This is a trial run of an affiliate business I am opening up. I need to work out the kinks to see exactly how this is going to work. I’m not asking you to do anything, but you can comment if you like.
The ebay link below ending in NR1enb would be the order link that would take them to the full page from which they would order. More testing to come. Thank you for bearing with me as I sort this out.
(A I didn’t plagiarize this; I did. Well, not really, if I give props to who did write this. His name is Steven Pressfield from his Writing Wednesday newsletter. I’m only using a passage as a prompt to tackle the same issue he does, but hopefully from a different perspective.)
[To begin with, I am not in any sort of ‘therapy.’ I am not seeing a psychotherapist. That being stated, let’s move on to what Steven says about his Wilderness Passage]
Most of us are familiar with Jung’s term “individuation.” It was, Jung always said, the goal and the object of any therapy exercise.
In “the talking cure,” we work with a psychotherapist to explore the content of our unconscious to strangle away all false or delusory selves to ultimately arrive at our true individuated selves.
In real life, the world kicks the crap out of us until we arrive at the same place.
The person in therapy seeks to answer the question, “Who am I?” And to take it to the next level: “How do I become that? How do I become who I already am?”
A Wilderness Passage is a real-world version of psychotherapy in our real lives for ourselves or in our fiction for a character we have created. It’s the psychotherapy of hard knocks.
Are we struggling with anxiety, depression, isolation, PTSD, and addiction (of all kinds)? Are we a writer who doesn’t write, a painter who doesn’t paint, an entrepreneur who never starts a business? All these, if you ask me, are versions of the same question:
“Who am I?”
As I recently stated about myself, I am not broken, nor am I in recovery. I am exploring a path that, as I travel it, will determine if I can accomplish what I am setting out to learn.
I have ‘A Story’ that I have written. Considering all its parameters, it’s a good story, maybe a fantastic account. But that doesn’t make me a writer.
I also have always wanted to own my own business. Do I, at 78, have the wherewithal to put that want to into practice?
Neither of those two purposes is asking the question, “Who Am I?” I am not looking to find myself. I am who I am. Now who I am to somebody else might be ‘individuated’ but its for them to determine, not I. Now to the young lady I in a moments notice hurriedly drove down to Union Station I might be her knight in shining armor. To my grandkids, I’m Granpa. For my fledgling marigold sprouts, 18 of em’, I’m a fledgling gardener. But in all these things, I am me. No mystery exists.
Or So We Think
9 of us siblings, the last being born 60 years ago, have been reduced to 5, and amongst the five, some of us ain’t doing so well healthwise, as it is.
Our youngest sister died a few days ago, one week after her husband died. What and how they died is not on my mind right now.
You might be mistaken to think that a death in the family would draw the family closer together. You couldn’t be farther from the truth.
We all have had trials of pain and suffering. We all have overcome considerable pain and suffering in our own way. I would say we have all been scarred along the way.
There are no heroes, only survivors.
Only a miracle could bring about reconciliation, but reconciliation is not on any bodies mind right now. And may never be. You don’t say you’re okay with that. You keep on walking. You have your own heart to care for.
I read recently that John Kass, who used to write for the Chicago Tribune, may have quoted someone else saying, “We’re all broken.” Then again, I listened to a Christian program on the radio, and they stated, “We’re all in recovery.”
I’m neither “broken” nor in “recovery.”
What they are doing with their word games is trying to equalize us by bringing down the ‘well’ folks and raising up the not-so-well folks. My answer is, SPEAK FOR YOURSELVES. I may play crazy to distance myself from certain people, but back when I pled not guilty because of insanity, I am as sane as anybody and intelligent beyond (oh, what’s a good word to put here) most. My memory might be crowded, and I don’t recall, was my IQ in the 140s or (low) 150s. Whatever, but I’m not broken, nor, as I stated, in recovery.
I could go on, but why belabor the point.
I’m enjoying a rainy Sunday afternoon, 7 blocks off the shores of Lake Michigan and as many blocks from the streets of Chicago. On July 4th, I will have lived in this location for 37 years. It has been 45 years since I left prison for the LAST TIME. And today is the date, 52 years ago, when I last committed any dreadful illegalities. I thought it was God’s humour when I was placed by Kelly’s Services to work in a Bank (15 feet from the vault) as an accounting clerk. When the bond check arrived, I soon departed, but it was a few months later. But, as they say, I digress. Happy 4th, the Band celebration from Washington D. C is on PBS at 7pm. Tuesday night.
Actually, I’m quite content with it raining all day. 1) The drought we have been under. 2) I don’t think they can race today. 3) The Cubs can use a break from losing once again. 4) Nae’r do wells are less inclined to rob, steal and carjack. 5) On the plus side, Mary’s many gardens need water, and cars could use a natural bath. And most of all, maybe, our air conditioner is on the verge of burning up, and the rain will keep the temps in the 70s (plus cooler by the lake).
Already, I need a 2nd cup of coffee, and I didn’t even drink the 1st cup before it went cold on me.
Dick Biondi died. I have an autographed picture of him that one of my daughters acquired at one of his appearances many years ago. Another icon of my teenage years. Had you asked me, I could not have said with assurance whether he was alive.
I fed this to AI and asked them to rewrite it with emotion. It’s not that much different than what I had written.
It was January 12th, 1978 and I was just one day away from freedom. After six and a half long years behind bars, even the thought of living in a halfway house felt like a breath of fresh air. I had gone before the parole board five times during my sentence, but my last attempt in October 1977 had been denied once again. My maximum release date was September 1978 and after all the years that had passed, I could wait another eight months.
