Ditty Bout a Girl

I wanted to write a poem

Cause I care so damn much

Describing your eyes and lips

Longing for your touch

 

Talking about why I care

And how great you are

Thinking bout all your attributes

And how you must’ve fallen like a star

 

I try and relate you to the cosmos

The sky and sunsets and shit

But the words I have don’t describe

The feelings and all of it

 

I can only stare blankly

And listen to your words

And in the silence smile at you

And pray for what to say…

When it is my turn

 

Pictures of Mississippi

Now that my camera has a phone I am able to take some random pics as I drive through Northwest Mississippi. I have two that I would like to show you. Remember all I have to go off is the camera on my phone so the artistic level may be low, but you might see some interesting things.

I titled this "The Meat People." If you don't understand why this stuck out to me think back to your childhood days (guys) when farts were still funny. This is at a grocery store in Grenada Mississippi. Grenada is a decent place to stop in if you are traveling from Memphis to Jackson or Vice Versa, it is 200 miles from Memphis to Jackson and Grenada is almost the middle, the actual middle is a place called Duck Hill, actually duck hill is a few miles off the road but right off interstate there is a gas station called Midway, it has a small deli, and you will catch a lot of local folk sitting and eating at the right time of the day.

But back to Grenada, there are plenty of fast food restaurants, and there is a decent Barbeque place called Jake and Rips.

I call this pic "This Old House." We are now Northwest of Grenada, a good deal Northwest, in Tunica County. This is real Tunica, not the part you see at the casino's. Harrah has never been here. This is old Tunica, off White Oak Rd, off Highway 4. If you are on 61 going south take a left on highway 4, for less than a quarter mile and take the next left (I believe and you will be on White Oak. Keep moving North and this house will be in the middle of nowhere on the right. I don't recomend going unless you have some reason to be in that area, remember this is Old Tunica, there is no security here, you will be surrounded by cotton fields, trailers, and a lot of nothing. In the Delta you can still dissappear and never be found.





Though if you choose to travel along highway 4 from 61 to interstate you will pass a BP gas station on the left, it will be your last chance to stop for 20-30 miles until you get to Senatobia. If you happen to be going through this part of Tunica at night and are traveling toward Memphis, it is best to stay on HWY 61 North, if you really want interstate look for 69/304.

I am not going to say a lot about this pic, lets just say it is for purification.

Something to say

I was lying on the floor considering my life… and I laughed. Thinking back to the winding road walked, I couldn’t help it. I spend a lot of time walking the line between life and death, searching for something… not sure what, just something. On more than one occasion I have felt the heavy black robe on my shoulders, the cold face of death masking my reflection, sometimes hoping to God that it was just a mask and worried that the true mask I wore was the face I show my friends when I walk out of my house.

I have presided over a half dozen weddings, but only one funeral, but in that time over 100 deaths. It is easy when my life surrounds so much death to feel like my Bible is a scythe and my smile is hidden behind the bones of the Ghost of Christmas Future. Commonly I feel like I sit outside of life watching the living, and I sit outside of death watching the dying. Can’t help but think the words, “Love is not a victory march but a cold and a broken hallelujah.”

I don’t know if I would say I had ever lost hope of the good things, but I know I have never lost sight of the bad. Weeks have begun to roll by, so have many lives, and I can’t help but mourn for the bit of life that I let slip by in my own fears. For the longest time the only way to hold back the onslaught of grief was to dance. There is something naturally healing when two human being hold one another and converse without words. It makes it easier to remember that the blood in my veins is warm knowing that I have not faded into the background of existence.

But there came a time when dancing didn’t work anymore. Well, maybe it wasn’t that dancing didn’t work, it was just that my heart had become to heavy to lift for the time it takes to ask. Though I guess my imagery of the road isn’t complete unless I mention the mountains. I can’t walk straight up a mountain, I walk from side to side in that direction, and I suppose descent is the same. It is manageable if I go back in forth and avoid falling off the mountain.

And the ideas of the prophets fill the corners of my waking mind. Looking back the prophets spoke of the better times, begging that if those who hear would return to those times better times would return. Reminding me ever to have faith in God because God has always been faithful. I do remember a time, my happiest time. There was a time when life was ascent only, with small descents but mostly ascent.

Those were great times but I also can’t help remember the conversations I have had with others in the valley. To put it more succinctly the love I felt from those in the valley. When I am forced to play the serpent, or the psychopomp I am met by those other tribes wondering in the valleys, and we all become one because we have to.

This is purely a rant, I don’t know where it was going, all I know is that as I laid on the floor, I laughed, and it was good.

Something I saw

I am adding a picture of something I saw in a gas station outside of Thyatyra Mississippi

enjoy.

Cars and Feelings

My car was broken into tonight, outside of a Methodist Church in Memphis, I was outside a Methodist church because we dance there on Thursday nights, so I was up for a fun evening when someone, totally unrelated to us came in asking if we saw anyone in the parking lot because someone busted out his window. I thought then I would check mine, and wow did they do an A-1 job. there was no window left, you could tell they put a hole through then cleared it out with a bar or something. My plastic bags held almost all the way to Southaven on the interstate, I was proud of them.

So I process my feelings when it comes to this. I feel annoyed. I feel annoyed because I will have to deal with this tomarrow. I will have to miss work to deal with it, and I have only been there two weeks so I really haven’t even got any vacation time to use, I will just not get payed. The other thing that gets me is, I really like my job, I look forward to going, but my car in intrical to my job, I drove five hundred miles last week.

I am surprised I don’t feel violated. I mean they entered my space without permision it seems like some violation should go witht that, well maybe that is why I looked for any reason to stick around longer with my friends, knowing that I was comming home alone and had a long ass trip with a loud window, alone. Maybe there is some violation in that.

The funny thing is they didn’t even steal anything. I think that actually pisses me off, dammit if you are going to put me through this at least steal my Al Green CD, or my Bill Withers. Sure I love those CD’s but then I would have felt like, well at least they got something.
The other feeling is relieved, I work out of my car and have information in there that would be a pain to put back together, it was all there.

Then there is Irony. A year ago in Memphis I lived in a bad part of town, in Jackson it wasn’t a great part of town, now I moved to a decent place and get broken into when I travel into the place I love, Memphis.

I think then, that is the main frustration, now I will always be worried that my car is going to get broken into, regardless of the fact I have been dealing with cars for 13 years and this is the first time, even when I lived in bad parts of Memphis. I am frustrated that anytime my car is outside when I am at a juke or at the old church dancing I will be worried, it will take the joy from dancing... so how do I keep the bastards from robbing me of that joy? Maybe that is why I am still in shock.

My Memphis

I was listening to Mark Cohn's song, "Walking in Memphis," and I became sad. At first the saddness made no sense, then I heard another song, Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah." I would sit in Jackson Mississippi and think of the Cohn song over and over again and become sad. But why now? why am I sad that I am in Memphis. Well first, I have to tell myself that I am not sad, per se, the problem is that the people I love live in different places. After a weekend of dancing I felt great, excited it was wonderful, it was like the old days, but the problem with the old days is that... the days between then and now meant something too.

