Critics have sometimes accused me outright of philosophical or even theological tendencies, in the belief that I want to explain everything philosophically and that my psychological views are metaphysical. But I use certain philosophical, religious, and historical material for the exclusive purpose of illustrating the psychological facts. If, for instance, I make use of a God-concept or an equally metaphysical concept of energy, I do so because they are images which have been found in the human psyche from the beginning. I find that I must emphasize over and over again that neither the moral order, nor the idea of God nor any religion has dropped into mans lap from outside, straight down from heaven, as it were, but that he contains all this in nuce within himself, and for this reason can produce it all out of himself. ... That is why any honest psychology, which is not blinded by the garish conceits of enlightenment, must come to terms with these facts. They cannot be explained away and killed with irony. (Dreams, C.G.Jung, 1985 [1974]:64)
In re-reading Jung, I find myself to be inspired. It is a little like re-reading one's old diary or journal and finding the nuggets, the seeds of the self, of contemporary desires, philosophies, concerns, even crises... It reminds me of where I came from, and where I thought I was going (not of a destination, per se, but a direction). It provides a marker of then against which I can measure the now.
And then, it is also like re-reading the father; like seeing him ill, drunken, aged, decrepit, or, for that matter, naked. I see in some of Jung various intellectual 'flaws' against which I battle, or struggle, or from which I have diverged (I was going to say progressed). I see him as he was: a man. Nothing more.
Which is not to belittle him. It is just reassuring that a mere 'man' could say so much, so well; could drive the world and the thoughts of mankind so far and so undeniably.
It means I can hope. It means I have not lost. It means I still have a chance.
And then, as I write these words, as I acknowledge these essentially infantile desires (down, Freud!) I hear Bertrand Russels warning, echoed in Leola's journal, that life is not to be taken so seriously.
Once more I catch myself torn between the sage's warnings against intellectualism and my need to express myself honestly and to a full extent that satisfies me. I yearn to feel at once spent, satisfied, and simultaneously complete, proud. Sometimes I hear the honesty in Lao Tzu: if you think too much, all that follows is strife, unhappiness, distress or confusion... But then people have said that for centuries about masturbation and bondage... Ho-hum.
Jung once wrote that all addictions are unhealthy. All of them. I cannot agree more. Whether its drinking, smoking, sex, food, socializing, solitude, talking, silence, a particular job or way of life, a religion, even religiousness... I have sought to avoid addiction. Jung, in a letter to Freud (or in reference to him, I forget), included idealism. And as Marx warned us, idealism is a cloak beneath which we enslave or are enslaved.
It feels good to stretch out a little bit. I feel like I am trying on a glove: long-fingered, fitting, smooth, flexible. It is the mental glove of cerebral freedom, of academic liberations, of intellectual movement. I am fitting the glove loosely, getting my fingers into the right holes (oo-er missus), and working them into place. Then comes the stretch, the flex, the adjustment. And then?
As an end note, a statement for you. An assertion.
It's all about the interdisciplinary. I am not the first or last to say this, but if we actual intend to think like this, to cross the boundaries, to merely and fully be, then it is time to stop educating ourselves, our children, in such limited, controlled, categorized ways. Mary Douglas warns that is might not be possible. I think it is. Postmodernism has a point (up to a point) and a place. Let's accept it and move on. Damn pomos...
Think outside the box. In fact, what box?
your adatha
free to change
xxx
In re-reading Jung, I find myself to be inspired. It is a little like re-reading one's old diary or journal and finding the nuggets, the seeds of the self, of contemporary desires, philosophies, concerns, even crises... It reminds me of where I came from, and where I thought I was going (not of a destination, per se, but a direction). It provides a marker of then against which I can measure the now.
And then, it is also like re-reading the father; like seeing him ill, drunken, aged, decrepit, or, for that matter, naked. I see in some of Jung various intellectual 'flaws' against which I battle, or struggle, or from which I have diverged (I was going to say progressed). I see him as he was: a man. Nothing more.
Which is not to belittle him. It is just reassuring that a mere 'man' could say so much, so well; could drive the world and the thoughts of mankind so far and so undeniably.
It means I can hope. It means I have not lost. It means I still have a chance.
And then, as I write these words, as I acknowledge these essentially infantile desires (down, Freud!) I hear Bertrand Russels warning, echoed in Leola's journal, that life is not to be taken so seriously.
Once more I catch myself torn between the sage's warnings against intellectualism and my need to express myself honestly and to a full extent that satisfies me. I yearn to feel at once spent, satisfied, and simultaneously complete, proud. Sometimes I hear the honesty in Lao Tzu: if you think too much, all that follows is strife, unhappiness, distress or confusion... But then people have said that for centuries about masturbation and bondage... Ho-hum.
Jung once wrote that all addictions are unhealthy. All of them. I cannot agree more. Whether its drinking, smoking, sex, food, socializing, solitude, talking, silence, a particular job or way of life, a religion, even religiousness... I have sought to avoid addiction. Jung, in a letter to Freud (or in reference to him, I forget), included idealism. And as Marx warned us, idealism is a cloak beneath which we enslave or are enslaved.
It feels good to stretch out a little bit. I feel like I am trying on a glove: long-fingered, fitting, smooth, flexible. It is the mental glove of cerebral freedom, of academic liberations, of intellectual movement. I am fitting the glove loosely, getting my fingers into the right holes (oo-er missus), and working them into place. Then comes the stretch, the flex, the adjustment. And then?
As an end note, a statement for you. An assertion.
It's all about the interdisciplinary. I am not the first or last to say this, but if we actual intend to think like this, to cross the boundaries, to merely and fully be, then it is time to stop educating ourselves, our children, in such limited, controlled, categorized ways. Mary Douglas warns that is might not be possible. I think it is. Postmodernism has a point (up to a point) and a place. Let's accept it and move on. Damn pomos...
Think outside the box. In fact, what box?
your adatha
free to change
xxx
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and i don't know, i think your bemused expression was pretty endearing
but maybe to avoid such random encounters at unexpected moments, we should possibly arrange a 'next time' and hang out sometime in the near future...
and i am just putting a photo journal from the tour together for bizarre's next edition. just random snaps from our very random adventures