Sunday, February 28, 2010


The Penguin Dictionary of Philosophy defines solipsism, in the ontological sense, as the view that nothing exists except one's own self and the contents of its consciousness. The word is also used epistimologically to describe the claim that nothing can be known but oneself and the contents of one's consciousness.

An obvious response to the notion of solipsism might be that others clearly exist, whether we can know them or not; or again, that because one can discern the observable universe, objects within it are necessarily real and existent. It is easy to assume that because we, as humans, can observe others with similar qualities to our own, that others exist; it is the quality of this knowledge, however, which can be brought into question.

As I sit here, watching this computer screen, light in the form of photons is hitting my eyes and travelling as neural impulses to my brain. My brain then interprets these signals and creates for me a picture of my ever changing reality. The essential point here (and I'm aware of my incompitent knowledge of neurology) is that what I see is a representation of reality, created by me; it is not reality itself. The seems to have profound phenomenological implications, seeing that the world we accept as authentic is, in fact, our very own unique interpretation. If all we experience is our own, subjective recreation, then what exactly is "the world"? How can there be a confirmation of the existence of both objects and things in the external world if our method of verification involves an arguably biased re-creation?

Alterations in consciousness arise from abnormal fluctuations in certain neurotransmitter levels. There are four neurotransmitters responsible for all altered states of consciousness (acetylcholine, seretonin, dopamine and norepinephrine...I think!). The myriad studies undertaken to determine how various things affect changes in consciousness are essentially measuring the degrees to which humans vary their representations of the world. But is this just measuring the alterations of an already questionable reality? The foundations on which consciousness as it is conventionally accepted seem to shake lightly when it is seen from this vantage. Could altered states in fact bring us closer to a "real" reality, or do they take us further from it (whatever "it" is)?

The brain is the centre for interpretation in this sense. If it re-creates or reinterprets all external stimuli, then subjective reality, as a unique and individual phenomenon, falls into solipsism. All that we can know comes from our brains' calculations, which are assumably very subjective and thus unique, and which are approximations as opposed to exact empirical measurements. Essentially, it could be argued, each individual experiences a vastly different reality, which is based not on a certain universal reality we all partake in, but an interpretation of a reality which is unable to be grasped by human beings.

This perhaps brings into question the veritability of scientific/empirical findings. It also has profound existential effects; it leaves the human in his/her lonely existence, unable to verify others, or to know that what they see is the same as what others see. Sounds, images, sensations: all such stimuli are naturally refined in the process of interpretation, leaving the subject with knowledge only of their own, subjective phenomena, not of what truly is. A bundle of external data, garbled into what we call consciousness.

And implications thus arise, as previously mentioned, regarding altered states of consciousness. These altered states include sleep, hypnagogy (period between wakefulness and sleep), hypnapompy (period between sleep and wakefulness), drug-induced altered states as well as those that result from mental illness. It has been explained (See Hobson, The Dream Drugstore) how all of these states essentially work via the four neurotransmitters mentioned earlier. The brain chemicals associated with REM sleep, which is the primary dreaming state, have also been shown to be associated with other altered states, such as those induced by certain hallucinogens; and dopamine is linked with both mental illnesses such as Schizophrenia, as well as marijuana and other drug usage. Though my knowledge of these associations is limited, many other links have been found. It is extremely important to note that the quality of the fluctuations in consciousness is dependent not only on the links mentioned; many, many variables affect exactly how one's consciousness is affected and changed (for example, marijuana use obviously does not reproduce the experience of a schizophrenic).

So, what does this imply? Not only is solipsism an intriguing and plausible notion, but through power and authority humans are, in a way, prohibiting and promoting certain kinds of realities, none of which we can claim to be authentic (seeing as there is no way of knowing what an authentic reality is). By allowing prohibitions of consciousness-altering drugs, while advocating other drugs which have relatively similar effects but which have been deemed therapeutic in some way, people are being guided in how they interpret the world. In both cases, the same chemicals are being affected, just to different degrees. It could even be daringly said that convention, social mores, etc. are another method whereby what we select to interpret to create our world is being controlled by an external agent. Foucault was one of the first to see the conceptions of things like modern health and sexuality as ways of controlling the masses (i.e. through institutions); was this observation, perhaps, a way to modulate human consciousness and thus peoples' experience of reality?