So the words, "Love is not a victory dance it's a cold and broken Hallelujah," sting. I remember the words best from the lips of a friend, I heard her sing it on a recording but every now and again I would pull a little bit out of her while we were together. I am glad to be in Memphis, I am glad to be home, but home has always been where I hung my hat. I never had friends like those that sat with me on the stoop, and stood with me at the crossroads. It was odd, over the weekend I think I would even feel a little guilty having a good time without my friends from the Bellhaven Stoop, the plaque which currently hangs by my Minister Bond and Diploma. I suppose that I have to have it both ways, happy and sad together, dancing...

Home for the Holidays

I received a card from my parents the other day, part of it said that even though this is the first Christmas I spend on my own, not to spend it alone. I struggle with Christmas. My denomination doesn’t treat it as a holy day, nor does my family. It is a family holiday, a chance for us to gather together. My first Christmas away from West Virginia I expected years ago would be different. The days I assumed I would spend that time in Memphis, the days where I hoped to call it home are now gone. I have traveled further south, to a different place, to a different home. In a place where I often feel alone, I rest in the cognitive assurance that I am not alone.

I remember looking for apartments in Jackson Mississippi. The first I walked into seemed to me to be a tomb. I fled that place as the day flees from the night. The second was different. I walked in, and smiled and knew this would be the place I call home. Three weeks after moving in, I met my neighbors, then I understood why this place felt right. It wasn’t long before we were all friends. It wasn’t long before we had come up with out own traditions, and our own weekly observances. It wasn’t long after that they became family.

I have always had a family in West Virginia, my first family, those who are akin to me by blood. I love them dearly, but it wasn’t until I found family else were that I understood my connection to them. This year I am away from my family of origin. I was sitting in church today, the last Sunday before Christmas, and I saw many people I didn’t know, I saw those who had come home. There was a slide on the powerpoint that said, “Home for the holidays.” Two songs in I fled that place.

God has blessed me with the ability to find family in any place. It wasn’t a month before one began to form here. That also carries with it a curse. It is a curse that all nomads feel. We create homes for ourselves, we create families, we build important relationships, then when the time is right we are torn from those relationships and are off to build more.

This year I won’t watch my niece open presents; I won’t see my nephew’s first Christmas. I won’t eat my mother’s fudge, or my grandmother’s turkey. There is a forlorn nature to which I sojourn through this world. Jesus said that he had no place to rest his head. I understand Jesus. I gravitate to Gethsemane, to the grief, for I don’t understand how he could build those friendships knowing they would be ripped away, that in the end they would fall. I suppose that is why resurrection is so important to me, and heaven. Because at some point my sojourn will end and I will come to my final home.

Advent, another season I grew up without, looks toward the second coming. What season looks forward to today? Looking forward to a great community in heaven is fine and dandy, but what about the community here?

Home for the Holidays… Currently home is where I hang my hats (for I have many). Knowing then that professing faith means that I have a God that always walks with me helps. Because these days I sit alone waiting for the season to end, and in these days I feel kinship with Jesus Christ, wondering how he dealt with his final Passover. Knowing that dawn come to all who lie awake I wait. In Advent… for the Triumphal Return. Until that day, I surround myself with those in whom I see the divine, and I walk. Sojourning through this land, knowing that I do because I have been called to. …for the son of man has no place to rest his head.

On being a Patriot

Last Tuesday night I had an interesting and informative conversation with a Vietnam Vet. He was standing on the corner, on the opposite end of the crossroads on which I live in Mississippi. He told me his name is Angel. I was talking to the Vet because it was cold and my neighbor, a very good hearted woman, wanted to take him a blanket but didn’t want to walk over alone (it seems her rottweiler wasn’t good enough). In truth I believe he was quite mad. He has PTSD, and has lived on the streets most of his life since his return from Vietnam. All I could think in hindsight was, fallen angel.

The next day I was leading a Bible study in the nursing home at the local VA. I lead one every Wednesday, because that’s what chaplains do. I was speaking on an interesting passage in Genesis about killing. The Bible study is always full, most of the people who come are WWII Vets. I reflected shortly after on my own patriotism.

My freshman year of High School I refused to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. I got a lot of bad responses to that from the teaching staff of my school. I thought of them as judgmental, as idolaters, as fascists. Go figure, forcing me to stand and calling it freedom. In rebellion I blew my nose on an American Flag. The response of most of my peers has faded, and I don’t think much on the response of my teacher, or the vice principal who called my mother in for a conference that day. Oddly enough I don’t think much on my mother’s response. The response that lives forever in my memory was my grandfathers. My grandfather served during the Korean Conflict. He didn’t use many words, and to be honest I don’t remember them… it was the look in his eyes…

As I write this we are nearing the end of Veterans Day 2007. Today I serve as a chaplain for the local VA, every day I hear stories of WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and Iraq. I have had the honor to stand in the room with Tuskegee Airmen, WWII Airborne (the folk who jumped out of plains behind the enemy lines), Vietnam Vets who swear that if they had known what they were in for they would have fled to Canada, and Iraq/Afghanistan Vets (men younger than me) trying to put their lives back together. I however, am a civilian.

I was listening to a General speak today, and I also watched a movie about war. As I sit here, a world away from the conflict, from the car bombs, the bullets, and the death on a mass scale I consider the few years of eligibility I have to join what I hear every day referred to as “the service.” Don’t worry, I doubt that I will, but I wonder… what do those chaplains offer? What do they say when they talk to their fellow soldiers about losing their buddies and just making it out alive.

I also have to consider that I am a bohemian in thought. Let me explain for two days ago I didn’t know what that word means. I consider myself in some ways an artist, a singer, a poet. My friends are artists, singers, and poets. Last night I went to see La Boheme, and earlier that day watched (for the first time on screen Rent. I also have to admit that for the most part I am a pacifist. Yet I think… what would I have done as a pacifist if my number had come up in earlier conflicts?

When did I become a patriot? It’s not even that I believe in our current conflict or the man making decisions. It’s not that I have all the sudden become a supporter of this war. However, I must say that I do believe there are things worth fighting for, dying for, and in some cases… killing for. In the end all I know is that I cannot make the same mistakes objectors made after Vietnam and that I can support the men and women who fight. It is not my place to spit on a soldier, to call him or her names, or to judge them. Maybe it’s better that I am a civilian; I will never understand them… but I can stand with them here, and I can honor them, from home.

God bless you, and goodnight.

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom It May Concern:

People don’t often think of me as an introvert. I guess because from the very beginning I was assertive, well maybe aggressive. My first boss couldn’t stand me, and could stand me even less when I told him I was going into business for myself. He was like a father to me, being rejected by him… in many ways wrecked my life. That isn’t to say I would want to work for my old boss again, but there were some good times.

Then there was that incident with that woman… I can’t remember her name right now. I can’t tell you how many people thought I was the shit because I approached her the way I did. They thought it was even better that I “tricked” her. I think that is a very judgmental and one-sided way of looking at things. I let her know the truth, the truth that my boss didn’t want to let her know, look I think information should be free, we shouldn’t hoard information, even when it is expensive. I think the prices we pay now are ridiculous, but then I am always called the bad guy.

