Inspired by a recent lecture by Jungian analyst James Hollis, Ph.D., and from some reading of the book, 2012: The Return of Quetzacoatal, here are a few impulsive thoughts on shadow/daimon:
The playground for the psyche, Shadow, the ego’s moon, howls our dark night like a demon. We wear earplugs to drown the noise. Layers of blankets and locked windows preserve the illusion of separation. Still sneaker waves of fear and perversion soak our dreams.
Of course this never happens to me. Or you, I’m sure. The vast distance of disconnect between rational life and our psyche is like the Grand Canyon or the Great Barrier Reef. It’s so conveniently deep and impenetrable that we don’t really need to worry about literally crossing it. But now and then a great Condor-like clue sweeps across a vein of conscious memory. I’m thinking, this is eerie and familiar, familial yet foreign. Extinction never really happened. How can this be?
The in-between world known by some as Ferryland or Oz, daimon lurks in the haze filtered by our blinking eyes. Daimon connotes something dark, demonic, thrilling. Perhaps it’s the word’s easy link to the demons of horror stories that conjures this association. Maybe it’s more about how our own dark side can haunt us and how hard we try to avoid it, to repress its creepy grip. We paint the word nasty. We seek therapy. Darkness = fear.
And fear = avoidance.
Those willing to exhume our shadows and ghosts might seek therapy. Confronting our shit alone is no easy task. In fact, fear of being alone is part of our shit. So we push it, stuff it, bury it down, down, down six feet under ground. But don’t forget -- anxious souls with unresolved business who die too soon do not sleep. They torment. Maybe just an off-handed admission will do.
