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Jungian opposites, A satire of Republicans, psychology, unconsciousness
Jungian opposites, satire, Republicans, psychology, unconsciousness,
'Most people don't seek a real explanation, they are after a reflection of their own ideas,' (Don Juan) in "Tales Of Power", by Carlos Castaneda.
'The Opposites are the engine of the psyche,' in "The Mystery of the Coniunctio," by Edward Edinger.
The myth of the phoenix, the Christian story and the obscure symbolism of alchemy all share a surprising element. Immediately prior to the rebirth of the king (alchemy), the bird (phoenix) or the resurrection (Christianity) the 'king to be' appears as a worm! This could be interpreted as the necessary devaluation of the ego, so vital to the emergence of the symbol of the Self as something related to, but not identified with, the ego.
The work necessary to bring about this wholeness involves realising all one's own shortcomings, weaknesses, faults, 'evil', and no longer being comforted by projecting them onto others. In other words, the incarnation of God, the Holy Spirit, Wholeness (the name varies with one's cultural background and point of view) depends on the withdrawal of those projections which are so readily achieved on a large scale by dividing into 'isms' (e.g. socialism and capitalism, male and female, black and white, ...).
Imagine then, the contribution to spiritual and psychological wholeness enabled by the worst newspapers of the Hairy Mammals of England...
'I can't understand why you read this rubbish,' said Roland the tramp, pointing to the Daily Mule. 'I mean, look at it!'
'What's wrong with it?' exclaimed Jobsworth, snatching back his newspaper. He turned his body so that his left shoulder was between himself and Roland and continued to look sideways and down his nose at someone who was, in fact, much taller than himself.
'Allow me to demonstrate,' said Roland, taking the paper back again. He thumbed his way through to the appropriate page. 'A black Labour MP has divorced. It's a fact. The paper goes on to mention that another black Labour MP divorced last year; she had many children.'
'It's a fact!' countered Jobsworth.
'It is also deliberately misleading. White MPs with many children aren't mentioned. Tory MPs who divorce aren't mentioned. This article is both politically biased and racist, seeking to make its readers happy in the belief that all marital disharmony and sexual indulgence lie elsewhere. In the exact opposite of Daily Mule readers. Pathetic, isn't it!'
'Oh of course,' sneered Jobsworth. 'I was forgetting that you read The Daily Lens. Still full of porn, is it?'
'I don't read The Lens,' said Roland. 'It's probably just as bad, with the exact opposite prejudices.'
'Yes you do,' said Jobsworth.
Roland, being in possession of two functioning ears, stopped to take stock. Here is someone who doesn't know me, he thought, and is informing me that, contrary to my belief that I haven't even seen a copy of The Lens in the last decade, let alone borrowed one, found one in a bin, or, heaven forbid, bought one, I read it every day. Apparently.
Jobsworth flounced off seemingly happy with himself once Roland had been rendered speechless. Flouncing is not easy to achieve in a male, middle aged, short, fat market trader wearing a soiled apron with several broken carrots protruding from his pockets, but nevertheless Jobsworth made a meritworthy attempt. He unconsciously moved one hand to his left bosom (yes, fat, middle-aged men have them too) to make sure his "Alliance of the Self-Employed" badge hadn't fallen off.
Roland cast his mind back over ten years and felt sure The Lens didn't actually contain porn anyway. He shouted after Jobsworth,
'When I want something good to read I go to the library. They stock books you know. Try it!'
'I know all about you,' retorted Jobsworth. 'Go and read your Daily Lens.'
Roland the tramp entered the patch of grass alongside Smogdale allotments where Jobsworth set out his stall to sell fruit and veg.
As per usual, Roland was in a dream, vaguely aware of remnants of recently re-read articles by the Hollyist hermit/philosopher Honda Prelude nudging each other aside as they competed for prime position in the Wednesday morning jumble sale of his mind. In his hand he held a crumpled shopping list. Such a list had proved more effective in his hand than in his pocket because it not only reminded him what to buy; it also served to remind him that he was in fact going somewhere - the market stall, with a definite purpose - buying fruit and veg.
Whenever Roland left "home" on a shopping mission with his list in his pocket he either ended up in philosophical debate at Smogdale allotments; in philosophical debate in QT's tavern; or in philosophical debate on the park bench in Smogdale village-cum-city green.
The common element of these three outcomes, apart from the debate, was the lamentable absence of freshly purchased fruit and veg.
'So how's the chief spokesman for Trotskyism and the Daily Lens?' sneered Jobsworth.
'Pardon?' asked Roland, looking at Jobsworth, then at his list, then at his surroundings. Hell's bells, or even Belles, (I've never been sure which it is) I've come to the right place! he thought. His inner jumble sale receded into the background as his brain opened channels to his eyes, ears and memory.
'I don't read The Daily Lens,' declared Roland, in what he hoped would be an unusual and therefore memorable tone.
'Yes you do,' insisted Jobsworth, 'We all know that!'
Roland noted that Jobsworth was standing behind his stall in a crowd of one. Alone, as it were.
'We?' asked Roland, looking around to make sure.
'All right-thinking people!' sneered Jobsworth.
Roland's memory performed the rewind and fast forward of many such encounters with Jobsworth and he ground his teeth. He handed Jobsworth his list of requirements, took out a handful of coins and whistled, for no apparent reason, "The White Cliffs of Dover."
He whistled louder, much louder, every time Jobsworth tried to harangue him with nonsense until the deed was done and he had both his change and his edible goodies.
'Books!' he shouted, as soon as he had his change. 'They are free from the library! Crappy papers are gossip and ignorance - a waste of good trees!'
As he sped away he could hear Jobsworth ranting in self-righteous tones about the diabolical mischief of the Daily Lens and the well-nigh immeasurable benevolence and goodness of the self-employed.
'I'm not going to think about Jobsworth,' Roland paradoxically muttered as he stamped "home". I.e. towards his lean-to shack aside Zorba's allotment shed. He realised he was stamping his feet and walked sedately instead. Of course, doing two things at once is terribly demanding on the typical male brain, especially when those two things are 'not thinking about someone who makes you angry to the point of near dementia' and 'walking sedately whilst livid to the cusp of lunacy'. Roland wished the Wednesday morning jumble sale would return...
Roland was perspiring freely as he completed the erection of his huge billboard facing the site of Jobsworth's market stall. The frame of four inch by four inch timber supported a platform of eight inch by one inch boards on which Roland had pasted a message.
For the attention of
Mr U. Pillock
Listen U. Pillock
I don't reed the Daily Lens
I don't reed the Daily Mule
Crap papers are worth less than nothing
Wot a waist of trees.
Read a book, U. Pillock.
Actually, Roland did no such thing, it would also have been a waste of good trees (and what other type is there?) but the above fantasy provided his entertainment as he hoed the weeds from between Zorba's broccoli plants with unnecessary vigour.
He was amazed that the fantasised billboard survived his inner spellchecker (which may have been MicroLimp).
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