I don’t get it sometimes. All I want to do is help, it isn’t like my enlightenment isn’t important, shoot if it weren’t for me then no one would really enjoy life. I would be surrounded by thoughtless automations with a fear of fruit. Ooh if you eat of this fruit you will die… like that’s fair. He pulled that shit with me and I stood up and said HELL NO!!! Who needs wings anyway?
And because of these things people think I am an extrovert. Look, I am the first one to tell you that I know I need a few friends around, I don’t like to be alone, but then at the same time, approaching people has always been hard for me. My brothers Mike and Gabe, they always knew how to approach and not feel awkward. It is that, so awkward for me.

I walked into Wal-Mart the other day and there was a greater. I could tell I made him uncomfortable, but then I can’t stand that outgoing bullshit, especially when it’s fake. I think I liked the ones in Memphis better; there at least the greater didn’t put on this facade like he gave a shit when he really didn’t. Down here everyone wants to look polite, regardless of their true feelings. See that’s what I am all about, true feelings.

I figure that if everyone was just honest with one another, then this world would be a much nicer place. If you don’t care say you don’t care, if you don’t like someone say you don’t like them, and for fuck’s sake, if you need to hit someone hit them.

Case in point, I was in church the other day, this fool up front telling me how to live. I chuckle at that every time I hear it, then of course he blames me for it. Actually I think that bastard blamed me for everyone who doesn’t like him, at least that is what I think he was saying. Oh, it’s my fault that the pastor lusts after the deacon’s wife, it’s my fault that the youth minister likes porn, and oh yes, it’s my fault your 16 year old daughter is pregnant.

I am not always whispering in people’s ears. Generally I don’t have to people make these decisions all on there own, regardless of me. In truth the last time I really even approached anyone it didn’t work. Sure the first one did. Most people don’t even listen to me. Generally people just want to blame me for their problems. All I want is a few friends: to drink with, to dine with, to sleep with. Anything I do is just to make friends. I’m like anyone else, lonely and scared to death of rejection.

Sincerely
Legba

The Rosary

Hail Mary full of Grace
The Lord is with you
Blessed are you among women
Blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus…


The rosary sat coldly in his hands though he ground the beads like they were sand. Try to keep the image; it’s all he can do; try to picture the Holy Mother… to know at least someone is praying for him…

…Its funny, I have been doing it so long I don’t know anymore if it even matters, anymore… I know it used to…

It was a cold day, but warm. I know that doesn’t make any sense it just was. There was a dry rain, and I hit bottom. Let me tell you, bottom is an interesting place to be, all I can see is what is below me, and there is nothing below me. Bottom, so low in fact, I could no longer hear the conversations of the people above me. Of course every now and again someone would get close to me, but never as low as me. Bottom’s are funny though, it isn’t like I was drinking, I hadn’t pissed anyone off, I hadn’t lost my job and by no means had I hurt anyone… not even myself. Often at bottoms people have suicidal idealizations, I had none, I knew what was before me either way, hell… no, capitol H Hell. Not in death but in life, and then in death because of the waste my life had become. And it would make sense if I was addicted to drugs or alcohol if I had just lost someone important, if I was so depressed I wanted to die… of course I was just so depressed I didn’t think I could be lucky enough to die… then one way or another get stuck with eternal life.

Hail Mary Mother of God
Pray for us sinners
Now, and at the hour of our death…


I guess I am not at my death, but now… will the holy Mother come to me, and even if she could… would it matter, I hear there are some things that can’t be forgiven… A contract is often one of those things, especially when Hell has the best lawyers. I know what you’re thinking, “This nut job sold his soul to the devil.”

Let me correct you, “This nut, Job, sold his soul to the devil.” Okay so I am not necessarily the one in the book, at least not the one the book is written about, but Goethe liked me enough to put me there… Okay maybe I am not that one either. Who am I then that this Faustian deal weighs on my soul? It wasn’t a long contract; you know there wasn’t even any fine print

I, state your name, blaspheme the Spirit
Signed,

Well, you know…

There were witnesses too, what was her name… hell I don’t remember anymore; maybe I can find the document. Of course I lost it years ago…
He really hasn’t bothered me since I signed either, he got a kick out of it, I didn’t tell him I wanted anything, in all honesty, I was just sick of being fooled, so I just signed… “Easiest soul I ever knew,” he said to me as he walked away. Mephistopheles has a good sense of humor, he threw me a rosary, I am not even Catholic. Years ago I thought about converting but you know… never got around to it… was too busy… hitting bottom.

Is there grace once one signs his soul away? Sometimes I wonder why I couldn’t just be like one of those folk I see every day who sign a wee bit more away every day. If they died right now it might take some purgatory to burn that shit out, but in a few years… hell… I might have a roommate, at least in Hell.

Should I continue with this rosary, I never really took to the doctrine of Mary… I mean it’s all right, just not my thing.

Grace… Damnation… Peace… how is it I feel like I deserve all these things at the same time… maybe I will be lucky and I will find out the Evangelicals were wrong, and the Catholics, and… well most everyone, and there is annihilation of the soul. I think that is what I want anyway… for annihilation I get peace…

Well… it’s time to go. Time to sleep, perchance to dream…if I am lucky, an empty dream… where my soul is already annihilated.
Mary looked down from heaven… Mephistopheles looked up from Hell… both willing to fight for a soul. Then there was Jesus… he smiled… because he knew something more.

... and a time for dancing

There’s a time for mourning and a time for dancing

No one who watches really knows… it’s not something that can be seen; it is only something that works in the experience. It’s neither good nor bad, neither dark nor light, but the language spoken on the floor of the smoke filled jukes. A movement of the arm, a shift of the weight, a lead, a follow… these things someone may see but it is something beyond that no one can see… it is the connection, oh I am sure you think you see it, but you don’t. It’s not just the hands, the placement of the feet, and the flaws of the turn.

Part of it is the sweat; the fact vision is impaired because of the salt in the eyes from the brow. To feel her, pressed against… breast against… arms in contact… and the music it drives on… and on... and on…

Look, it’s not about sex, and it’s not “not” about sex. It’s not about love, and at the same time it is. Hell, it often isn’t even about “like”… regardless of the feeling. It’s when there’s nowhere to go, no place to be, when the words just aren’t enough to express thought. It isn’t about technique, or how well a turn is lead… it’s about the conversation that only a soul can hear, a conversation that only the soul can see.

The sweat intermingles, and increases. Hormones… Pheromones… Sometimes it seems like guitars never stop, sometimes is seems like they stop too soon, and haven’t driven hard enough. Then again, to close the eyes, to hold her tight, to be guided, not by my own intuition, or even decision. To be guided only by the song. It’s the way music feels, what two people have say at the same time. Sometimes it’s about agreeing, and sometimes it’s about conflict, and sometimes it is anger. Bodies pressing against one another while the music articulates a heartbeat that can only be understood on the floor. There is no apology for moving; there is no discussion of appropriateness because nothing’s appropriate. But it’s not sex, no matter what anyone tells you, what is it they say? “It’s the blues,” and it’s time for dancing.

Death on-call

It was like thunder in the darkness, or an incessant ringing, it wouldn’t stop. The ringing that takes place in his head, it never stops. Sometimes, even when it does stop, it doesn’t stop. Nights are no longer sleepless, and my hip has always got that damn vibration. The clock says 3:32… damn… even if it is short my nights sleep is shot. Where did I put my glasses, where is that fucking light, where is the pager?