This argument is not extensive, but it helps put into perspective the human accounts of reality. Orwellian thought-control becomes a very real thing when consciousness is seen as controlled by authorities, who could very well have sinister motives for allowing or disallowing substances. Perhaps this is the way of exploiting a ubiquitous unstable reality, one in which all we have is our own conceptions, our own calculations and selective re-creations of things. Existentially, solipsism leaves us isolated and alone - what if we could attain some form of collective consciousness through organic hallucinogens or other means? Is this being prohibited so as we can serve as the means to an end for those in power? The very comment seems so far-fetched, so counter-intuitive that the average reader will turn away, perhaps even laugh, at the prospect of drug promotion; this, when it is considered that plants have been an integral part of human communities for thousands fo years, simply demonstrates just how conditioned peoples' thoughts are in the modern era. But, to move on to a conclusion: the networks of thought and ideas this topic creates are endless and leave us baffled and alone in a world of our own creation; it does, however, raise important questions, which I think more people should address. To do this, humans en masse need to look past the universal social mores they have clung to for so long, and perhaps ask themselves what is really absurd in this existence.


T. Mautner, Dictionary of Philosophy, Penguin, 2005

A. Hobson, The Dream Drugstore: chemically altered states of consciousness, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 2001

Friday, February 26, 2010

Me, Talking to You

T o converse and to convey ideas to one another; to feel the direct emotional chemistry between you and them and to intuit all that you can and to feel them doing the same toward you. This is, essentially, all there is - and in a very literal sense. Caught up in the distant and not so distant past, brooding over the vast future; this is how many of our lives have been constructed. But as I talk to you you listen to my words, or in this case read them, and as they enter your mind they rise and then fall away again, becoming only the thin mist that constitutes human communication. The memory of a conversation can take many routes, but not matter which it chooses it will never be a recitation; it will only be a reconstruction of what once was: of a moment that arose and fell. Right now, this is happening; and as soon as you dispose of each word I write, it too is released from the moment. It is no longer. You can read back on the words and convince yourself that it's the same; but it isn't, for the moment has changes as it always does. A series of moments unto death, each moment determined in somewhat chaotic fashion by you. Or perhaps not - this is debatable. Undeniable is the instant, the flow of time which cannot be separated, cannot be truly divided. It would be like dividing portions of a river. Abstractions are hours, minutes, even moments - for conventionally, these words must be used to convey ideas. Without them there is simply a feeling, perhaps a knowing, perhaps more. It seems plausible that, today, we have been removed from the moment. Though this is an illusion. We cannot be removed from it; what we can do is deny ourselves the truth of this moment; we can think we are not in it except when we're immersed in some activity, or we can say we're far from it when we're bored or have time to "waste" - but these are abstractions. Always we are there, following the flow of what we have deemed "time". All is constantly falling and rising up, being and not-being, becoming and dying: me, talking to you. Something to ponder, perhaps.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Stream of Consciousness (I)

