Ray Parker Jr. had better get his act in gear and come save me, because you see, I am being haunted. Haunted, by the ghosts of doomsdays past.
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Imagine if you will:
It’s approaching four AM on a late January morning and the late winter has gotten to me. I’ve been up for the last 40 hours or so, first tied up in a dread anticipation, then flying in to Arcadia, and now waiting for an honest-to-god clandestine meet in the small hours of the morning, with the Super Bowl just days away.
They’ll say it’s the dream that drove them apart. And they’ll be right, if they’re talking about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.
The thing that really did break apart one of the most profound and productive working relationships that spanned the cusp of the late 19th and 20th centuries, was a dream of Carl Jung’s.
In it, Jung dreamt of being in a house (although a house entirely unfamiliar to him he immediately thought of it as “my house”) with two floors. The upper, a luxurious salon outfitted in modern rococo style. Exploring the lower floor it found it styled in an older medieval vintage. Some impulse drove him even lower, into a cellar clearly recognizable from Roman times. And when he noticed a slab with an iron ring set in stone. Once moved, he entered into an underground cave bedecorate with primeval human culture, a cave where human experience just ran out.
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