I can barely rouse myself from the edge of the bed, it is now 3:37, I still haven’t called back… I wonder if the nurses would think it funny, me sitting in my underwear, no shirt my stomach hanging over, my hair tossed to shreds, and my demeanor… pissed. Whey is this so complicated, and why do I want to say damn over and over again. Oop, it is going off again… same number… better call back.

“Hi this is the oncall chaplain returning a page.” I say with a hint of annoyance.

“We have a death,” she said coldly, and pronouncing the th with an f sound.

“Who is this?,” I say partially out of befuddlement, partially to be a smart ass.

“This is the ER, the patient is a 12 year old boy,” she went on to give me his name and all the pertinent information. This kid had so much internal bleeding that nothing could stabilize him, he was so torn up there was nothing left to die. So I put on my cloak, I grabbed my sickle, hooded my face… and walked out of the room to the ER, hopefully no one would notice the skeletal face, the bony hands… or me… What is it we say to these families, what is it I say to this family. The same one that comes in over and over again. Mom is going to cry out obnoxious things about God, Dad won’t even be around and little brother… he is six and taking care of the 3 month old.

“Does the family know yet?” I ask.

“No”

“You know I can’t say anything right?”

“Yes, we just figured you could be there for the family,” she said plainly, I couldn’t catch a hint of sarcasm, I was hoping for one. In my mind I say thanks for telling me how to do my Goddamn job, now you do yours and tell the fucking family, but instead I asked her when the doctor would be in. “I don’t know,” she said and walked off. I should sit my ass down and just wait for her to come back, show her and the doctor. Tie my hands will they… What would Jesus do? Aren’t ministers supposed to be nice? Fuck it… God is the one who put me here, guess he’ll work it out.

“Hi, I am one of the chaplain’s that works at the hospital and…”

“MY BABY WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BABY???”

“Ma’am I really don’t know,” I lied I know exactly what happened, a 12 year old took a bullet in the stomach because your boyfriend pissed off the local GD. An older man goes to comfort the woman that is obviously the mother, she looks to me to be in her late 20’s, but I have never been good with age. “Can someone fill me in on what is going on?” figured I would gather some info.

The older man comforting the mother spoke up, “I’m the grandfather,” I nod with acknowledgement, “I know what your thinking…” no he doesn’t, “your thinking another nigger family done fucked up got the boy shot because his momma runnin round with some gud damned gangster.” All the sudden a tear begins to run down his cheek. “Its my fault, he found my gun,” pointing over to the six year old. He called me out, he was right, all I saw was another nigger family that dun fucked up. Somewhere in their chaos life was all about me, such narcissism “See we was fittin to move out the neighborhood next week, and I moved it to pack it away…” he couldn’t finish…

“I’m sorry…” I say… and finally I mean it. They knew before the doctor came in… I often wonder if God damned my soul long ago… each night I look through my white eyes… I wonder if God damns my soul. I didn’t sleep that night… Grandfather and I had a long talk… beyond my prejudice, beyond his self blame, we came to trust each other. That’s the thing, if the Grandfather can be strong they will make it, but Granddad has a long way to go, of course so do I. About 5:00 AM I apologized to the Grandfather, this time for my judgments… I told him why I apologized…

“Your innocent to me son…” he said to me, “at least you can listen.” I walked back to the oncall room after everything had been dealt with. “Dealt with,” that is an interesting way to put it. A 12 year old died, straight A student, his brother scared for life, his Grandfather, a Vietnam Vet, twice decorated stands accused in his own court of law… I put my sickle down, I unhood my face, and remove the black cloak to find a human underneath. Sometimes I am shocked to find the human… sometimes I am shocked to know that if I cut myself I bleed, and some pains can even stab through my cold heart. Its okay two hours later my relief comes in and I go home, might as well see if the cafeteria is open. And there it is, my hip vibrates again.

I make the call… I grab my cloak and my sickle, this time to the ICU, 60 year old man coding, they don’t know if he is going to make it… family is erratic, crazy white man saying he is going to burn the hospital down. Probably trailer trash, probably dangerous. Dammit God when do I get to sleep. Then I hear the answer and I laugh to myself…

“Get over yourself, you’re a chaplain not an actor so avoid the drama,” I knew God could be sarcastic and I knew he had a sense of humor, and I knew he was right. I do tend to focus on drama. I can’t see for shit, but then at least I can listen.

The Faustian Deal as an Archetype: Individuation by the Process of Integration of the Shadow

This paper serves as a reflection only; I am beginning to organize thoughts in my head around the concept of integration of the shadow. If one is not aware of the terminology in reference to the shadow please read my previous reflection on an introduction to the shadow.

I will explore the archetype of the Faustian deal. This concept is of interest to me because of how often I have see the concept relived through popular media. Basically a Faustian deal refers very specifically to a deal that is made between humanity and some form of a malevolent Trickster for wisdom, wealth, power, etc… The terminology comes from the story of Dr. Faustus. Though he was a historical character, there isn’t much that can be said of assurance as to how he lived.

The two main authors penning the story of Faust are Johannes Goethe and Thomas Marlow. The two stories focus on completely different themes, and seem to even have different points. This reflection will mainly focus on Goethe’s Faust. It will then trace the movement of Faustian deals in modern media; I will begin with Star Wars, in relation to turning to the dark side, Ghost Rider, and Spawn. The latter two are comic book characters.

I had always been interested in this idea, early on because there is no Biblical ground for it, but more recently as I consider morality and ethics in a world that is not black and white. I began to notice themes in the media when I was very young. It started by watching movies where these deals were taking place, one that comes to mind is the George Burns movie, Oh God you Devil. I was later introduced to Todd McFarland’s Spawn, and when I was in college I read a Star Wars comic book series called Dark Jedi, where Luke “goes over” to the dark side, his reasoning, to defeat a Sith Lord.

While working as a hospital chaplain I began to read the works of CG Jung, and learned of the concept of the archetype, and his take on fantasy and dream interpretation. At that point I began noticing recurring characters in television and books. There is always a protagonist, always an antagonist. Often there is a Trickster, a Hero, a Mother, a Father, and then there was the ever-present Shadow.

This reflection is part of my journey. I can’t help but wonder, why does our culture tell the story of Dr. Faustus over and over again… what inherent need does it meet? Lets begin by tracing this need in Star Wars.

Star Wars
In the beginning Darth Vader is to be understood as an evil force bent solely on controlling the universe through terror. One important question is, is that the case? In the original movies Vader’s character development is interesting, if one were to open their mind they would see by “Return of the Jedi,” that Darth Vader no longer represents what he was proposed to be. What is Vader’s goal after finding Luke, his son? His goals are to first overthrow the Emperor, and then rule the universe with Luke as father and son. Vader believes that with Luke at his side, if he embraces the Sith side of his personality they will be strong enough to overthrow the Emperor.

It was always interesting to me that in their universe this epic battle is based off a Prophesy, “the one who will restore balance to the force.” In the beginning of a New Hope Obi Wan believes this is through Luke but with the addition of the prequel’s we find that this thought fell originally with Vader himself. In the end of “Return of the Jedi,” who is it that destroys the Emperor, it is not Luke who refuses to embrace his hate, but his father who acting out of hatred for the Emperor and love and concern for his son that destroys Palpatine.

