Carl Jung was a big influence on my life and I want to start this blog post with an event from his life. It may seem totally unrelated but it will all make sense.
Jung in the winter of 1913 embarked on a journey of self discovery, which he called active imagination. He deliberately gave free rein to his fantasy thinking and carefully noted what ensued. He wrote these observations down in a book called “the Black Book” (By the way I always felt that Orhan Pamuk’s Black Book was a veiled reference to this process). When WWI broke out Jung realized that a number of his fantasies were a precognition of these events.
This was pretty significant to me when I read this. It shown that to me of course, events and the people involved in them are not as independent as we think they are. A lot of times in history books I have notice in my analysis a few things which is important for me to list here :
- Many historians feel when look at human history that we are moving towards some point, towards some relative maxima or acme of achievement of the civilization.
- Mankind is not seem as a product of nature. Man stands independent of nature, especially in the West because of how this biblical idea of “dominion” has been interpreted over the centuries. (I’m alluding to the Judeo-Christian influence on Western culture). We tend to focus on what we do to the environment, how we shape it, how we make it resemble our vision for it in our mind.
For me I have seen that making my vision a reality, shaping and moulding it does, exerting my influence is only half the story. The want to blog the want to express myself is half the story as well. But what about the other half of the time?
The other Half
One of the things “Western culture” isn’t is receptive. We are not receptive to our inner emotions, we are not receptive to the dictates of our spirit ( and I don’t mean anything theological or religious by use of the word spirit). In effect we don’t listen to our inner selves and my extension each other. We are like the 3 blind men each describing an elephant by feel, each lost in their own unique imaginings.
So I was wondering, how much of me is writing. When I write there are moments where I am a vehicle of expression for an inner prompting or maybe something larger. I believe that societies are unique and of course carry the many qualities of the person which is the smallest subunit of society. The connection between the individual and society is not discussed often. Joseph Campbell has said that dreams are a personal myth and myth are the collective dream. Sometimes the artistic work are part of the artist personal myth and other times they are part of the collective dream.
So my question to you as a blogger is: How much of you the person is writing? How much do you feel comes from within the personal dreamscape how much from the collective? How can you tell which is which ? Judging only from your writings what are the major issue society is grappling with
Note: I was reading this post here when this post and the idea hit me. Shout out and thanks to LeClown on fire for his post
Excerpt from Carl Jung
In October , while I was alone on a journey, I was suddenly seized by an overpowering vision: I saw a monstrous flood covering all the northern and low-lying lands between the North Sea and the Alps. When it came up to Switzerland I saw that the mountains grew higher and higher to protect our country. I realized that a frightful catastrophe was in progress. I saw the mighty yellow waves, the floating rubble of civilization, and the drowned bodies of uncounted thousands. Then the whole sea turned to blood. This vision last about one hour. I was perplexed and nauseated, and ashamed of my weakness.
Two weeks passed; then the vision recurred, under the same conditions, even more vividly than before, and the blood was more emphasized. An inner voice spoke. “Look at it well; it is wholly real and it will be so. You cannot doubt it.” That winter someone asked me what I thought were the political prospects of the world in the near future. I replied that I had no thoughts on the matter, but that I saw rivers of blood.
I asked myself whether these visions pointed to a revolution, but could not really imagine anything of the sort. And so I drew the conclusion that they had to do with me myself, and decided that I was menaced by a psychosis. The idea of war did not occur to me at all.
Soon afterward, in the spring and early summer of 1914, I had a thrice-repeated dream that in the middle of summer an Arctic cold wave descended and froze the land to ice. I saw, for example, the whole of Lorraine and its canals frozen and the entire region totally deserted by human beings. All living green things were killed by frost. This dream came in April and May, and for the last time in June, 1914.
In the third dream frightful cold had again descended from out of the cosmos. This dream, however, had an unexpected end. There stood a leaf-bearing tree, but without fruit (my tree of life, I thought), whose leaves had been transformed by the effects of the frost into sweet grapes full of healing juices. I plucked the grapes and gave them to a large, waiting crowd…
On August 1 the world war broke out.
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