Watching Tarkovsky's The Mirror or reading some of Rilke's poems has been deepened for me lately by appreciating some of my own nostalgia for the house of my parents. To feel like I could be in the basement or some other room and be exploring books or just lying around without having to worry at all about providing for myself or making a name can grant very intense moments of bliss. I feel like what we see in Tarkovsky is often moments of him capturing the feeling of security with caregivers present or waiting at home and the intense connectedness that allows for someone to have with the ray of sunlight, the sheen on the hardwood floor, the shadows throughout the house, the trees and bits of nature that take human forms as they twist towards the sky, and this isn't to mention the smells and touch which can bring you back.
How much of the joy in being a parent is to re-create these sights, sounds, smells, as well as the games and activities that one has nostalgia for?
And, to say exchange a penis for a baby in Freudian terms sounds so ugly that I understand why psychoanalysis has lacked a champion from amongst the feminine subjects.
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