The prequel movies build Anikan to be a new hope himself, but with deep confliction. He never learns to temper his rage but seems only to try and repress it, this is first completely evident in the second movie when he destroys the sand people at the death of his mother. He never learned to deal with grief, so by the third movie when he has found that his beloved would die he partakes in a Faustian deal, why? For love. We find that Vader has more depth than could be imagined from his original appearance.

Any true Star Wars fan will also have moved beyond the canonical series of movies and moved into the literature. In the canonical literature there is a comic book series that is very important to this discussion, “Dark Jedi.” In this series we find that the Emperor is not really dead but has been biding his time. We find that as the ability to use the force grows it destroys the body, thus the reason he became so deformed fighting in the third episode. How will a Jedi deal with this? Qui-gon Jin and Obi-wan found a way to deal with it through death, the Emperor through cloning. We find the he has grown beyond the bounds of his own skin and lives again through a clone.

Once Luke figures this out he understands his father all the better. He is forced to ask the question, is it possible to beat true evil through some perceived purity. He even begins to realize that he must embrace the dark side of the force; this realization comes to him as he takes a knee and refers to Palpatine as, “my master.”

Todd McFarland’s Spawn
We find the Faustian deal more upfront in the comic book series Spawn. A mercenary, one that has done many bad things, is on his deathbed and is given one more chance to be with his love by Malbolsha the devil. He is given five years then is expected to lead the armies of Hell. Malbolsha tricks him, and he awakens to find that he is deformed and five years has past. Wanda his love has moved passed him and married his best friend, they have a child, though oddly enough we find that the child is probably Spawn’s.

Spawn awakens to find a choice lay before him, whom will he follow? Not choosing is not an option by refusing to choose he chooses “Evil,” by choosing “Good,” he loses all hope of finding his love once more.

God must battle the devil; this seems to be the rule. Throughout history, through stories and through Literature we find the archetype of the “Divine Battle,” a battle that must be fought, it is interesting to me that in the case of Faust (Goethe), Star Wars, Spawn, and Ghost Rider God uses a, “demonic” force to win.

Ghost Rider
Ghost Rider is an earlier form of the Spawn storyline, tricked my Mephistopheles to sell his soul and live in servitude, his father does not die of cancer. There is always a trick when it comes to a Faustian deal though, in this case his father later dies in a wreck. Ghost Rider is forced to walk the world alone, belonging to the Devil. Later he learns to control his powers and fights against the devil himself. The character in touching his shadow is strengthened to deal with darkness.

Faust
I will spend my time with Faust as understood by Goethe, and remain most in the first book. Goethe’s first book is a love story. There are many character but I see three as major archetypes, not exactly as something different, but as stages.

Mephisto: in the prologue in a conversation with God he calls himself the Devil, later in the book he is called other things but desires most the name, Mephisto, or Mephistopheles. He is representative of the trickster, the one who is given the task of upsetting the balance. It seems that Goethe takes a queue from the book of Job. In a conversation with God a deal is struck, a deal, or one might even say a bet, in which Faust is set up as the deciding factor. Faust’s faithfulness is not decided by his morality but by his intellect, Mephistopheles engages Faust in the intellect. He stands as a liberal in a conservative world, offering Faust the opportunity to change his stance on life to something more progressive. Put simply he offers Faust a life where he can move away from helping those around him as a doctor but enjoying life, finding something that will finally entertain him.

Margaret: If Mephisto represents to me extreme liberalism she then is blind orthodoxy. Margaret takes issue not only with Faust not adhering to a creed but his association to Mephisto. She actually tells Faust that she loves him except when she is around Mephisto, then she hates him. There is a wonderful scene where She and a friend of hers are gossiping about a woman who is pregnant out of wedlock.

In the end her way of thinking is too inconsistent with the life she has begun to live since she met Faust. Though she is redeemed at the end of her life, she is put to death for the drowning of her illegitimate child. The child belongs to Faust.

***Take into account I have simplified the story and have simplified the characters. The characters are deep and on their own represent something deeper and fuller than my inadequate descriptions. Also take into account I am making these descriptions to emphasize a point, and this is the vision I have taken from the book, not necessarily the one intended by the author.***

Faust: Standing between what was and what could be Faust is forced to look upon both worlds. Though he did not enter in hastily he still entered into a pact with the Devil. There was something found wanting in his life, something he needed. Every day as a doctor he acted kindly to the underprivileged, working often pro-bono. The world that surrounded him revered him, for not only did he work for the poor, he taught wisely and raised those beneath him. But there was something missing something Faust was not able to do with the cards that had been dealt to him that is where Mephisto steps in.

Mephisto gave him youth, helped him find love, taught him regret, and at some point made concrete a morality that was slipping away. It was in the guilt over Margaret’s death that Faust is reminded one must live a certain way. Something that he had forgotten before Mephisto, and while walking with Mephisto. It was Mephisto that gave him the opportunity to learn more, to attempt to exhaust knowledge, all knowledge under heaven and earth.
Mephisto, then in the second book gave him an army. He sent him to help a king and in that time worked with the king. At his death he tricked Mephistopheles. In a final act of kindness, not only is he sure he can’t know everything, he puts himself in a situation where he convinces the devil to work to better mankind.

Goethe paints Faust as a picture of wisdom, though he may not be innocent as a dove, he is sly as a serpent. Faust understands that answers are not simple, like Margaret thought, but through Mephisto he understands some answers aren’t worth it.

This story has been told over and over again. Why is humanity so dead set on selling its soul to the devil? We live in a culture that uses phrases like, “Lesser of two evils,” and asks questions like, “do the ends justify the means.”

Edgar Allen Poe wrote a story called “Never Bet the Devil Your Head.” He describes it as his one “moral,” tale. In the story Poe does not stand between Progression and Orthodoxy, between perceived good and evil but accepts the dichotomy. In accepting that dichotomy no matter how tongue in cheek, he rejects his shadow, a shadow he faced in the rest of his writing. Poe recommended we never bet the Devil our head, but we never learn, why is that?
Maybe we have to bet the devil our head. Maybe we have to sell our soul to the devil to survive. I know what your saying so let me say this, I don’t think it literally, but in a figurative sense, we have to balance the force, not dichotomize it. I don’t think this ignores morality, nor does it ignore the wisdom of understanding good and evil. If we walk into a room with a set dichotomy someone isn’t going to fit. We can pretend that all people are Republican’s or Democrats, Liberals or conservatives, Believers or Unbelievers, Good or Evil, but at some point, someone will walk in to this room who doesn’t fit.

Our culture tends to ignore the shadow, thinking that if we don’t look at the darkness within ourselves it isn’t there. The thing is when we look into our own darkness often we find that we have damned things that themselves are not dark. It is as if we look at all people who oppose violence as weak, and the people that are willing to fight as killers. Not all solders kill babies, and not all pacifists are doing it because it is the right thing to do. But if we can label people who don’t think like us as evil, then we are good, we don’t need to reconsider life or to think about new things because we have arrived, and we can stop the car. I am a fan of life as a journey, where the hell we go isn’t as important as how the hell we get there… or vice versa, where the heaven we go isn’t as important as how the heaven we get there. Death… a place to rest? A new adventure? I don’t know but I can’t journey if I don’t have any road.

