Monday, February 6, 2012

TEASER

Excerpt from the work in progress, MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP, by Daryl Sharp

Preface

Two of my esteemed Jungian colleagues, Mario Jacoby and James Hillman, died this year (2011). I am now one of the few surviving second-tier Jungian acolytes who endeavor to keep Jung’s message alive in our hectic extraverted collective culture, where ambition and electronic toys are valued more than character development. I despair that Jung’s ideas will ever crack the mainstream, though I am heartened to see several videos of him on YouTube.
    And so I wonder, after writing twenty books, what more do I have to say? This is the question that keeps me awake night and day.
    I was recently alerted to my mortality by a week’s stay in hospital. I was experiencing extreme fatigue and difficulty breathing. My doctor sent me to emergency where my symptoms were immediately recognized as CHF (congestive heart failure). They put me on oxygen for a week and an intravenous diuretic to drain the fluids from my lungs and heart. I was x-rayed, MRI’d, echocardiogrammed and ultrasounded. They took my blood pressure every twenty minutes, drew blood from my arms three times a day, and constantly monitored my vital organs with space-age body patches. Every day they asked me if I knew who and where I was.
    I didn’t mind the inactivity and incarceration; it was in fact a welcome holiday away from my lonely turret and business concerns. I enjoyed the attention and Razr flirted outrageously with the nurses. Of course, I had to cancel my planned Christmas vacation at a semi-nude Jamaican resort (Hedonism II), but what the hell. Every twelve-hour change in shift brought a new nurse more lovely than the last—East Indian, Pakistani, Thai, Phillippina, Russky and more. They did everything to make me comfortable but hop into bed with me. Never mind, I was catheterized and wasn’t up to much except trying to sleep between tests. There was nothing to complain about except the food. However hard they try—and I think they do—every hospital serves unpalatable gruel. The soup is generally good, also the fruit. It’s hard to kill a banana.
    But seriously, it finally got me thinking. What am I here for?
    This new “Jungian romance” may or may not be an answer.
__________________________________________________________

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thanks for commenting! You can type up to 4096 characters here (or how ever many words and spaces between them equal up to 4096 characters). Click "Anonymous" below if you do not want to sign in or provide your name.