People tend to lean back, relax and say that this is this and that is that. But then we take a look at a thing called memory and it didn't make any sense because it ain't in sync with a dream because, quite frankly, dreams are as vague as memories. We look at them and say, well, this appears to be quite vague, but this on the other hand, seems to be quite, fucking, clear! Negative sense, old friend. Now my main argument: I am sick of looking at the people I love and saying you could do better. I feel ashamed, like a pretentious cunt. Fuck. But what if they could do better? I have a weird point here. What if it is your love for them that fuels the degrading notion? See, we could simply be acting, somewhat unconsciously, in favour of...the sweet sound in my ears right now. A whole new point; your intuition was correct. It vibrates in my ears, swinging back and forth in the thick trees. This is it. This is how it must be, because you have yourself arrived here. I am aware, now, that this is simply jibberish; but look closer, look me in the eyes and tell me that this isn't happening? You have nothing. "High times," this song is called. Maybe I should have used a capital in "times". Shit. Where have we found ourselves now? Which planet now, old boy? Voice floats through me via me entire system of veins. Beautiful youth and innocence, but power and beligerence at the same time. I don't want to think about his death. But it makes me so sad. Didn't even know the guy; but you could say I did in a way. The music if friggin' loud! But it's in my ears, so it can't be heard by anyone but me! How's that? A little bit softer than the old stuff; but not musically, it's just the tone of his voice. Like a kid's defence mechanisms. But there's more to it than that, Chris; how can you type so fucking fast? Tell me that. It's like in every one word you have instilled a thousand meanings, purely to befuddle me. Jesus, man. What is it that drivs you to act this way, and is it within the normal realm, or the realm outside of your conscious experience. And then, looking about so spaced, he asked himself: what was it that I was going to type here as a question that was humerous? Phew. Glad that's over. How can you radiate emotion with your fingertips? I have seen them, the great ones in my realm, and I feel them within me, consulting my morality or my love - or my death. Something is happening here. It feels like wildfire, and I do not know what to tell people when their eyes beg me so conspicuously. You know what you're doing, but I feel as a human in Ancient Greece: life orchestrated by the gods. What is this strange thing we're in? And that I quote from the collective unconscious. I swear he had reason and a point; this is not to be overlooked. You know, originally, I was just going to stick to the one topic, but then of course my neuromodulators became altered; something was inhibited, or accelerated, and then I was right there, right where I am now. Dopamine is prbobaly involved. See, there are a few neurotransmitters that are involved in all altered states of consciousness. These are acetylcholine, dopamine, norepinephrine and another one which I can't remember quite now. All altered states. This means that what drugs essentially do is "change" our neurotransmitter intake or uptake, in an arbitrary way. Well, maybe not arbitrary, but similar to the changes that occur throughout waking life, hypnagogy, sleep and hypnopompy. So it's just a new kind of change, an unnatural one. But what is natural, or unnatural? Who are we to invest meaning into all things, like a wild tribe, like the savage past. How I would love to show people a display of myself, a person transmitting signals from the tabooed existential; like a primal person. A laugh, that would be! See, because people do not contemplate en masse. They sit back and are distracted, like other animals, and do not sit back and really think about the intricacy, inexplicability, awesome enigma of what it is that we're doing when we live. This profoundly acute glitch in thought produces some of the most awesome human affects known. Laymen do not feel that need to understand, to feel what it is when the wind hits. Who is this man in front of me? I see hands typing, but not man before them. Never will I be able to look at myself in the flesh? Fuck. I just had a fucked thought. I focussed in on the thought it my mind, the thought was of my eyes. Imagine, reader, your face. You have never seen your face. Ever. Your eyes, my friend, have never, ever laid eyes on your face. Or, for that matter, the back of your body. You have never, ever seen the back of your body. Most people, nowadays, would accuse you of insanity at this thought; but this is not a moral tug of war, it is an exposition. We seem to so often claim that what is real in the world is only real because it is observable and thus understandable. But what about ourselves? We cannot even look directly at ourselves, we can only scrutinise others with our gazes. what do we do in the face of this? No gin anymore! DO we pretend to be sane? The word that means loss of linear though (or some such thing)? I look around occasionally and think to myself, everyone seems, in a mysterious way, to be mentally ill-poised. They have a severe imbalance which impedes on their lives, but it's normal and accepted. So much pride. Why is it there? Humans seem to prefer dead bodies to conceding a point. I just thought of the love that stirs inside of me when I think of the pointlessness of a beautiful musician. I do not believe it. I know it is right, but I cannot believe it. If I did, I would see no reason to be here, owing to my inevitable destruction, so I would promptly leave. Or, as could also happen, I would fail to have the balls to leave. Oh, God; it's that masculine thing. Again, fucking evolutionary residue. Not my fault! But who am I to say. My leg hurts now, so I'm going to go ahead and sign off sometime soon. Nothing personal, baby. This one just ain't on the level. It ain't my fault.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Delivery Boy (a reconstructed and reflected-upon memory)

The porch of my home on a weekday. I'm waiting and the sun is out, people walk by but they're mainly older people or mothers with their children. I called a long time ago; the driver is late. My gut aches and groans at me, yearning for the margherita and possibly (but who really knows) the garlic bread. I grow annoyed in my naivety and curse the shop I ordered it from. Childish hissy fit. Irrational and ill-thought through.

Finally he arrives, chugging past in a noisy sedan. Finally, I think, as if it meant that much. The dog probably barked, or at least nudged the side gate. Maybe even growled at the foreign footsteps and voice.

