Posts
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Without playing with fantasy, no creative work has ever yet come to birth.
The debt we owe to the play of imagination is incalculable.
-C.G. Jung
Meilori's was much wider, higher, and deeper than seemed possible from how it looked on the outside.
Inside the haunted jazz club, I could see no walls, much less any torches that hung from them. Only an endless array of tables whose candles pushed back the darkness only a little.
In this dark cavern of a saloon, things vast, blind, and monstrous took shape in the bronze-hued mists that billowed all through the place.
They lumbered without notice of me. They became almost solid, fuzzed, then drifted apart only to re-form feet from where they had been.
I sat at my table and tried to remember all Victor had told me of his latest adventure, attempting to put it down just as he said it on my laptop.
A dance macabre formed in the mists to my far left. Up high and almost lost in the billowing fog, sprites of dark ice spun on one leg, twirling slowly, their angular faces lost in some delirium of madness. They began to sing.
It was an invocation.
Abysses loathsome and endless yawned hungrily in the mists before me. I caught flashes, glimpses of alien voids and unholy dimensions beyond all human experience.
"May I sit down, young man?" said a deep voice.
I looked up. Carl Jung. His ghost actually.
"Of course, sir."
He smiled and sat down opposite me. "I wrote about the need for finding and living our myth, our story."
He sighed,
"As I grew older, I wrote my most important works and found my own unique ways to play."
He peered deep into my eyes.
"Young man, we need new stories that weave playfulness, gratitude, and compassion for self and others. Re-writing your myth or story can help you understand more fully your core values."
He smiled sadly.
"Your story reflects your uniqueness and the many gifts you have to offer others. You might ask your computer friends that if they fully expressed their values, how would others see them? Would it change their life in some way?"
Jung gazed into the bronze mists and murmured, "I had sick bed images, terrible and beautiful both at once."
His chin sunk to his chest,
"I felt as though I were floating in space, as though I were safe in the womb of the universe---in a tremendous void, but filled with the highest possible feeling of happiness.
Everything around me seemed enchanted.... Night after night I floated in a state of purest bliss, thronged round with images of all creation."
The ghost of Mark Twain thumped into the seat beside me and laughed, "I had me some of those same dreams, there, Young. But soon as I gave up radishes, they cleared out."
Jung glared at Mark.
"Your visions will become clear only when you can look into your own heart not your stomach. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”
Mark smiled crooked,
"Wasn't you the pilgrim who said everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”
Jung's scowl could have curdled vinegar.
"I also said I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become. Must you be a jack daw, Clemens?”
Mark Twain smiled wide,
"You spout on about the secrets of life. I will tell you the secret to Life: “Life is short, Break the Rules. Forgive quickly, Kiss SLOWLY.
Love truly. Laugh uncontrollably. And never regret ANYTHING that makes you smile.”
Jung huffed, “The shoe that fits one person pinches another; there is no recipe for living that suits all cases.”
Twain snorted, "Maybe. Maybe not. When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”
Jung rumbled,
"The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong. It is clear your mind has become mired in nonsense.”
Twain chuckled, "T'weren't you the gent who said
'As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do not want to know.'”
Jung shook his head,
“It all depends on how we look at things, and not on how things are in themselves. The least of things with a meaning is worth more in life than the greatest of things without it.”
Mark looked at me. "Suddenly, son, I'm afraid. I actually understood that."
*
These images (or other media files) is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.
This applies to Australia, the European Union and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 70 years.
The debt we owe to the play of imagination is incalculable.
-C.G. Jung
Meilori's was much wider, higher, and deeper than seemed possible from how it looked on the outside.
Inside the haunted jazz club, I could see no walls, much less any torches that hung from them. Only an endless array of tables whose candles pushed back the darkness only a little.
In this dark cavern of a saloon, things vast, blind, and monstrous took shape in the bronze-hued mists that billowed all through the place.
They lumbered without notice of me. They became almost solid, fuzzed, then drifted apart only to re-form feet from where they had been.
I sat at my table and tried to remember all Victor had told me of his latest adventure, attempting to put it down just as he said it on my laptop.
A dance macabre formed in the mists to my far left. Up high and almost lost in the billowing fog, sprites of dark ice spun on one leg, twirling slowly, their angular faces lost in some delirium of madness. They began to sing.
It was an invocation.
Abysses loathsome and endless yawned hungrily in the mists before me. I caught flashes, glimpses of alien voids and unholy dimensions beyond all human experience.
"May I sit down, young man?" said a deep voice.
I looked up. Carl Jung. His ghost actually.
"Of course, sir."
He smiled and sat down opposite me. "I wrote about the need for finding and living our myth, our story."
He sighed,
"As I grew older, I wrote my most important works and found my own unique ways to play."
He peered deep into my eyes.
