So you can read my books

Friday, August 10, 2012



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. "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."

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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  1. Carl Jung:
    Vhat? No one cares about what I say?! I shall talk to Lovecraft about this! We vill do some visiting this midnight!

  2. This is brilliant!!! I would love to be in on that conversation! I think that if our values aren't shown in what we write, our writing is false.

  3. Heather:
    I wrote this interview just for you. I thought if you loved Jung, then others out there must as well. Mark Twain insisted on joining the fun! :-)