Can we look into our own darkness without being swallowed by it? And if we are swallowed are we stuck for good, is it as clear as “never bet the devil your head,” or can Darth Vader still make the right choice, even after making all the wrong ones.

Folks, there is power in the dark side of the force, and psychosis lives there too. We can ignore him, or maybe it is time to sit and have a discussion with Mephistopheles. Maybe it is time to learn what he knows. Morality is action. We are moral if we function within our bounds of ethics. Things… things are not moral, even actions.

The Bible says in Isaiah 45:7 “I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things. (KJV)” I don’t always know what this means, I know it isn’t referring to tornado’s and I know it doesn’t mean God isn’t good. But I know that in Genesis 1:3-4 for there to be light there has to be darkness. All the characters of these stories worked with their shadow side, integrating those things in it necessary for life and for higher consciousness, and were able to reject the things that were not moral… so what is hidden in your shadow that will bring you to higher conscious… and what there will kill you?

Reflection on Goodbye

I have considered goodbye. What else is there to do when one is leaving but to consider goodbye? It is often hard for me to know how to say goodbye, it is often hard for me to know how to know what is important to say, what is important to make known. I often see people die, I see their families and I hear the stories they tell. It is not uncommon, when asked, for a family to talk about the life of the deceased and the death they deserved, many of whom will either say in a peaceful death, "It is good the suffering is over," and in a tragic death, "She didn’t deserve this." I wonder if ever they really know what one deserves and what one does not, lest I consider goodbye.

In the days I didn’t know how to say goodbye I would plan "speeches", these long drawn out things more like monologues, what was important was summing up the entire life experiences of my friend and I so that I can have the appropriate closure and move on. It was a carefully planned procedure, at first I planned it for the last possible moment, the time when goodbye is imminent and if I would wait one moment longer goodbye would be missed. Living a life without equal sharing of feeling I had to make sure that this was known, that my feeling were known.
In my head it was pictured so cleanly, All my friends lined up in a row, one by one I would say something to each of them for the others to hear, one by one I would honor them, and I would organize by importance in my life. There was an epithet for each person, a statement of who they are, and their importance to me. Not only were my friends there but those people I respected but didn’t like, with them there was always a firm handshake. Then there was the girl that never knew how I cared for her. In one moment we would live a lifetime… together… in love.

Well these things never happened. I suppose that the mental process itself is important because I need to know what people mean to me, I need to know how they have blessed me and honored me. The thing I learned about this was more that my fantasy of goodbye was filled with narcissism. All people gathering in honor of me, my mind conceptualized that this meeting as the time when time stops. As I would leave and begin to grow and change without them, they would seem to no longer exist to me, only as a remembrance, a memory of my past, a part of me, created to serve my needs. That was the backdrop of goodbye for me, a chance to bring notoriety to myself through the self-flagellation of grief.

Later goodbye changed for me. Don’t get me wrong it was still grand, still narcissistic, it was just… different. I went with the narcissism and realized goodbye was something for me even more than it is for others. Yes they need closure but in my mind I realized that I fantasized all this because I needed closure. So then I consider my basic human need when it comes to relationships… closure, acknowledgement of change. It is still narcissistic, it still puts me at the center of the world but in truth… at least I got honest about it. Hugs were important, words, memories, and most of all to let them know how they have blessed me.

It has been interesting for me to learn that not all people need this form of closure and closure comes in many ways. My last two paradigms flowed out of a low self-esteem. Maybe my esteem has changed little but at least I see it. So what then is goodbye to me now?

I started preparing this time the same as usual, I began to think of gatherings, call them parties if you will. As I gathered with one group of friends I noticed, the party was not the point, the speeches I had prepared were unimportant something had changed. Maybe its growing older, maybe its growing healthier but I didn’t need the speech for me, and in this time I have learned that others do need that speech. I also noticed that it isn’t necessarily kind to inflict my narcissism on others through my speech. Sometimes all I needed was a hug, sometimes a handshake, and for many… just one more dance, knowing that next time we dance something will be different… it must be. And sometimes, I didn’t need to say or do anything, the life I had lived with this person, the experiences we shared said more than any speech I could write.
Even more so the relationship wasn’t culminating. In some ways it would continue to grow, and in other ways it would stop, yet there was this sense of culmination. I danced with a friend last night… The dance had ever bit of soul, every bit of the blues, and every bit of emotion I felt for my friend. We moved sometimes together sometimes apart, but I remember finishing the dance and saying to myself, "That was goodbye, and no word or speech could ever say it better." Goodbye was not in the words said, the hands shaken, the hugs given, but only in the life lived.

So as I go on from here, I think there will be times where I create a speech, but I might start calling it a conversation, and allowing for other input. There might be a statement of feeling and meanings, and there might not be. Sometimes just a dance… a smile… and even a hug… who knows I might even someday get the kiss I have always been waiting for.

Mood Indigo

I think I realized why I like to set my alarm 30 minuites before I would even consider waking up. I like that time in the morning, that time when I am half asleep half awake. It is neat, like dream, fantasy, and reality are all one. It is that time when I get a second chance to fix errors that in reality have no fix, it is that time when those who have said goodbye are still there... when my dreams are most potent, and the world is in the palm of my hand.

There was a chance once, well, less than a chance... not even a chance... to stair into a set of eyes gone, to relive a moment and choose something different. Like a time dancing in my room at 2:00 AM, the song Mood Indigo had just finished. She was about to tell me she needed to leave... maybe just maybe... maybe what made sense would widdle away or maybe something would happen. I remember her saying "I think I need to go." My heart never fell, never dropped I knew she would have to go, I knew it would end this way... too few things ever change that much.

"It's your call," was my responce. What is different than usual, I wasn't speaking from fear, she knew how I felt, the problem was that I knew how she felt... half interested... maybe I was just filler... incase of emergency break glass. In thinking about my response I don't think saying anything different would have changed anything, it would simply have just been a little more honest. But in this time early in the morning I remember the time and I realize it wasn't out of fear that I ran from the right phrase, it was from ignorance... I said the first thing that occurred to me.

It was a safe comment, my hope was to hear, "Maybe just a little bit longer." That wasn't what I heard. There was no goodnight kiss, no real hug... I walked her to her car and she left.

But as I meditate on the event the phrase that would have made the most sense, the phrase that would have at least acknowledged my feelings, "I want you to stay." I know what your thinking, but your wrong, it isn't about sex, it isn't about the hollowness of, "making out," it was simply staving off the inevitable for one more moment and for once speaking my desires aloud. To look for a few moments with a set of eyes that would never be the same. She would probably have still left, it would probably have been all the same except, it would have been a wee bit more honest.

I think about the deathbeads I stand beside. I remember one night a woman watched her husband die, she held his hand, I was privlaged to stand in the room with them, I was able to stand in sight of their love. More than 50 years they had been together, now he leaves. She wept at his bedside, and it made me ask, who will weep at mine. Don't misread me, I didn't expect it to be this woman... at least I hadn't expected it for a long time... sometimes my life is like a revolving door of what never happened...

