Jung, Individuation & the Collective:Unconscious, Essay 18 of #52essays2017

One cannot help but be aware of Jung; his collective unconscious is ubiquitous, and , for me, symbolizes the literal birthplace of my artist at Collective:Unconscious. My metamorphosis from an academic to an artist began at Rev Jen’s Anti-Slam, which took place every Wednesday night at Collective:Unconscious, a black box theater on Ludlow, before the Lower East Side squeezed out the artist with trendy bars and high-rise apartments.

Godin performing at Collective:Unconscious circa 2005.
Without any exaggeration, I can say that that place changed my life–whether for the better or worse is, I think, undecided. And yet, if I take a Jungian point of view, better or worse is not the point. The point is individuation. In that case, walking into Collective:Unconscious, signing up, and getting up on stage with Millennium my first guide dog, and performing a little monologue which I thought was a comedy routine at which nobody laughed, though the reception after was heart-warming and encouraging, represents one giant step on the path of becoming me.

My new friend Florian Birkmayer, a psychiatrist who finds an alternative to the biomedical model in Jung’s conception of individuation, explained this to me in an email:

” The Jungian view says that each of our lives is a unique opportunity to individuate, that is to become fully ourselves–our symptoms and struggles can be transformed into meaningful experiences on the journey of discovering our Personal Myth. Individuation offers a lifelong path of evolution, embodied in each of our Personal Myths.”

In my reply, I mentioned that I was inspired by his words to finally pick up Jung and was starting with Man and His Symbols, which he wrote in the last years of his life with the lay reader in mind. Florian also recommended what he called Jung’s “mythobiography” Memories, Dreams, Reflections.

The term mythobiography immediately resonated as a reversed version of an online class I’d recently signed up for with Sofia Quintero called Jumpstart Your Biomythography, and so I downloaded the book and in the prologue found this resonating quote:

Portrait of Jung, unknown date.“Thus it is that I have now undertaken, in my eighty-third year, to tell my
personal myth. I can only make direct statements, only ‘tell stories.’ Whether or not the stories are ‘true’ is not the problem. The only question is whether what I tell is my fable, my truth.”

Mythobiography/biomythography gives a name for what I’ve done in so many of my blind literary projects: Helen Keller on Vaudeville was the first time I incorporated myself into the blind myth as an artistic endeavor. But the process really started earlier with work in graduate school: a paper called “In her Crooked Way,” about the visually impaired barbarian girl at the center of Coetzee‘s Waiting for the Barbarians, who has an eye disease that presented awfully similar to my own at the time of writing. And In my master’s thesis Écriture Nocturne and in my dissertation The Spectator & the Blind Man: Seeing & Not-Seeing in the Wake of Empiricism, which was turned into the stage production of The Spectator & the Blind Man: Stories of Seeing and Not-Seeing,” and now flash-fictions, which are ready, I think finally to be incorporated into my very own mythobiography. Although every blind character, fictional and “true,” has been to some extent me, that is no more or less true of all the sighted characters.

Because I’m as much a sighted person as a blind one–having lived my life on pretty much every notch of the sight/blindness continuum–they are all me–from Helen Keller to Louis Braille, from Marie Antoinette to Denis Diderot, they are all seeing and not-seeing, as are all of us.

*This is Essay 18 of #52essays2017. Read #17, “Rocky Mountain Coyote Motel” here*

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Drinking Monarch Nectar, AKA Milkweed (Asclepias), Essay 12 of #52essays2017

On the day of the hydrosols tasting with Cathy Skipper and Florian Birkmayer (offered through New York Institute of Aromatherapy), my daily hallucinations were painted blue, an electric blue that did not want to let go its hold on my visionscape. In recent years, I’ve found that strong scents can change my visual palette almost immediately, but somehow that blue day would not give way except for the neon orange of the orange blossom and then the glorious yellow orange of the milkweed that burst through towards the end of the evening.

The way it worked was that each new hydrosol was spritzed into our wine glasses and mixed with a little filtered water. Then we all smelled and sipped and free-associated, allowing the mystery hydrosol to elicit thoughts, feelings, images and yes colors too.

To be honest, it was hard for me not to feel a little competitive. As a blind person, I want my nose to be best, but, as a person new to aromatic aesthetics, I realize this is ridiculous. For several of the hydrosols, I was sure what they were and I was correct, for a bunch, I had ideas of what they were, but having been derived from plants I’d never met before–black copal and palo santo for example–I was nowhere close, and I hate to be wrong!

After the first three I finally relaxed and allowed my mind to wander a bit and not get too hung up about being right. One cool moment was guessing #8 Beeswax correctly, but I had an advantage since, being enrolled in Skipper’s Hydrosols course at The School for Aromatic Studies, I knew that such a thing was possible. That was certainly one of my favorites, as it exhibited a strong distinction between its taste and aroma–the smell reminded me of the spirit of the plants that sustain the hive, while the flavor tasted of the building material itself, a glossy waxy sensation that was almost chewable.

Birkmayer encouraged us to think synesthetically, which in the case of #9 penetrated and offered a joyous blast of yellow orange. I did not know what it was, but I liked it. I was so entranced that I neglected my notes, so unfortunately I cannot refer back to words from the moment to explain the flavor, also it was number nine, so Alabaster–who was gracious enough to accompany me on this odd little tasting adventure–and I were a bit slap happy. We’re not yet persuaded by the concept of vibrational aromatherapy, but our heads were surely buzzing by that point in the evening!

For some of the hydrosols, we were encouraged to imagine an animal. People were not guessing the correct animal for this one and so Birkmayer mentioned butterflies and then I knew and said, “Milkweed?” And I felt justified in all my orange and yellow associations.

The common name milkweed derives from its milky nectar that can trap some nonnative insects, but
Linnaeus, that taxonomist of all taxonomists, apparently named the genus asclepias after Asclepius, the Greek god of healing. Why? I wonder. Milkweed is a new world plant, likely brought back to Sweden by one of his students flung out to all corners of the world to collect new species for Linnaeus to inspect and name. Perhaps he did so because he learned that some natives of the New World used some species for healing, but so many plants have medicinal uses, this seems too easy an answer.

Asclepias speciosa, from which our hydrosol was distilled, is also known as “showy milkweed” because of its flamboyant flowers. It is the special food of the monarch butterfly.

The recognition of the monarch nectar brought me back to the Santa Cruz grove where the monarchs winter. I wrote a poem about seeing those butterflies, which I often visited during my years at UCSC (Go Slugs!).

How many times did I take my friends and family to the little Eucalyptus grove by the ocean, only to be disappointed by the cold and nearly inert clusters of monarchs clinging to the trees for warmth, but for a few flying bravely. The foreign eucalyptus grove and the beach at Natural Bridges are an easy walk but worlds apart.

Once, with a forgotten companion, I saw them fall from the sky mating in the warm afternoon sun. They dropped in our hands and flew apart and I believe it was all not a dream, though the memory has that quality of unreality that sometimes makes me doubt.

 

*This is essay 12 of #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight. You can read #11 “Melissa Officinalis (or Lemon Balm): Booze and Botany and monasteries Oh My!” here*

 

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