About mkmacinnes

writer/ghostwriter

NATIVIDAD: Chapter One

nativity

IT IS 1961. Tensions between Cuba and America are at an all time high and an Englishman and his heavily pregnant Cuban fiancée flee New York for their lives. The Cubans just want the baby. The Feds just want the Englishman. Who knows what the CIA want …

I’ve written this ‘modernisation’ of the Nativity in a biblical style to give it a more ‘genuine’ feel. It is not a political tale and is not pro-this or anti-that, so don’t be put off by the revolutionary backdrop, which is necessary to the story in its symbolism.

It’s more ‘realistic’ in biblical format here.

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-one in the year of our Lord. In those days the leaders of America were most incensed that Communism had taken the land of Cuba. So too the new government of Cuba was greatly displeased that America had secretly taken its children on the pretext that they were saving them.

And living in the city of New York was an actress exiled from the land of Cuba called Eva. Her betrothed was an English advertising consultant by the name of Percy.

And it came to pass that two months before the day of their legal union, Eva declared that she was three months with child. By the time she realised that her physician must have made a mistake, it was too late. Percy did not believe that the child could be his, for he was on business far away at the time of its conception. Eva was aggrieved that she could do nothing to persuade him otherwise.

And so Percy made it known to Eva’s father, who happened to be a high-ranking official in the court of Fidel Castro, the King of Cuba, his displeasure, in the hope that he would come and take her away. Until then, he would renounce their betrothal but not put her to shame, instead continuing to keep her, but in a separate dwelling.

One night Percy became so intoxicated that he fell into a deep but fitful sleep on a park bench.

A well-spoken man wearing a fedora and a belted overcoat appeared to him, saying “Behold. Marry your beloved and go to England. She speaks the truth. Verily I say until you, the child is of your seed and you are all in grave danger.”

When he awoke, his head was as if cloven in two.

To be contnued …

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2017

The Inner Journey

During the writing of my memoir, THE LOST SECRET, I didn’t have much time or mental energy to research the psychological processes I was going through. That came later and even then, there was a limit to how much time I could devote to study, given that I have more to offer by allowing myself to experience the reality first hand.

Although I have sought to detach myself from belief systems and existing theories, it so happens that the work of Carl Jung best describes my journey, even if the specifics are entirely unique. I also draw on the work of Joseph Campbell and James Hillman. Although coming at it from their own angle, Jung, Campbell and Hillman all point in the same general direction.

It also has to be said that some of my experiences may challenge these theories, for instance, the way Jung differentiates between the Shadow and the Animus. This is to be expected given the evolutions that have taken place since his time. Jung said himself that it was up to future generations to build on what he had started.

While it is my intention to stick to what I know to be true for myself and leave the explanations to others, I do occasionally ‘break’ this rule. However, where I do, I merely dip my toe in the water. I avoid statements of ‘fact’, erring instead in favour of perspectives based on personal experience and insight. After all, the whole point of all this is that we are, and should always be, a work in progress. Your experience may bear different results.

To some of you, the ideas I touch on will be already familiar. Many of you will never have heard of indivduation/psychosynthesis or archetypes. Some of you might already be in the throes of your own personal journey and like me would benefit from some sort of explanation for the bewildering changes you are experiencing.

So I felt it would be useful to signpost readers in the right direction should they decide to undertake their own research (regardless of their level of exposure to the ‘real deal’). My Resources page is also a work in progress. It includes a handful of articles I wrote on key elements of Jung’s work. These are not in-depth and are intended only to whet the appetite.

Resources page at https://mkmacinnes.com/resources/

Please feel free to suggest amendments or additions.

The Other Half

BY NOW, it’s pretty obvious that I am a big fan of Carl Jung. In an earlier post, I spoke about the Shadow, the collective name for those parts of our psyche that become consigned to the unconscious for reasons of conditioning or trauma, to name but a few. Fortunately, through the self-healing process of individuation (or psychosynthesis), a person could painstakingly reassemble their fragmented psyche into an integrated whole. A satisfying never-ending journey not for the faint-hearted. Jung spoke of yet another aspect of the psyche, that is not entirely separate from, yet distinct from, the Shadow. He called this the Anima/Animus.

For a woman, the Animus represents those parts of her psyche that are regarded as masculine and have been repressed since childhood, such as confidence and leadership, while for a man, the Anima represents the feminine, repressed parts of his, such as compassion and intuition.

So for instance, speaking only of my generation and coming from a mixed-sex school environment, girls were raised not to stand up for themselves and put other people’s, especially men’s, needs over their own, so typically, a little girl might grow up as a pleaser with low self-esteem. Boys on the other hand were taught to act tough, suppress their emotions and fight their way out of difficulty, so typically, a little boy might turn into a bully with an over-inflated opinion of his abilities and who does whatever the hell he wants. I am, of course, generalising – the reality was far more nuanced.