But when I get out of bed, the morning shower washes it all away... the dreams, the fantasy, I put on my tie, my nametage, I grab my coat and step into life. It isn't sad, at least my life isn't sad, I am sad because I am in the process of goodbye, I stay often in Mood Indigo, but you know, I live... to hold and to be held, to dream of and be dreamt of, to love and be loved, to be angry and recieve others anger, these and many other things like them are to live... there is more, sometimes there is less, but always there is life.

So as you read this raise your glass and say with me
"LaChiam"

The Journey

It was an odd day, the day that I died. I don’t think that it is worth getting into the details of the event, they weren’t very meaningful, at least not to me. Not in the long run. I think it is also worthless to talk about lights and tunnels and things, not because I didn’t see them, it just… wasn’t important to me.

See get this, I was lying there… I was in the hospital, I remember having to argue with my wife about what I wanted, there were a few things that were obvious that she already knew. She knew my flair for the dramatic and my desire to utilize what many have called, meaningless gestures, partially because I believe and also for the dramatics.

Its funny, I didn’t have to argue with her about getting a priest, a specific priest. Yes I know, I am not Catholic… but he was a friend, and he used to sneak me communion during Mass. It was funny I remember once over a beer I told him I wanted him to give me last rites, he figured that he’d go first so we just toasted our glasses and he said all right. I won’t tell the diocese if you won’t. I still remember him praying the rosary for me. It was neat, maybe the cross between Morphine and Dopamine… but I saw Mary there… She was behind my youngest son, there was a tear in her eye, and a smile on her face… her face was so warm and inviting, I wonder if everyone knows how warm and inviting her face is. Sure I know it is crazy for a protestant to talk about visions of Mary but hey… it’s what I do.

The room was strangely warm, I thought I would be cold… I wasn’t, I don’t know what was warming the room up… maybe love… maybe frustration… You know there was a chaplain there. I had hoped there would be one, this was a Southern Baptist fellow… I think I was conscious about two hours, he was there the entire time. At one point he sat with me and talked, just he and I, I had to smile, he was so young, and his eyes an odd mix of warm and cold. Like he was full of emotion, but fuller of a desire to only let it squeak out. He was a good guy, I don’t remember his name, he was in training, I told him a little about my training, I told him how I wanted to die… I opened the door for him.

"It seems like your ready," he said to me in a haunting voice. I always wondered if I would have that conversation with someone. The truth is, I was tired, I suppose a little young but still, I have two kids and a wife I love very much… The oldest is married, I won’t get to see my grandchild this side of the shadowlands, but I know he is coming, I know it’s a boy, they don’t believe me, think I am a damned old mystic. I will get a chance to speak with him before he goes, I will send a message, I wonder if they will get it.

Now the youngest, he is the most like me, he is in seminary, followed in my footsteps, I can’t believe it. I argued with him about it, talked about the hours, about pain, about the tears I had shed, about living paycheck to paycheck, God’s forced faith, knowing that he will provide because otherwise we starve. I knew I had lost the argument when I saw a gleam in his eyes… later a vision… I made the arguments of his grandfather, but my heart welled with pride. I know he doesn’t know about the pain that is coming, but I know he can take it. I feel that I can stand before God and feel redeemed because of my children… because through all the mistakes I made… they will change the world, maybe that is just the father in me… but God is a father too.
I will never see him wed… be he will. Its funny when Mary left his side she was replaced with the shape of a different woman, olive skinned… seemed cute… holding his arm. I don’t think he was open to the vision fully but I saw him shiver, then scratch his arm where she was touching him… he would meet her soon, maybe two years out, but soon.

The oldest… successful bastard, he is like his mother. I never thought I would spawn his kind. The popular kind, the sporty kind, but he was a little different. Sure I had to adjust his attitude as a kid but he seems to have gone a different direction. He seems to have… grown. He will be a good father, I can’t believe the woman he married. Every day I wonder how he got her… She is so kind, I think she is the reason he went back to church. My vision of him is interesting… a rose… he will be a leader someday… a leader in the church… not like my young son… but a lay leader… an elder...

My wife, she is funny. She has two silver dollars in her purse… because I asked for her to carry them, to pay the boatman. When I die I want them over my eyes. She will hand one to each son; they will cover my eyes. She is okay with that, but she wasn’t okay with me dying… at least not at first. I keep telling her I won’t make it, she keeps talking about miracles. I keep telling her I don’t want those miracles. I am not afraid of death, or at least wasn’t until that damn chaplain asked me a question.

"Yeah I’m ready," I heard myself say. "How about you, you ready?" I know the expectation of the chaplain, I know what the staff thinks he should do, I smile at him. I can’t help it, I tell him stories about CPE: About the years I spent as a chaplain and as a preacher, the years as a husband and a father, the years alone… in transit… wondering if I would ever find a home. I saw a tear in his eye… That bastard, he knew what I needed, and I think I knew what he needed. I needed to talk… he needed to hear… yes I was ready… it was right

"You are Catholic?" I always laugh when people ask me this question.
"No sir, never got around to conversion," my priest friend laughed.
"I think you understand what Catholic means better than most…" my Priest said.

My new Southern Baptist friend didn’t understand that comment, so the father, it feels odd to call my friend father, explained about the big church. This chaplain is just a kid, we both know he isn’t going to listen too well, but I like him. He is me… I am him…

My niece and nephew are there, and a man who became like a brother to me later… my sister-in-law’s brother. A good guy… I was glad he was there. I look forward to seeing my brother again. I wonder where he is…

All the sudden there is pain… God awful pain… So I do the only appropriate thing… I start to curse… the nurse gives me more morphine immediately I get loopy, it’s almost time… I glaze my eyes with the look of goodbye, I try to speak but I am too tired, I can raise 1 finger, I wave… the circle around me joins hands. Mary was back, Jesus was there, and Grandma, that is where I saw you first… My brother standing next to his wife… I hadn’t seen that in years… I can’t exactly remember why… oh now I remember. I don’t think she knows he is there…. Mom… Dad… smiling, holding hands. I really appreciate that theology about "believers but not knowers."

They are gone and I get up… blue lab coat… chaplain coat… I am in the hospital… "Code 1 to ICU 3" I rush to the code and find out it wasn’t a code… the chart says, "do not resuscitate." The family is standing around the body; Mary is here, Jesus is here… Mom, Dad… why are you here… Anna… Adam… why is my family here? I look down on the table, me… all the sudden I am looking up from the table… and I am filled with breath.

Grandma, that is when you handed me my chaplain coat… my sons placed the silver dollars over my eyes. I put my coat on… I walked through a corridor… another chaplain next to me… he wore black… pretty macabre for a chaplain… oh, he is "that" chaplain… I walk to a river… there is a boat, and a man with a lantern. "Charon?" I said. He smiled at me and held out his hand, I reached into the pocket of my lab coat, lets see… papers… more papers… census’… there they are. I hand over two silver dollars to Charon. He smiles.

