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 make sense of Dr. Freud's sudden departure. What had that been all about?
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. And Freud's sudden departure made sense. The two of them had started out friends and ended up enemies.
"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:
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 in the seat beside me 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.
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 make sense of Dr. Freud's sudden departure. What had that been all about?
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. And Freud's sudden departure made sense. The two of them had started out friends and ended up enemies.
"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:
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 in the seat beside me 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?
*
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.
***If you like my characterization of Mark Twain, then you may enjoy his fantastic adventure in 1895 Egypt with Oscar Wilde, Nikola Tesla, and my Texas Ranger answer to Allan Quartermain:
I'd prefer to spend time with Mark Twain rather than Jung, or Freud, I think ;-)
ReplyDeleteMe, too --- which is why he is a major character in 7 of my historical and urban fantasies. :-)
ReplyDeleteI loved the description of Meilori's. Yeah, one shouldn't regret things you enjoy doing :-)
ReplyDeleteRonel visiting for J:
My Languishing TBR: J
Jolly Leprechauns