All feelings of hunger leave me as an old man approaches me. I feel intimidating, seated comfortably on my porch like this. Some sort of primeval territorialism; defence of the home fort or some shit. Residual traits, no longer valued en masse. God, I think, staring at the hobbling old codger; this man has to be at least sixty, and he's delivering pizzas. His sunken eyes draw more than pity from me. I feel ashamed.

Gidday, he says. I return the genial greeting and continue to stare at the man, somewhat perplexed. He recites my order, probably just as he was trained to. I'm not judging you, old man. I'm searching around in your mind, trying to find the origins of what's on the outside. Something gloomy is going on here. He trembles like washing line in the wind.

I pay him and he rummages his bum-bag for change. It's taking him a long time and when I vividly imagine the reactions some people may have given this man in the past, I grow sorrowful. My compassion, at this moment, rests solely with this man; though on a grander scale, on the macrocosm mirorring this situation, I feel sadness for all those like this man. And then I regret my pity and label it presumptuous. For what if this man loves his job? Is that sadder, I think, or not?

He finally produces the right coinage before re-zipping the bum-bag, which is strapped tightly to his waist. His appearance causes strings to be pulled behind my eyes, at the top of which are puppeteers laughing at me for being so soft. Tears feel imminent, though I cannot pinpoint exactly why. In retrospect, it is far clearer; but in the right then, my intuitions had freer reign and the symptoms were barely repressable. Old man, what has landed you on my front porch, fumbling with your eye-glasses trying to read the receipt, the hat sporting your employer's logo hanging limply to the side of your head?

I give thanks and watch the figure exit my property. Just one in a sea of many, I say to myself. I feel arrogant because it feels as if I think I'm "better". I do not. But there seem faculties missing; valuable functions which so many seem to have lost or missed out on or...who knows? I cannot feel this pity any longer, I exclaim to myself. Compassion, it may be, could be the end of me. Drivelling statues in a godless world. Figures of yore would look upon these days with shame. Who fashioned this mess?

I eat the pizza and think of the old man, squinting through the windshield of his car on his way to the next delivery destination. He sees eyes in the revision mirror and the eyes return the look, which is one of suppressed pride and recognition of what supposedly must be. Did that boy look at me, an old man far his senior in both age and wisdom, with pity? And the thought gnaws away at him; it inspires rage inside of him because it is as if something has happened which is outside his own control. Posterity, he says, is doomed to arrogance. The wisdom of elders will remain obstinate until the day he dies, while I remain at my house, eating a greasy pizza and feeling sorry for an old man who has been forced into becoming a pizza delivery boy.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Drug-induced Introspection

At around one o’clock this morning I decided to roll and smoke half a joint. After doing so, I sat by my computer, listening to music (mainly Elliott Smith) and thinking relatively normal thoughts . After some time (probably a few minutes), in which I mostly just stared at the computer screen, listened to the music, and fiddled with things (not uncommon, judging from my past experiences of being stoned), I found myself sinking into a trance-like state of introspection and philosophical reflection. Without realising it, my blinks grew longer and longer, until my eyes remained completely closed. This did not bring about sleep, however, but rather served to block any visual stimuli, allowing my mind, brain, mental faculty (whichever you choose to call it) to fall deeper into this euphoric, deeply-thoughtful state, unimpeded. Once or twice I snapped out of this state and found myself staring blankly at the computer screen, wondering what it was that had left me feeling so deeply affected. My short-term memory was extremely inhibited, hence why I could not recall much of what I was thinking about when my eyes had been closed. However, when I did snap out, I was immediately enticed back into it by the profound feelings of existential insight which had remained in my memory as residue. These feelings were so intense and inflicted such an impact on me that, despite their vagueness and the fear they aroused, I was inexorably drawn back to them.

I cannot recall how long I was in this state for, although I can recall—albeit with a high degree of ambiguity—the content of my thoughts. The magnitude of the ideas I was enquiring into, combined with the near-complete loss of short-term memory functioning, created an inner chaos which makes the thoughts themselves hard to recollect.

I imagined myself, eyes closed, sitting on a chair in front of my computer. I then zoomed out of this picture, imagining the house around me; after this, I imagined the city, the earth, and so forth. Eventually, I arrived at complete incomprehension; for there was no answer to space in the picture I had created. I thought of one thing next to another, next to another, until there was no more room for things; but this could not suffice, for it failed to answer the question of space and the extent of space. If the world is energy, I thought, then all things are in flux within…within what? I thought. Within what?

