Carl Gustav Jung:

B.B. Kindred
Aug 9, 2017 · 5 min read

The Merchant of Soul. The Medium of Dreams.

Dream I

I was on a Newcastle train, swaying out of the City over the bridge across the Tyne, but I didn’t know how I got there, or where I was going. Waning dregs of light light silhouetted the industrial buildings on the riverside until they morphed into a night sky. Twinkling lights punctuated my reflection in the carriage window; a soft-focus image flattering away the tell-tale marks of time. No grey intruders amongst the long, jet-black hair, no lines beating a path to middle-age. As the train creaked and rumbled into Haltwistle station, I hadn’t noticed anyone on the platform, but as we left, a man walked down the carriage and sat opposite me. He was in his later years, but still cut a tall and powerful figure. His clothes looked new and expensive, but were old-fashioned; a heavy tweed suit with brogues and a voluminous grey overcoat. His slightly hawked nose had a pair of John Lennons sitting on it and behind these, his eyes revealed an equally old-fashioned twinkle. He placed a brown briefcase on the table that separated us, opened it and took out a book. The cover, unmistakably 1950’s, had a picture of a man with a gun holding a fainting female with an improbable figure. The title was in French. It couldn’t be anyone else.
“Dr Jung?”

He lifted his eyes from the book, “Excuse me?”
“Dr Jung?”
“Indeed. What gave me away?”
“The French detective novel, ultimately.”
“Ah, yes.”

“Your English is very good.” There was barely a trace of the Swiss accent.

He nodded, “Well, I needed it, you know and in any case, I was always an Anglophile.”

“Dr Jung?”

“Yes?”

“You died over fifty years ago.”

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“Why are you here?”

“Jungian research.”

“Last night I dreamt that you were tending a horse and I asked you if you had any jobs and you said, ‘Yes, we have jobs’.”

“Tending a horse, very interesting, very good.”

“So, what do you want to know, Dr Jung?”

“I would like to know how you see things, Josephine.”

“What things?”

He put the book back in the briefcase and snapped it shut. “I would like to understand how you see my work.”

“Is this part of the research?”

“Oh yes, part of the research.”

“That’s not an easy thing to do, I’m not so much Jung as post-Jungian. A lot of people have developed your work.”

“I see. And what about Freud?”

“Still a bit of competition?”

“Just curious.”

You didn’t have an easy ride, Dr Jung, falling out with the Maestro as you did. I wonder if you know what the Freudian propaganda machine tried to do to you. You probably know about the times you were portrayed as a crank or a madman. I wonder if you know about the film, A Dangerous Method. Historically accurate, if you ignore the fact that although there’s some evidence you had a life-changing encounter with Sabina Spielrein, there’s not the slightest suggestion you engaged in spanking related activities. I wonder how I’d feel if someone did that to me.

“Freud is still venerated, Dr Jung. Not by me. I don’t venerate people, only ideas.”

“You like my ideas?”

“Yes, but I like the development of your ideas more.”

He chuckled. “I like your honesty, Josephine. I always wished my work to evolve.”

“Then you have cause to be proud.”

“Are you a Jungian therapist, Josephine?”

“No. I’m not qualified to be so.”

He winked. “Neither was I. So, Josephine, in your post-Jungian world, how do you see life?”

“I think we’re born into a world of illusion.”

“Ah, Maya. You favour the Eastern view?”

“Not particularly, although it’s useful. I’m generally eclectic.”

“Please continue.”

“Well, people say ‘this is the real world’ but they’re just whistling in the dark.”

“Because?”

“Because, Dr Jung, one person’s reality can be another person’s myth.”

“Please, call me Carl. A sort of reality relativity?”

“I suppose.”

“Is this a problem, do you think?”

“A problem? Well, if you live in a place where there’s at least a superficial sense of shared values, where your beliefs are never challenged, it may not be a problem. I think that’s what people try to do for the most part, hide away in their bubbles of the like-minded, so they can keep their illusions intact.”

“But?”

“It’s not so easy to do that anymore, Carl. The global village, the multicultural arena, the shifting sands of social and geographical mobility. On the one hand, it’s the most wonderful, exciting, creative thing and on the other, it’s a barrel of firecrackers. One goes off from time to time, as you know yourself.”

“Firecrackers, you say.”

“Consciousness generally hasn’t caught up with circumstances.”

“I see where you are going, Josephine. Please continue.”

“There are so many ideas of what constitutes the real world and people hang on to them like grim death, even when they’re thrown into circumstances that can’t sustain the illusions they don’t even know they possess.”

“Such as?”

“You know the kind of thing, Carl. People who believe that life’s fair, people who believe that if they work hard at their job they won’t lose it. People who are sure they can trust their loved ones until they uncover the big fat lie. People who believe that their society is just, until they’re on the receiving end of the unjust. People who believe that God’s rules are simple and straightforward and all they have to do is follow them and everything will be all right.”

“What happens to these people, Josephine?”

“All kinds of things. They might carry on like before; the power of denial. They might fall into depression or chaos, become fearful or angry, carry their grudges around with them, killing their potential for joy. They might distract themselves with technological toys, exotic holidays, religious conversion, drugs, workaholism, sexual conquest, even madness, but all they’re doing is running.”

“So, what happens?”

“Depends. Some will run until they drop or die, some make misery for others to avoid their own, some rage about the way they’ve been taught to live and the illusions they’ve accepted, or the blind trust that they placed in others. And then there’s the possibility that the rage might turn to sorrow and the sorrow into grief.”

“And after the grief, Josephine?”

There’s a small voice that says there’s someone else in there, half-glimpsed. That’s when they’re called to sing the deep song. That’s when they come looking for someone like you.”

“Or someone like you.”

“Me? Maybe.”

We were pulling into a station. There was a high-pitched noise. It was the alarm clock.

Written by

Now is the time for revelation. My debut novel “The Cairo Pulse” is now available: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Cairo-Pulse-B-Kindred-ebook/dp/B072L43LCF

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade