Sunday, September 26, 2010

On The Couch With Sock Monkey



SM: We’re going to try something a little different today.

WO: Isn’t that what normally happens?

SM: Haha.

WO: Including your sarcastic laugh?

SM: Haha.

WO: Twice?

(At this point in the transcript, there is a lengthy pause, a curt simian cough, and a prolonged repressed snigger.)

SM: Today, you get to be the analyst.

(Another long pause, this time filled with the sound of WO’s eyebrows stretching the skin on his forehead into a thin, pink film in an arc two feet above his face.)

SM: Therapist, specialist, call it what you will...

WO: I’d call it ‘weirdo monkey guy’.

SM: Why, thank you. I’ll change the sign over the door.

WO: But you’re kidding, right?

SM: Monkeys do not kid. If monkeys kad, gorillas would goat.

WO: Point taken. But what’s the point of the analyst thing?

SM: I hope to deduce more about your mental state, the underlying cause of your cripplingly disturbed mind, from questions you ask me, based on your perceptions of who you think I am.

WO: So — business as usual, but I get to wear the pants?

SM: Hrmmmph. In the world of analysis, there are no such ‘pants’, as you call them. You may be paying me a hundred quid a session and in most respects, your every thought and action is carefully directed by my analytical whims, like an actor reciting his lines on cue, but at the end of the day, we meet as equals.

WO: So, let me get this straight — you’re saying that for the rest of the session, I can direct your every thought and action with my analytical whims?

SM: Of course you can’t: you’re a half-wit.

WO: You think I can’t think of anything appropriate to ask you?

SM: Inappropriate, yes — and necessarily revealing.

WO: For a hundred quid, it bloody well better be. Lie down.

SM: What?

WO: This is my clinic now and I want you prone, like in the movies.

SM: What movies?

(Here, a brief pause of about this length ensues. No...more like this.)

WO: Tarzan.

SM: An analyst scene? In a Tarzan movie?

WO: It was dark. I don’t remember.

SM: Intriguing that you should watch Tarzan movies in the dark. Was it Ely, Weissmuller or Crabbe?

WO: You expect me to differentiate between Tarzans when I don’t even remember the name of the film, where I was, what happened in the scene, whether Tarzan fought crocodiles in quicksand or hunters in — waitaminute, it was Dustin Hoffman.

SM: Don’t be ridiculous. Hoffman never played Tarzan. You must be thinking of Little Big Man.

WO: No, no — it’s a classic analyst scene. He’s lying down, I’m sure of it. I can see the couch and everything.

SM: So, I’m lying down because you’ve seen an “analyst movie” where Dustin Hoffman lies on a couch?

WO: Spot on.

(We hear a petulant hrmmmph and the crinkle of monkey fur on beaten leather)

WO: Yes. Perfect. Oooh, it’s like playing Doctors and Nurses.

SM: Thank heaven it’s Tarzan and not Tootsie.

WO: You look like a Roman emperor, only furry.

SM: I’m a masterful recliner. Now get on with it.

WO: So, what kind of thing should I ask?

SM: The ball’s in your court: you’re the analyst.

WO: Like Laurence Olivier, yes.

SM: What?

WO: Like Laurence Olivier, in the film. He was Hoffman’s analyst.

SM: If you’re going to come over all Thespian Analyst, stick to the ridiculous posturing. Any thees, thys or thous and you’re out of the door.

WO: Let me think. Hmmmm. Tricky.

SM: Anything. Just say anything. First thing that comes into your head.

WO: Can I take a look in your mouth?

SM: What the hell kind of question is that?

WO: It’s in the film—

SM: The analyst Tarzan Hoffman film?

WO: Yes. Olivier — that’s me — is bent over Hoffman, looking into his mouth.

SM: Sure you’re not thinking of Caligula with Tony Curtis?

WO: Certain. It’s no Roman bathtub we’re in, it’s a proper analysis place, a whatchamacall it?

SM: My competitors call it a consulting room. I prefer the term Psyche Boutique.

WO: Whatever, this place looks like a dentist’s surgery, only dark, very dark.

SM: Film Noire, I’ll wager. No wonder you couldn’t remember which Tarzan it was. Anyhow, to answer your question, yes, you can look in my mouth. As Olivier, please. This is most revealing.

WO: Okay, so Olivier — me — leans in and says, bloody hell, what’s that on your tongue?

SM: What’s what?

WO: It’s like a lump.

SM: What kind of lump?

WO: A polyhedron kind of lump.

SM: Pack joking. What kind of lump?

WO: A lump kind of lump — purple, the size of a lentil, right at the back on the left. Can’t you feel it?

SM: No.

WO: Here, give me your tongue, I’ll show you.

SM: What do you think I am? A Chameleon? Get a mirror.

WO: So the Whirl-as-analyst game is over?

SM: Yes. I could be dying. Make haste.

WO: But we can continue with it next time?

SM: Yes. Anything, yes.

WO: With me as Olivier, you as Hoffman, and the couch as...Different Couch?

SM: Anything, yes, yes. So where’s this lump? Where is it? I can’t see a thing.

WO: It’s right at the back, there. On the left by — no waitaminute, have you been eating chili con carne?

SM: Kidney Bean Hongrois, actually. What of it?

WO: There’s a bit of purple bean skin stuck to your tongue.

SM: So, I’m not dying?

WO: You never were. But if you’d carried on with the theatrics, you might have been in trouble. Talking of which, when we play the analyst game again next time, do you want me to dig out some lines from the film? The more I think about it, the more it seems to resonate with me. I’ll research, dig out the DVD.

SM: As long as you’re sure it’s not the Curtis, anything’s fine by me. I’m alive is all, I’m alive.

WO: So, same time next week?

SM: Yes. And same Bat Channel...

7 comments:

Old Kitty said...

Is it safe?

Take care
x

Whirlochre said...

Nothing involving Sock Monkey is safe.

fairyhedgehog said...

So, is analysts and analysands going to catch on as the latest craze then?

Whirlochre said...

It'll blow the yoyo right out of the water...

writtenwyrdd said...

Delightfully strange conversation.

McKoala said...

This was kind of like the last ever episode of Ghost Whisperer.

Whirlochre said...

Sad news, of course, is that Tony Curtis died shortly after this was posted.

In my youth, I was a big fan of Curtis, mainly because I used to sit and watch a lot of films from the 50s and 60s with my Dad — westerns with Woody Strode, crap spy films and the like.

Along with Yul Brynner, Curtis was one of my favourites. They just did it different in those days.