One of the times I snapped out, I noticed the amazing apprehension I felt when I considered returning to the introspective state. It was, in fact, more than apprehension; it was a kind of existential anxiety. To attempt to comprehend all things was not only fruitless, but had created the feeling of dread described extensively throughout philosophical/existential literature. What was I? And in retrospect, what am I? If there is a world out there which cannot be comprehended or explained—which, at the times, seemed the only answer—then how can one deal with existing in it? Then came the question of existence.

Why do I exist? Why does anything exist? As I sat, almost catatonic, thinking so deeply about these existential issues that I was barely aware of being at all, I asked these questions. In a way, they can be re-directed; it can simply be asked, why does existence exist? What exactly is it to be something?; for aren’t we simply a number of intricate processes, all happening at once and hence all working together to form what people call an “I”? But each little process is nothing; I had created a schema in my mind which stated this. I could look at my arm and know blood was pumping through the veins within it—but how could this have anything to do with me? The notion of awareness threw me into consternation.

Any teleological explanation to life ceased to exist for me at this time. The word “purpose” meant nothing at all, for there was no such notion that was plausible. Again, I thought of every thing in existence, even contemplating those which humans are not aware of, of those things beyond space which are yet to be found; and they all contributed to the despair I felt at being a living thing, let alone one as complicated as a human.

The idea of a divine architect crossed my mind at one point. But, I thought, if there were a divine architect, then what have they made, and how could they possibly have made all things? The idea of there being both “all things” as well as a “divine architect” could not logically coalesce in my reasoning. For how can “all things” be created, when at no point in time do “all things” exist? Furthermore, how could a creator create something with no bounds (which, at this time in my thought, seemed to be the case). If the realm of existence in its entirety is not boundless, then what is beyond its bounds? The answer was a question, and the question made no sense!

I was aware that the only way to attempt to explain such things was through contradictory statements. Yet my thoughts wandered on, visiting the confronting realms of death, of everyday life, of love and loss. The extent to which my mind was able to roam free cannot be adequately conveyed through writing. It is to be noted, also, that this was one of the few times I have been able to confront such disturbing concepts without falling into an anxious state, or a state of outright fear. Usually, my being would have it that I react with fright and pain—ultimately, with mental immobility, as if to ward off the incomprehensible demons of intellect. But this time I faced them with respectful awe, still feeling the horror and absolute fear but able to see past them to the ideas at hand. To accept the situation. Whether or not the drug contributed to this feeling of ease is debatable.

Part of the success of this introspection and deep thought, I believe, is to be attributed to the lack of awareness I felt. When one is so immersed in ontological and metaphysical thought, when the eyes are closed and the body unmoving, it is easier to reflect on one’s existential state without distraction. I could see myself, in that chair, with the glow of the screen on my face; but more than this, I could envision all of the things around me, extending far off into the celestial sphere and beyond. These things were, of course, ever-changing and never could I see an holistic, stable picture of existence; the earth was a mere bubble of life within a system of things that I could only touch upon, which awed me to the point of heartache.

Obviously, the drug I had taken probably contributed to my state; but to try to attribute the experience to the drug and the drug alone is insufficient, and to bring it into question is to create another train of thought which can be discussed elsewhere. The underlying theme of the state I experienced was one of human reflection, and reflection on human reflection. Why, as a species, we are able to do this is an everlasting enquiry; it leads to the same pinnacle of mystery that all other paths lead to. One cannot see this peak, however, as it is veiled by clouds. Deep reflection upon this reveals the true magnitude of the human situation.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Dora and thoughts on Freud's "transference"

When Freud encountered unexpected troubles with one of his neurotic female patients, eighteen-year-old Dora, he was forced to revise and reconsider his notion of transference (one of the biggest obstacles encountered by Freud and psychoanalysis in accessing unconscious material). Transference, in this sense, is “a process by which unconscious wishes and impulses show up in a social situation, most notably the analytic situation.”

Freud had interpreted Dora's dreams (unconscious material) as sexually suggestive, thus leading to Dora assigning Freud the same role as she did Mr K, a man Dora was pressured into being intimately involved with by her adulterous father (who was having an affair with Mrs K); but Dora resisted Mr K's incitements, namely by slapping him. Lear argues that the reason the analysis failed was because Freud took this erroneous approach, which led to Dora seeing Freud as sexually invasive – a seducer like Mr K.

