reading galen strawson about self narrative i think about therapy. in there i felt i was compelled to supply a narrative, (not that it was requested, or required, in fact it was sometimes hindering), but since it was costing me, it was my therapy, and since i wanted to come out of the process with a self, preferably a new self, or an enlightened old self and since that seemed to indicate a story to draw forth...
but then i felt chagrined that i was trying, generally pathetically, to engage the therapist, especially when they looked at the clock that faced them like me, or ate candy...
oh all i wanted to say is it dawned on me that i was just doing whatever i do here, not more deliberately, thoughtfully or insightfully, but with a real person, other than me, realer than me, or the self i was wishfully construing. so i quit, and i feel good about that. though i may wonder, what would a real good therapist say right here. what i tried to do was engage the therapist here, and when i felt resistance and interest drifting away, it was easy to resist paying and drift my own way. ha, well. who's to say. anything may be resistance, and anything narrative. you're still here where you are. ah, but what i was going to say was either in the therapeutic container, or inhere, it isn't an enduring self or an enduring narrative that gets written, but a rewriting of a fundamental nature, a blank with manifold erasures, for a self that in existing changes continually. and with that realization comes the clarity, that there isn't enough cash, nor can i afford not to do it myself.

and now i pause to stop because like in therapy i trailed of into a nebulous end somehow, or i lost the thread, and i felt a little shy about the self i left undone back there somewhere. and then we'd say, both with a little relief, i guess we'll have to leave it there for today. just like i do in here.