The Title Illustrated as NEUROTICA

 I am inclined to write this blog from the corners of my imagination. The corners of that dark space are rounded; they do not come to the point as regular corners do. The walls and door are so ornate that it is difficult to judge where the door is. Proceed forward and the exit springs open automatically. Picture as you will the most ornate and detailed dream which you have created from your innermost id. Why is it that you, the individual who searches for the prospect of the truth within the surrounding walls of neurotica? Have neurotics blamed you unnecessarily for their own faults? Have their unmet needs stepped upon your toes causing you to feel shame and utter self consciousness? Humiliation is a form of control over the human being. Such disrespect is a difficult pill to ingest. No wonder Dr. Carl Jung and his writings regarding psychology can be depicted by the artist as Dr. Jung removing the mask to show the real individual as opposed to the "fake front" which he dons. 

WRITE LIKE THE RIGHT HAND READS

 

To the readers of this blog I hereby mention a flow of thoughts bubbling from the imagination of an unknown writer who had aspired to accomplish something great in her what appears to be the outcome, long life. A long life can show itself as being in the young old age years up the point of how amazing it was to live beyond expectation to an age where no human being is expected to live. In the media of today I had read of those who survived past the age of 100 years. I am in awe of that single accomplishment they have achieved. As I look at my right hand searching for answers which my lifeline shall inform me of, my thoughts question the split of it. In other words which half of the split is mine when compared to my ex-spouse of thirty years of wedlock is his. My theory formulates an assumption that his is on the left side while mine is on the right. I am no expert when it comes to reading palms. His life line in the palm of my hand seems to hook up with another line. He has been involved in another relationship for over 10 years now. 

The hand is the illustrative history of any unique individual. What do these lines speak of in their own native tongue? How captivating it is to read into this unwritten past. Does it carry an ounce of truth in its story? That I cannot guarantee. Many share an interest in this subject. How mesmerizing the thought of having one's personal history if not their future explained to them by one one who can interpret these signs. 

Speak of the unknown and unpredictable account which I have been rambling on about. Unpredictable each life can be and fate cannot always be depended upon to guide destiny. We can change this path since we are the holders of "free will". 

The Unlocking of the Locked Door Within

 WRITE: Why in heaven's name am I to undertake such a task? This question is somewhat psychoanalysis oriented. Why ask the question if I know the answer already? The reason why to compose sentences of fiction based on real life past experiences. The skeletal remains of memories past will cast a shadow upon these words, sentences and paragraphs. This specter of self expression will illustrate a picture painted with the finest colors and grays in the imaginary watercolor medium. Add too much water and the portrait drips like blood from a fresh wound. 

In the doctor's waiting room she sits staring at the large portrait of a country doctor making a house call to a poor farm family. The doctor is inside a room, sitting down and in deep thought. The patient is a young female child resting on bedding placed on two wooden chairs. The mother is sitting by the table and weeping while her head rests upon her two folded arms. Her husband consoles her by giving her a reasuring touch while focusing on the doctor. He is anxious to hear the doctor's opinion. The background is dark. Beneath this large painting is an old radio housed in a wooden frame. Inside this wooden frame are tubes that need to warm up when the radio is turned on. Its art deco exterior was resting on a wooden end table. 

There was no receptionist for this doctor. He was a portly aging man by the name of Dr. Flanigan. Dr. Flanigan had known the young lady's late maternal grandfather and her middle aged mother. This young lady, whose name is Linda, started coming to Dr. Flanigan when she was only seven years old. Her mother must have thought that she outgrew being the patient of a pediatrician. Two buses were needed to go see Dr. Flanigan, whose residence and home office were on the other side of town. On some occasions one bus was taken by Linda and then she walked the rest of the destination. 

As Linda began to mature, she did not consider herself as a beauty yet teenage boys would drive by her and honk the car horn. Dr. Flanigan had noticed that she was maturing, especially when both were alone in the exam room. As she lay clothed on the examining table according to his instructions, he groped her right arm starting from the wrist and stopped before he reached her elbow. Linda could sense what type of touch that was. 

Linda had informed her mother to start looking for another doctor, but her mother was determined to stay with Dr. Flanigan. When the time came for Dr. Flanigan to retire, sell his house and move to Florida with his wife, he recommended two young doctors for her mother to see. Linda felt a sigh of relief.

THE STORY SHALL UNFOLD

The story shall unfold: The process of molding a fictional story to be read by others originates from the imagination of the writer.  When writing fiction the writer will delve deep into the crevices of her/his mind. Flowers with thorns on their stems can surface below the depths and into the conscious. The writer then can tread upon the grey area of the past. 

A child, aged seven, goes to a friend's house so they can play together. The friend is four years old, named Zelda and resides with her mother and grandfather. They are renters in a three apartment house. When the seven year old girl whose name is Wendy found herself in the basement which, over the years, she and other children had explored. Wendy heard the friend's grandfather descending down the cement cellar steps. Since she knew the grandfather Wendy was not alarmed. The grandfather recognized Wendy and decided to pick her up. When he held her, his hand moved between her legs. Wendy felt uncomfortable and dirty about him inappropriately massaging her. Recently she had received her First Holy Communion and she did not know what to say to this man when he committed a crime against her.  Wendy's father was working in the front yard where she lived with her mother, brother and dad. This dirty secret she kept to herself and she did not know enough to speak to the police. 

A few hours passed and Wendy was with Zelda and Zelda's mom on the large front porch of the three family house where Zelda's family lived on the first floor. The grandfather was in the hallway where there were stairs leading to the second floor. The hallway also lead to the front porch. He stood there hidden and exposed himself to Wendy. What did he want her to do? She was the only one who witnessed his foul deed.