According to Lear, Dora incorporates this seducer figure into her subjective world in a unique way. Rather than simply transferring emotional remnants and desires across from the past and into the analytic situation (as Freud saw it), she is treating the elements of her external reality as fixed. By assigning Freud a role, which he inadvertently fills, she can exercise certain anxiety defense mechanisms (anger outbursts) to impede on his attempts at analysing her (just as she did to avoid confronting the anxiety-producing situation brought on by Mr K’s advancements). Dora is unable to cope with the anxiety brought about by such situations; she has never developed this ability, and it remains as it was when she was a child – she merely averts it by reacting angrily.

Lear notes that Dora "quells her own anxiety, calms herself, by experiencing the world in a famliar pattern." So people in her life occupy fixed positions, and thus Freud is experiencing his patient projecting onto him not only single desires and emotions, but an entire paradigmatic and subjective world structure. Freud is now occupying one of those fixed positions, namely that of Mr K. Dora's creation of this "idiosyncratic world", in regards to her psychoanalysis, essentially prevents her having to face her anxieties (note that she abruptly ceased treatment from Freud some months after starting it). Dora is treating Freud in a similar way to Mr K: in response to Mr K's approaches, Dora slaps him, and this parallels Dora's breaking off from Freud's treatment; as soon as anxiety begins to seep into her fixed world, there emerges a certain defence mechanism to subdue it.

The revised form of transference, however, appreciates that an entire network, a defensive minefield for anxiety threats, is at work; and that to help the patient realise this, the analyst must let them discover - through their own associations - that they are seeing the analyst as fulfilling a certain role in their life. When this is realised, the patient brings up their own unconscious material, unimpeded by the prodding of the analyst. Dora is not transferring emotion directly, as Freud originally understood it; she is stepping in and blocking the emotion through childish outbursts, thus not allowing the emotion to emerge at all. The task Lear assigns the analyst in this new light is to incite recognition in the patient that they are in fact creating this approach and these figures, not only in the doctor, but throughout their entire world. This information is then appropriated by the patient.

What of this concept today? Despite Freud's general lack of credibility in the modern age, many of his ideas have been worked through and expanded upon, just as Lear has in his book Freud - it has even been argued that the psychoanalytic approach will eventually become substantiated through the discovery of organic bases to many of its ideas. The notion of a kind of archetypal world, one in which all things play a role assigned to them by the subject, holds some credibility in my view. Isn't stability something humans all over the world strive for? We seem to seek permanence, when there is none (see the Buddhist notion of impermanence), constantly striving to hold still that which cannot help but move. The aforementioned example of Lear's revised transference implies a pathological stabilising of the world via assigning ever-changing figures archetypal roles - roles which fit into a comfortable subjective schema of the world and thus provide a harbinger against anxiety. But this is does not come free of charge. Of course, assigning people roles which one has assigned to others will not work, because they are not this other, no matter how much they think them to be. This is why Dora slaps Mr K, and also why she breaks with Freud. The aim is for the patient to realise this for themselves by eventually seeing their own words and actions as repetitions of their worldly ideals.

Do you ever feel like you're simply filling a role someone has assigned you? Has there ever been a time when you've felt that someone has (perhaps unconsciously) judged you and placed you into a kind of category? If your answer is yes to either of these questions, which I imagine it would be in most cases, then perhaps the concept of transference is alive and kicking today, albeit in a varied form from Freud's traditional concept. By incorporating a pseudo-stable world, are people sating their anxieties, or merely conjuring a world of trouble - or both? "You are this kind of subject in my world," one says - perhaps assigning a father figure, a lover, a teacher. When transference is portrayed in this light, one cannot help but think of Sartre's "Look" from the Other, or even Jung's archetypes - but that opens up a fresh strain of thought, which is perhaps best left for another discussion. In conclusion, I think we can safely conclude that Lear's revision of transference is more feasible than Freud's, with due respect to the original conception, and that it is perhaps still an observable and important phenomenon in psychopathology.


Lear, J, Freud, Routledge, New York and London, 2005

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Test Post

To make sure ye ol' blog is working...