It’s so strange thinking about jungian therapy and how one day sitting before mo, in her office thinking about something he said one day treating a young man could’ve been like my age when I was sitting in her office on a chair and then a moth bumped against her window.
And now dragon sweetly sleeping in this tropical paradise of her maiden hood, and feeling a whole lot of angst in this world enclosing scmeltz, as derived pictures echo up from a mix which never lets go. It’s hot outsize and we had an argument about my good thinner which has to be kept at a temperature between 15 and 30 c’s and when she puts out that she knows medicine and her patient takes the stuff, failing to mention that it’s not for heart of which she has but topical understanding, for the heart is situated between desire and the palms wriggling in the hot air of the tropics, do not phase her.
Reminiscences of another tropically odd duo, situated in Tangier, where the admirable beats met a long while ago, the person he was looking for, that tries to objectify me as the looking one, is a hard to recall as the keys to their associations can forge into their tepid and rusty lock. The novel was the ‘Sheltering Sky’and the names fly by like the tiny bird that seems to land on the window sill, that window shutting out only the three of us: Dragon, her childhood maid brought up in old Manila which had much more human driven modes of transport than the present motor driven ones, transposing pleasant clatter of horses hoofs with the noisy motorcycles whizzing around dusryvstreetlets, curving, bumping each other every which way.
She sleeps, doing the same thing she noted as so contrary of what’s there in the States for us, sleeping life away between 3 perscribed meals, and eating whatever offered. As she sleeps her features melt into more sublimed expressions, and tells me existence of the colonial life well and alive , waking up as darkness descends again, .
The animals who had appeared a-la Jung were primarily dogs, then noticing others but much later in life. The moth incident was quizzicall because too much Jung reading may retard the young as above the limits later ascribed to Wittgenstein. An owl visited our backyard when as I learned it carried Chri’s Soul heavenward, and it stayed there a number of days thereafter, curiously turning it followed me as I crossed across one neughber’s fence to the other.
Next came the lone lone wild dog, a lot of them always come out more brazenly nowadays these hot summer days (will remember what they’re called after edition)
One time, just after the Persian boy that came after Chris’ suicide. That wise owl with its peculiar call meant and felt comforting to me, as reassurance of how people never really pass away, as much as they pass on.
After this the birds, the raven, supposedly the most intelligent bird, can tell an individual familiar face, if called to, as higher powers supposedly call them on to visit.
And this little tiny , more like an insect then a bird, comes to visit, when looking at the sleeping dragon whom was bartered by fortune and fate, and sold until redemption be a Faustian bargain. It’s a humming bird of course, reminder to a Russian story of an emperor’s fatal illness brought on when the little bird of his life left the moment a Swiss mechanical bird replaced it with audacity, and came back only when the wind up ruby set mechanism fails to sing out its daily morning melody for the price of a few crumbs left over from His Magesty’s breakfast.