Libido. One of the definitions of the word is:
all of the instinctual energies and desires that are derived from the id.
Id is defined as
the part of the psyche, residing in the unconscious, that is the source of instinctive impulses that seek satisfaction in accordance with the pleasure principle and are modified by the ego and the superego before they are given overt expression.
Pleasure principal is:
instinctive seeking of pleasure and avoiding of pain to satisfy biological and psychological needs.
I find it interesting to explore the relationships between id, ego, pleasure principal, libido, etc., etc. because the entire mass of ideas is based not necessarily on reliable, verifiable, demonstrably valid data but, instead, on interpretations that are influenced by assumptions and beliefs. In other words, it’s all conjured by our minds as we attempt to understand things that may be unknowable. We may never truly grasp what drives us to think, feel, want, dislike, etc., etc. But we prefer to think we know, even when we don’t or can’t. The word “instinctive” is interesting in connection with the definition of “pleasure principal” because it acknowledges (or asserts) that we do not control certain of our urges but, rather, are controlled by them. We’re animals, in other words, just like other animals. We’re creatures just like birds that fly north and south during specific seasons; if we had wings, we might migrate without thinking of why we are doing it. “We just have to fly; it’s an instinctual urge.”
I do not know just why these thoughts are on my mind this morning. Perhaps it’s simply instinct that drives me to think the way I do. But maybe humans’ instincts are groomed and cultivated by what we think are our more advanced intellects. But maybe not. I’m enamored of the possibility of knowing “why” in almost every situation, every circumstance. It’s not really a possibility, though, is it? It’s more of an impossible dream, a wish so frail and tenuous that I’ll never know; it’s just a desire that always beyond reach.
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After getting my second COVID-19 vaccination yesterday, my emotional energy outpaced my physical energy by a factor of five. I did not realize this until I attempted to move the gargantuan queen-sized bedframe from the garage into the house. My physical capabilities paled in comparison to the amount of energy necessary to accomplish the task. Not one to give up, though, I contacted Bob (not the dog; the handyman). Unfortunately, he said he would be unavailable until sometime late this coming week. So, I decided to ask my delightful neighbor couple, approximate ages of 73 and 80, to consider helping me move at least a portion of the mass of dense wood. Long story short: the entire bed now resides in its proper place in the house and the neighbors survived the ordeal; I am not sure I did. I feel pain in parts of my body that, until yesterday, I did not realize could hurt. Muscles in my chest and side and back apparently were stretched far beyond their limits during yesterday’s ordeal. I am relatively sure I tore tendons, shredded muscles into ruined tissue, and snapped major nerve groups into pieces. This is the second time in a week that I have behaved as if I were a powerfully muscular 23-year-old, only to be forced to acknowledge that I am much closer to an advanced state of weakened geezerhood. I guess I survived the night, though. Multiple overnight trips to the bathroom to pee suggested to me that the physical exertion involved in moving the bedframe must have wrung all the liquid from my muscles into my bladder.
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My sister-in-law sent me a text this morning at 5:30, saying she did not feel so good; I assume she’s responding to the COVID vaccination (she, too, got her second shot yesterday, an hour or so before I went to get mine). At the time of her text, I felt the same. But I don’t think my discomfort was vaccination-related; I think it was the physical manifestation of the stupidity related to moving the bed.
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All I remember of last night’s dream is that I ruined a cassette tape, spilling the long strip of magnetic tape from the container into a spaghetti-like mass and accidentally breaking the flimsy strip. I think I was in a grocery store, but it may have been a library. I was chastised by a woman—either a librarian or a produce clerk—for ruining the tape, which was somehow related to either learning a language or producing a computer program. And on the periphery of the dream were dogs.
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I learned from my neighbors, the ones who helped with the bed, that our Easter dinner will consist of lamb chops, asparagus, and rice pilaf. They invited me quite some time ago to join them for Easter. They’re not even remotely religious, as far as I can tell, but they tend to observe some Christian rituals, yet without any of the religious trappings of those rituals. Interesting, that. At any rate, the mention of lamb appealed to me, even though I still have a lot of leftover leg of lamb in my refrigerator. I think I’ll freeze the leftovers, delaying my planned Shepherd’s Pie to some time in the future. I am a passionate fan of lamb, especially lamb cooked very rare and touched with the flavor of garlic. Last night’s dinner consisted of a bit of leftover rare lamb, flavored with a touch of crushed dried mint leaves and heated just slightly. I should have had some vegetables, but I was too lazy to bother; my meal last night was a testament to the allure of carnivorousness.
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It’s already 8:30. I’ve not yet showered, shaved, or eaten breakfast. The day is attempting, with little success, to erupt from its molasses-like emergence. I need to help it along. Bran flakes and milk, which can be prepared and consumed even in a mindless stupor, await.
