It is easy to
momentarily find oneself sitting outside – uncomfortably, detached and
partially dissociated – the zoo of limping political animals, looking in. Juvenile
delinquents in suits have given us a new atmosphere of crime, of immorality,
contempt and childish lies. Ineffective adults know not what to do. Sentence
the leader as an adult? Put the misguided youth on probation? Our ancient collective unconscious – the inner child that feels adults are
powerful and competent – has been booted to the ground by some grubby Nazi SS and we’re
now standing around staring, very nervous, in a different world.
I suspect Trump’s
base’s lives are going on as usual. The rest of us are changed because our
country is not supposed to be infested with cancer. It is supposed to be
healthy, always.
In my
childhood, a classical music lover, I used to fantasize that a glorious piece of
music like Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto would be broadcast from an Olympian
mountain – like the real God or Messiah – and all the people of earth would
hear it, their heads raised heavenward, and be moved to some great unison Meaning.
That was the only way I ever had a feeling there was a oneness to humanity. It could
never come to be, I suppose, but possibly in some distant future. What I am
certain of is that our present world – yes, the one created by picayune, scurvy
politicians – would ruin such a fantasy for any child. There is only scattered
rubble.
Pathetic as it
seems, my sense is that the only ballast keeping things afloat right now is
the editorialists and pundits who produce serious and eloquent discourse about this
national rape by clowns. They will discuss until they’re carried away, or possibly
’til some Rachmaninovian figure appears from the mountains or the towns and revives our collective
unconscious.
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Comments are welcome, but I'd suggest you first read "Feeling-centered therapy" and "Ocean and boat" for a basic introduction to my kind of theory and therapy.