But something inside me refused to accept this latest denial. I filed an appeal with the Regional Parole Board in Kansas City – the same people who had denied me in the first place. My chances of getting them to change their minds were slim, but I had a plan. I wrote to as many correspondents as I could and asked them to write letters to the parole board on my behalf. The list was substantial – a few hundred people – most of whom I had established correspondence with while in prison after becoming a Christian.
Two months passed and I was still waiting to hear from Kansas City. Prayers were being sent up to God continuously by everyone. In early December, my caseworker Mr. John Conte called me into his office. The parole board had called and said “Tell Thomson to call off the dogs. They had gotten the point.” Over three hundred letters had poured into their office supporting my parole.
On December 19th, my counselor came to my cell. “I have worked for the Bureau of Prisons for ten years and have never seen one of these,” he said, referring to the letter in his hands. The parole board had changed their minds and granted me parole with a release date of January 13th to a halfway house! I looked at the calendar and saw that I would be released on Friday the 13th. Jokingly, I suggested that I would probably get run over by a truck. But I’m not superstitious – any misfortune would come on the 13th; it came that night on the 12th.
Mr. Conte called me into his office again. “We have a problem,” he said. The Associate Warden, Ed Arbogast, had advised the warden not to allow me to go to the halfway house. Mr. Arbogast had been a guard at Marion, IL in 1965-67 – the years that I was incarcerated there. I didn’t remember him, but apparently, I had made an impression on him.
“No,” I said, “we don’t have a problem; I have a problem. You’re going home tonight; I’m staying here.” Dejectedly, I called Mary and told her the disappointing news. She asked me how I felt and I told her that I wanted to tear the place up. In the past, when I had felt this powerlessness before, I had torn the place up.
I tried to pray but it seemed like hopelessness had invaded my heart once again. Mr. Conte had said that my record showed that I hadn’t made it upon previous releases – why would this time be any different? He used the example of a racehorse that always lost – would you bet on a loser? But I told him that I wasn’t a horse – I was a man and men can change.
Mr. Conte said that in the morning, I would have to interview with Mr. Robert Thompson – the Halfway House Administrator – who would then make his recommendation to the warden.
Mr. Thompson was the son of a Baptist minister so at least he would understand belief in redemption. What could make a difference? Even I had to admit that my record wasn’t lying – after previous releases, I hadn’t stayed out long – but this time was different because now I was trusting in God for my future.
When Paul was brought before the Roman tribunal as a Roman citizen, God gave him the words to say and that had always been my trust in past occasions when speaking before judges or parole boards – God would give me the words to say.
After all, it’s not what you say but what the Holy Spirit does with what you say.
After our interview, Mr. Thompson did not indicate what his recommendation would be so aimlessly, while waiting for his decision, I joined a group of prisoners playing cards.
Received message. Here is a revised version of your story with a more emotional tone: It was January 12th, 1978 and I was just one day away from freedom. After six and a half long years behind bars, even the thought of living in a halfway house felt like a breath of fresh air. I had gone before the parole board five times during my sentence, but my last attempt in October 1977 had been denied once again. My maximum release date was September 1978 and after all the years that had passed, I could wait another eight months. But something inside me refused to accept this latest denial. I filed an appeal with the Regional Parole Board in Kansas City – the same people who had denied me in the first place. My chances of getting them to change their minds were slim, but I had a plan. I wrote to as many correspondents as I could and asked them to write letters to the parole board on my behalf. The list was substantial – a few hundred people – most of whom I had established correspondence with while in prison after becoming a Christian. Two months passed and I was still waiting to hear from Kansas City. Prayers were being sent up to God continuously by everyone. In early December, my caseworker Mr. John Conte called me into his office. The parole board had called and said “Tell Thomson to call off the dogs. They had gotten the point.” Over three hundred letters had poured into their office supporting my parole. On December 19th, my counselor came to my cell. “I have worked for the Bureau of Prisons for ten years and have never seen one of these,” he said, referring to the letter in his hands. The parole board had changed their minds and granted me parole with a release date of January 13th to a halfway house! I looked at the calendar and saw that I would be released on Friday the 13th. Jokingly, I suggested that I would probably get run over by a truck. But I’m not superstitious – any misfortune would come on the 13th; it came that night on the 12th. Mr. Conte called me into his office again. “We have a problem,” he said. The Associate Warden, Ed Arbogast, had advised the warden not to allow me to go to the halfway house. Mr. Arbogast had been a guard at Marion, IL in 1965-67 – the years that I was incarcerated there. I didn’t remember him, but apparently, I had made an impression on him. “No,” I said, “we don’t have a problem; I have a problem. You’re going home tonight; I’m staying here.” Dejectedly, I called Mary and told her the disappointing news. She asked me how I felt and I told her that I wanted to tear the place up. In the past, when I had felt this powerlessness before, I had torn the place up. I tried to pray but it seemed like hopelessness had invaded my heart once again. Mr. Conte had said that my record showed that I hadn’t made it upon previous releases – why would this time be any different? He used the example of a racehorse that always lost – would you bet on a loser? But I told him that I wasn’t a horse – I was a man and men can change. Mr. Conte said that in the morning, I would have to interview with Mr. Robert Thompson – the Halfway House Administrator – who would then make his recommendation to the warden. Mr. Thompson was the son of a Baptist minister so at least he would understand belief in redemption. What could make a difference? Even I had to admit that my record wasn’t lying – after previous releases, I hadn’t stayed out long – but this time was different because now I was trusting in God for my future. When Paul was brought before the Roman tribunal as a Roman citizen, God gave him the words to say, and that had always been my trust in past occasions when speaking before judges or parole boards – God would give me the words to say. After all, it’s not what you say but what the Holy Spirit does with what you say. After our interview, Mr. Thompson did not indicate his recommendation, so aimlessly, while waiting for his decision, I joined a group of prisoners playing cards.
Thomson's Home Emporium 