"Young man, we need new stories that weave playfulness, gratitude, and compassion for self and others. Re-writing your myth or story can help you understand more fully your core values."
He smiled sadly.
"Your story reflects your uniqueness and the many gifts you have to offer others. You might ask your computer friends that if they fully expressed their values, how would others see them? Would it change their life in some way?"
Jung gazed into the bronze mists and murmured, "I had sick bed images, terrible and beautiful both at once."
His chin sunk to his chest,
"I felt as though I were floating in space, as though I were safe in the womb of the universe---in a tremendous void, but filled with the highest possible feeling of happiness.
Everything around me seemed enchanted.... Night after night I floated in a state of purest bliss, thronged round with images of all creation."
The ghost of Mark Twain thumped into the seat beside me and laughed, "I had me some of those same dreams, there, Young. But soon as I gave up radishes, they cleared out."
Jung glared at Mark.
"Your visions will become clear only when you can look into your own heart not your stomach. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”
Mark smiled crooked,
"Wasn't you the pilgrim who said everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”
Jung's scowl could have curdled vinegar.
"I also said I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become. Must you be a jack daw, Clemens?”
Mark Twain smiled wide,
"You spout on about the secrets of life. I will tell you the secret to Life: “Life is short, Break the Rules. Forgive quickly, Kiss SLOWLY.
Love truly. Laugh uncontrollably. And never regret ANYTHING that makes you smile.”
Jung huffed, “The shoe that fits one person pinches another; there is no recipe for living that suits all cases.”
Twain snorted, "Maybe. Maybe not. When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”
Jung rumbled,
"The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong. It is clear your mind has become mired in nonsense.”
Twain chuckled, "T'weren't you the gent who said
'As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do not want to know.'”
Jung shook his head,
“It all depends on how we look at things, and not on how things are in themselves. The least of things with a meaning is worth more in life than the greatest of things without it.”
Mark looked at me. "Suddenly, son, I'm afraid. I actually understood that."
***
What would say is your own personal myth? Are your core values reflected in what you write? In the last thing you wrote what would a stranger say are your core values, what you hold to be true about life?
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These images (or other media files) is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.
This applies to Australia, the European Union and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 70 years.
Ghost of Mark Twain, here.
ReplyDeleteDang it, Young! I told you that your blow-hard pronouncements would bore the wilt off an icicle! Now, look what they done to the comments! Nary a one!
One comment comes, just a tad late. :-)
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure what others would say of my core values. Some may read my stories and find themselves plagued with the reality of life as little more than a dash, a short time to run, walk, speed through or smell the roses in the confines of a world that spins and spins regardless the length of our time in the dash.
And hope. They would find it in the dark places I tend to write towards.
Glad I don't like radishes.
ReplyDeleteAnd yes, my core values are reflected in my writing. I couldn't write against my own moral compass.
FANTASTIC ATMOSPHERE...
ReplyDeleteI had to move the billowing smoke to see the place more clearly.... EXCELLENT... YOU know how much I love to Feel, taste, and smell a place....
Loved the ghostly banter too.... You are so talented my friend.
I could have happily read a book of this, loved it. I'm a Twain and Jung fan anyway so this was great.Thanks
ReplyDelete#atozchallenge
maggie at expat brazil
First off, fascinating vid. Don't recall ever seeing Carl "live." An amazing mind.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure there are writers who can write outside of their core values, but I'm not one of them. Relationships are at the center of all my stories. Family, friends, love entanglements, how bonds are created, how they are challenged and broken. Every piece I've ever written is, at its heart, a struggle of loyalties. I think it would depend on the stranger as to whether they'd pick up on the thematic values. Men always seem to get it. Women are often too worried about my female characters being portrayed in a negative light to recognize the truth of the internal struggle.
VR Barkowski
Creative to have Twain and Jung in conversation!
ReplyDeleteLike Alex, I write from my core values. I even find it hard to swear in my writing.
Angela:
ReplyDeleteBoth Mark and Jung are glad you commented at all! Yes, the fragile shortness of life is good to dwell upon for all of us! And sometimes hope is all we have.
Alex:
I've certainly read a few books where the moral compass of the authors didn't exactly point North!
Michael:
I have fun in my head imagining the conversations in Meilori! I'm glad you like the banter and atmosphere!
Maggie:
I'm a Twain and Jung fan, too, as you can tell! :-) One day I may collect all the encounters at Meilori that I have written for folks to enjoy without hunting for them through my blog! Thanks for following!
VR:
Being true to human nature is not portraying women (or men) in a negative light -- but some people are too sensitive: attack the other sex but not ours!!
William Faulkner would understand your kind of prose, for he said the best literature reflected the human heart in conflict with itself. Thanks for visiting.
Susan:
I amuse myself with imagining the goings-on within Meilori! The best prose springs from our hearts and values. :-)