The journey is short… peaceful, and oddly enough seemed like forever… I was a little nervous… now judgement it coming, now I stand before God… now the decision… Elysium or Tartarus… All the sudden no fear… I should be afraid, I am not… I got off the boat onto a dock… I walk through a door… I am in the hospital again… but it is a dream I had many years earlier… I walk into employee orientation… I state my name to the man behind the main desk… the bookkeeper opens a large book… this was just like a dream… he smiles… "St. Peter?" I ask. This is no longer the dream. I begin to walk and turn to ask a question, "can I check on my family?" he showed me a monitor. There was crying… even the chaplain… but it was okay… Mary was there… so was my Dad… and Mom… I looked to the right; Grandma was with me… she had never left me. Uncle Bud on her right… smiles… all smiles… The journey, I plot my course.

The Shadow: A Layman's Introduction

(I am not an analyst, you might read my stuff and think I have no idea what I am talking about, that is fine… I might just agree with you. I have recently come into the writing of CG Jung and am beginning to walk a road of understanding this requires the collection of my thoughts and dialogue therein. Please, let me know what you think)

Another of Jung’s core archetypes is the Shadow. The Shadow appears in our dreams and also in our fantasies as different things. The shadow itself is the part of the human psyche that we often don’t want to acknowledge. Often times parts of ourselves our relegated to shadow because of some strict moral judgement, and sometimes because of the way we fit into cultural norms.
For example, let’s talk about pride. Pride finds itself in the top 7 of the deadly sins list and for centuries has been the negative focal point of sermons and philosophical expressions. To view pride as a negative thing is rather black and white. I would say there are two sides to pride. There is the negative side, which I like to call Vanity, then there is the positive side, which can be understood as a positive self esteem. There are such phrases as, "pride in our work," "pride in our job," and "pride in the life we live." These things are important… we cannot live a life without pride it doesn’t work, but we take a word like pride and define it in a way that makes all pride seem bad.

Other examples might be in words like, religion, doctrine, and sexuality. All these things have negative connotations and often those connotations are exaggerated for the purpose of getting ones way or winning an argument. These things if not expressed find themselves in the shadow.
Of course it doesn’t have to be that dramatic. We often live unbalanced lives, there are very spiritual individuals out there who are accountants but never act on their spirituality because they are accountants not some form of minister. When something like this happens one might commit him/herself to work in such a drastic sense the spiritual aspect of the psyche is not experienced, the psyche will try to balance this, sometimes through dreams sometimes through fantasies, and there are other ways. Watch the imagery, a Catholic man dreams of a rose blooming from between the keys of his computer… the psyche might be saying something… something like, "Express me!"

I am typing all this to say, the Shadow is not necessarily bad or wrong, nor is it evil. When dealing with the shadow it is often necessary to cast no moral judgement until it is better understood. In dreams the shadow might appear anywhere from an elusive woman to a demon king, all depending on how ready we are to hear what the psyche has to say.
Does this mean we take the shadow in fullness and bend toward its will? Of course not, we have the ability to make choices in relation to, how we act and even what we believe. If one has been living a life of low self esteem and self deprivation he/she may figure that out and arrogate oneself falsely trying to compensate, because, well in all honesty a bit of an Ass. This might just be a case of letting the shadow run the show, remember when dealing with the inner self, the ego can and often must make moral decisions on what action is taken.

The same with Sexuality, Western Culture tends to dichotomize sex. It is either all evil or all good. Often sex is encouraged to be left in the bedroom and never mentioned, or something that is to be toyed with until one figures out his own way to make it work. That statement represents to polar views. Sex in itself is neutral, it is what we do with sex that places it in the moral realm. Human beings are sexual creatures, why do I say that, because all other animals are, and there seems to be this strong desire, whether it be bingeing or in sexual anorexia. An individual who deems sex, if not in voice but still in action, as evil or something to be feared might have very erotic dreams or fantasies that often seem out of control. Those who binge in the realm of sexuality might have dreams and fantasies expressing the opposite, maybe a nun or a priest, either way something will appear in the shadow.

In both cases one will need to connect to that aspect that has been relegated to the shadow as to gain psychic wholeness.

The Slasher Flick as the Male's Expression of the Anima

Have you considered the "Dead Teenager Movies." I rented Final Destination 3 the other day and they had an extra on the DVD that talked about the "Dead Teenager Movies." To make it simple these are slasher flicks where teenagers die in large numbers, various examples: Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the Thirteenth, and Halloween. There are many others, but you get the picture.

The move often centers on two main characters, the slasher and the heroine. I suppose it might be a hero but often the movie brings a woman to the forefront. In the beginning of the movie we often find this woman taking a stance on sexual improprieties, and in some ways appearing chaste. The funny thing is that it isn’t necessarily their choice it just happens to work that way, they are never unattractive and often picked because they are attractive, but not the "Hot ditzy chick." This woman/girl is girl next door pretty, the one you take home to mom. She is also strong willed and able to defend herself and even often conquer the antagonist of the film.
Take also into account that most of the people who come to these movies are male teenagers. Why is it that a male wants to come and watch a woman who will undoubtedly have the chance to score but will not, and also at some point will be bound, either by rope or in a cage of sorts conquer.

I have an idea. One of Jung’s most popular archetypes was the Anima/Animus. The Anima is (for men) the female aspect of the soul, and the Animus (for woman) being the male aspect. Theoretically all people have both parts of the soul represented by archetypes and through life will try to express appropriately both sides. When one side is not expressed appropriately the collective unconscious will try, often through dreams, but also through fantasies to allow this aspect of the self to be expressed.

As one comes to a slasher flick males get the opportunity to express many different aspects of these relationships. First the male understands his own feminine sexuality (not to be confused with homo-erroticism) and at the same time sees expressed some form of ultimate woman, one who is "touring the facilities and picking up slack (listen the cake song, short skirt long jacket). This woman is perfect; she is feminine, attractive, and tough. At some point in the movie she will be bound, expressing the males desire to bind his own anima, and then she will be loosed, and the male will figure out that embracing the anima is not embracing weakness but strength.
To conclude, I think these movies represent something that has shifted to the periphery in our culture, something that needs re-connected with. We have been given this false version of masculinity that has no room for a natural femininity. This need, suppressed but the consciousness, is then expressed in by those who make the movies, and by those who passively watch them.

However, it is important to note that passive experience of the anima in a movie is not equivalent to appropriate expression through the conscious mind.

Let me know what you think.

Haven't posted in a while

Haven't posted in a while, sorry between my Myspace and Facebook accounts and the fact I have to use the public library I don't get to post much. I am currently working on an article that I hope to post, it will be about the archetyple of the Faustian deal in relation to integration of the shadow.

You're like a bear man!!!

Went to the casino's last night, not to play the slots but to see a concert. The Big Bad Voodoo Daddy were playing. When the song "You me and the bottle," came on and I started dancing I thought back to college. It was BBVD and the movie swingers that lead me to wanting to learn to dance. Shoot that goes back to freshman year at college, what did we call it, "The ultimate guy movie." It was a great show got a phone pic (really blury) pic with the lead singer. Got a few signatures on my ticket. They commented on my dancing and I told them about watching the dance scene in Swingers and then wanting to learn to dance. The dude just smiled and nodded, letting me know he rememebered the movie.

It was a dream to dance to BBVD live... after the dance we Lindy bombed (Ramdomly started dancing to a funk band) the Casino. We were dancing between slot machines, it was great.