Ripped off

Suddenly, I heard some talking
How they were opining, confining – quarantining
 It was arithmetic, bolshevik, nonstick!
I crave the alive, adjunct, adjacent
All my fears within me interlocking
That much sitting – that much fuming

All my soul within me wafting
I threw my dwelling upon the floor
What could there be, more purely yours?
That flat, flat cottaging
It threw its ghost against its habits
The ownership brought such sorrow
That immovable owner – that irremovable owner

Deep into that darkness lofting
And so you came gently sniffling
Only this and property
And the enclosure never signing
I crave the smiling, speaking snick
There stood only deceitful arithmetic

Countdown

Tracing scars under a heavy gaze

Lovers parting, under a crescent moon

Their damp hair, the harvest rain

Lightning! Strolling the muddy road

This monsoon storm, no trouble at all

The sound of ants, the clatter of a bridge

Dragon dance

I follow the trail of dragons

Under the clearest blue afternoon sky

The dragonfly, a myriad of them dancing

Along the yellow of my neighbours wall

Across the dry green of the Banyan

Over the mossy temple compound

A hovering cloud, not loud, steadily turning

Unknotting, spreading, soothing my shoulders

My easy breathing, following the sound of bycycle chains turning

Children racing up and down

Music road

A crow calls, the warm bedclothes

the smell of daylight folding, vanished

writing with a finger, that the early sunshine bandaged

a crescent moon stirred at the touch of my shadow

he’s also in no mood to tarry

a moonlit snowman

a mountain road moved by music

Why Freud?

I think Jung made great art because he thought to ally with the unconsciousness rather than suppress it unlike some significant deary Anglo-psychology. Where does that leave the Ego I wonder?

Freud crossed the Alps to prove that the rational mind wasn’t the seat of reason; he saw it as a shaky adaptive principle struggling to compensate between the raw and moral; kicking so much of European thought in the face. When Jung flirts with blurring the lines between both Ego and Unconsciousness, seeing them as allies who does that leave in charge?

Caudwell said Freud was bourgeois, and he was right. He inhabited the minds of stiff aristocrats, where the raw spirit of man had to be tamed, kept down and feared- much like contending classes. That terrible mob that might discard the constraints of ‘civilization’ to trespass. Where they trespasses does not really matter, as any dream symbol can show you.

Freud was willing to stay a martyr to any challenges to his science he couldn’t overcome. His chosen heirs were all prodigal sons. Adler ran away, Jung too. Adler’s Individual psychology, at least, would not go to the depths of the worst of American psychology which crammed mistranslated excerpts of psychoanalysis into vulgar Taylorism that keeps people happy wage slaves.

This descent into pop psychology forgets and many wonder why a vulgar Freud even appears on the pages of textbooks today. Caudwell would even compare them to the coming fascist movement because of their anxieties over what was going to be unmasked about European modernity.

There is however much more to these men, a finer strain that we can see when they are in retreat. There is a Freud radical about all sexual orientation and identity, who does not feel any shame in being a neurotic. When Jung flees, as Caudwell says, to medieval symbols and mysticism there is man trying to dredge up the lost affects of alienated man under the cold gaze of modern functionalism.

Particularly fascinating is the role of images. After reading Jung’s ‘Man and his Symbols’, I tried to keep myself open to any symbolic images that came to mind. It doesn’t happen often but now and then a dreamlike and surreal image will present itself. This usually happens close to sleepiness. First I saw a headless version of me coming down the stairs, which frightened me quite a bit actually. While rubbing the sleepiness away from my eyes I thought of a Louts rising from the bottom of a pond snaking itself to the lake surface.

Then a nest of Jungle Crows, nestled between two rocks on a flowing steam. A single hatchling, alternatively a teal egg, being fed by four crows. I don’t have much to say about the significance of these images, there may not be ones at all, but opening myself up to their flavorful presence, well, maybe it’s a worthwhile bit of mysticism to soothe the modern anxious condition.