All you need to know about it are the works of Freud, the politics of
Gramsci and the works of Nietzche. Freud simply because of his analysis
of the defence mechanisms of projection, displacement, denial, and
altruism. A study of the anal, oral and genital personality types would
also teach much. Perhaps the schizoid and paranoid personality forms of
Klein with the mirror phase of Lacanian thought would tell us more.
Gramsci and soft power tells us more of how masses of people are
persuaded to be ruled, how to think and which discourse to use. Beyond
Good and Evil by Nietzche tells us of post modern society, fake news and
the mometers of the modern world. Yet I suspect those I speculate upon
have never read Freud, Klein, Gramsci and Nietzche.
I have very little doubt that even my psychotherapy practice is an extension of my political activism. I seek to empower in both the person, and for them to understand discourse and power structure to make themselves free. The only difference is that while psychotherapists in general are required to have personal therapy to understand themselves and their motivations no such requirements are required by our political activists, elected representatives and full time staffers. Across all philosophies and sections of the left and right we confront a lack of self knowledge and insight. I am as guilty as many as innocent as others.. I am not good and you are not bad . But we are all Nietzche's and TS Eliot's last people facing a whimper not a bang as we wander in post modern politics as we run from the mirror of Calliban in rage and regret. The plague runs on...And I love every moment of it and will do till my last breath..
From love's first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron age
When no mouth stirred about the hanging famine,
All world was one, one windy nothing,
My world was christened in a stream of milk.
And earth and sky were as one airy hill.
The sun and mood shed one white light.
From the first print of the unshodden foot, the lifting
Hand, the breaking of the hair,
From the first scent of the heart, the warning ghost,
And to the first dumb wonder at the flesh,
The sun was red, the moon was grey,
The earth and sky were as two mountains meeting.
The body prospered, teeth in the marrowed gums,
The growing bones, the rumour of the manseed
Within the hallowed gland, blood blessed the heart,
And the four winds, that had long blown as one,
Shone in my ears the light of sound,
Called in my eyes the sound of light.
And yellow was the multiplying sand,
Each golden grain spat life into its fellow,
Green was the singing house.
The plum my mother picked matured slowly,
The boy she dropped from darkness at her side
Into the sided lap of light grew strong,
Was muscled, matted, wise to the crying thigh,
And to the voice that, like a voice of hunger,
Itched in the noise of wind and sun.
And from the first declension of the flesh
I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts
Into the stony idiom of the brain,
To shade and knit anew the patch of words
Left by the dead who, in their moonless acre,
Need no word's warmth.
The root of tongues ends in a spentout cancer,
That but a name, where maggots have their X.
I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret;
The code of night tapped on my tongue;
What had been one was many sounding minded.
One wound, one mind, spewed out the matter,
One breast gave suck the fever's issue;
From the divorcing sky I learnt the double,
The two-framed globe that spun into a score;
A million minds gave suck to such a bud
As forks my eye;
Youth did condense; the tears of spring
Dissolved in summer and the hundred seasons;
One sun, one manna, warmed and fed.
I have very little doubt that even my psychotherapy practice is an extension of my political activism. I seek to empower in both the person, and for them to understand discourse and power structure to make themselves free. The only difference is that while psychotherapists in general are required to have personal therapy to understand themselves and their motivations no such requirements are required by our political activists, elected representatives and full time staffers. Across all philosophies and sections of the left and right we confront a lack of self knowledge and insight. I am as guilty as many as innocent as others.. I am not good and you are not bad . But we are all Nietzche's and TS Eliot's last people facing a whimper not a bang as we wander in post modern politics as we run from the mirror of Calliban in rage and regret. The plague runs on...And I love every moment of it and will do till my last breath..
From Love's First Fever To Her Plague - Poem by Dylan Thomas
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron age
When no mouth stirred about the hanging famine,
All world was one, one windy nothing,
My world was christened in a stream of milk.
And earth and sky were as one airy hill.
The sun and mood shed one white light.
From the first print of the unshodden foot, the lifting
Hand, the breaking of the hair,
From the first scent of the heart, the warning ghost,
And to the first dumb wonder at the flesh,
The sun was red, the moon was grey,
The earth and sky were as two mountains meeting.
The body prospered, teeth in the marrowed gums,
The growing bones, the rumour of the manseed
Within the hallowed gland, blood blessed the heart,
And the four winds, that had long blown as one,
Shone in my ears the light of sound,
Called in my eyes the sound of light.
And yellow was the multiplying sand,
Each golden grain spat life into its fellow,
Green was the singing house.
The plum my mother picked matured slowly,
The boy she dropped from darkness at her side
Into the sided lap of light grew strong,
Was muscled, matted, wise to the crying thigh,
And to the voice that, like a voice of hunger,
Itched in the noise of wind and sun.
And from the first declension of the flesh
I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts
Into the stony idiom of the brain,
To shade and knit anew the patch of words
Left by the dead who, in their moonless acre,
Need no word's warmth.
The root of tongues ends in a spentout cancer,
That but a name, where maggots have their X.
I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret;
The code of night tapped on my tongue;
What had been one was many sounding minded.
One wound, one mind, spewed out the matter,
One breast gave suck the fever's issue;
From the divorcing sky I learnt the double,
The two-framed globe that spun into a score;
A million minds gave suck to such a bud
As forks my eye;
Youth did condense; the tears of spring
Dissolved in summer and the hundred seasons;
One sun, one manna, warmed and fed.
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