.


And so my plan is to investigate. No, I’m not going to search the world for Marius de Romanus, however magical that would be! After discovering only a few weeks ago that a brand spanking new book was released last year, I vacuumed it in an instant, in a state of feverish joy, for finally the chronicles continue! And I’m re-reading the vampire chronicles, since I read them as a teenager, I’m hoping to make more links as to what drew my heart so close to them all those years ago. I hope to do some embodying of each important character and how I relate to it archetypally, journal it, and reflect on it. It’s a personal journey I mean to undertake. Usually I imagine myself typing it down and blogging it for the world to see. But most of the times it feels too exposing so I shy away.


We will see where this tide takes me. Maybe the strength of rock star/prince Lestat will compel me to post it, or maybe the moral ethics of Marius will shackle me in an underground cavern of sorts, painting, or knotting… We will see where the tide takes me…


With love to Anne Rice, to all the Vampire Chronicle readers of future, past, and present.


May the story live forever in our souls.

He snuck into her room
She sighed and ate her prune
He touched her feather hair
And kissed her hosier
She moaned as she exhumed…
But out of her head a leg bloomed.

‘Where has my head gone, my syrupy buffoon?’
He just sucked her with delight
As she shivered and howled by galloping sprites
‘Ma Chérie! Your foot, oh what a sight!’
The spirits zapped and zipped their tails
Feeding and drinking amours quails.

Growing weaker in demur
They coughed and quailed in their manure.
When all blood drained
The lover spat, out a mirror came
And he burst into a mighty blue flame.

Abandoned in suspended flails
She blamed the imps in tearful wails.
Once her bubble gust
Thoughts trickled through her lust
Alive and settled as she cussed.

In light, defying perennial laws
Beating the perpetual, evergreen flaws.
An anima suddenly clawed
And animus yawned, stealing all possible breath.
For her reflection, wore the dress, of unborn, immortal death.