01 May 2011

I had tea with my old psychologist. He bought me tea and we sat beside an enormous window while the rain poured down outside. He had lost a lot of weight which made him look older. He no longer works in the psychiatric assessment unit in the big city hospital where we met. He commented on the scariness of the neighbourhood just a few blocks east and told me about his job getting research to clinicians and how he loves to give talks. He told me about writing a song about Japan with monsters and sweet nature stuff and about places he may or may not actually have travelled to with his wife. It was not a clinical clinical conversation. The person who had been my rock was mostly just being a person, someone with the ability to be a little unhinged while avoiding any trouble. I talked about what I had been trying to learn about, and the paper about cannibals I still have to write and how reading seriously and carefully has been more innately interesting to me than arguing for fun, to my detriment. He hugged me goodbye.

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