Carl Jung believed that when it comes to peeling back the onion layers of the unconscious, the Anima/Animus is stored in the very deepest recesses and so represents the final stage in the individuation journey once the Shadow stage is complete. However, I have found the two to be interchangeable and the work on both to be in parallel. The extent to which the Anima/Animus is distinct from the Shadow may well depend on the environment into which a person is born. Gender-based expectations were more pronounced in Jung’s time, so it would follow that the personal journey that informed the bulk of his research is coloured accordingly.

Jung also did not account for greyer areas in sexual identity and it is generally recognised in therapeutic circles nowadays that both men and women exhibit/repress both anima/animus traits. If Jung were to time travel to the present, he would almost certainly have to revisit many of his assumptions. The key is not to take his ideas too literally.

Of course, the notion that men and women are fundamentally different has been around for millennia. With the advent of Christianity, the onus was on women to be ‘saints’, while men had carte blanche to be ‘sinners’ if they felt so inclined and as long as nobody was looking. Scientific dogmas for gender difference are more recent – Men are from Mars and Women from Venus seemed to knock on the head once and for all any ideas I had that men and women were sexual equals. Based on what I know now about the part conditioning plays in identity and behavioural development, it turns out that I may have been right all along, and we are in fact all a dizzying cocktail of what we might term ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ qualities. Just as ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are man-made, so too are gender behaviours. There are indeed natural differences but these are far more subtle that we have been led to believe.

The end result of generations of societal cherry-picking is that noone but noone operates on full capacity. If for argument’s sake we say that we exhibit 50% of our full potential (chances are it really is 10%), then you can see how so many people feel a gaping void and the concept of a missing other half arises. As harsh as it sounds, putting all the hormonal, physical aspects of biological sex to one side, when we fall in love, we are in fact falling for the missing parts of ourselves whom the object of our desire just happens to best represent. This is the X-factor, that thing you cannot put your finger on and why when they say “It’s not you, it’s me”, they really do mean it (though it doesn’t seem that way at the time).

So if Jung is right, then romantic love as we have come to know it is nothing more a societal construct, a projection, the outcome of millennia of conditioning. Yes, boooooooooo!! Romantic love would not exist if we were whole.

Much is currently made of the Patriarchy that has held sway for what seems like an eternity across the world. What tends to be overlooked is that both sexes have been hammered into conformity. Even in these crazy times, what is exciting is that men and women have an opportunity to liberate themselves from centuries of bullshit and rediscover the truth of their entire being.

We are the One.

See-saw

WITH all this talk of a new vaccine, i can’t help but feel a little disappointed that things will eventually ‘get back to normal’. So, what, we’ll just act like nothing happened and swing back into a state of excess to make up for lost time, making us sitting ducks for the next pandemic.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat …

This isn’t the first pandemic and it most certainly won’t be the last. Why waste an opportunity to make some of the behaviours we have adopted to combat the virus more permanent and moderate our extremes in order to soften the blow when the next one comes along?

I for one like the idea of maintaining a one meter default setting. And handshakes seem so outdated when other gestures do the job just as well if not better.

What habits developed during Coronavirus would you like to keep post-pandemic?

The Magic Potion

potion

THERE once lived a man who imbibed a skinful of whisky and fell asleep in his armchair. His wife had long gone to bed, leaving all three bars of the electric fire on. When the man spluttered himself awake in the wee small hours, he became aware of an excruciating sensation in the inside of his left shin and found that his jeans were singed. When he removed them, he realised that although they had not been set alight, they had conducted enough heat to leave a huge burn. In one place there was a dead dark patch where he felt no pain at all, even when he poked it with his finger. Though still groggy from booze, he had enough wits to know what had transpired. He had cooked his leg.

The following morning, his wife persuaded him to get it seen to.

II

THE DOCTOR informed the man that he would require a course of antibiotics and a skin graft as soon as one could be arranged. This was unavoidable and the replacement tissue would be taken from his backside. He should come back in a week.

On leaving the surgery, the man decided no flamin’ chance. And so he paid a visit to the other place. But he was not so stupid as to reveal to the vet why he was asking for a bottle of horse liniment.

III

THE MAN took the antibiotics as directed. And every day his wife was subjected to the foul stink of horse liniment. After a few days of faithfully wrapping his leg in bandages soaked in the odious compound, it looked as though progress was being made. Within a week, well, it was nearly but a scabby indentation and some of the feeling had returned.

It was quite out of character for the man to return to the doctor’s surgery without being pushed but he was keen to gloat at the success of his own ministrations. When he pulled up his trouser leg for the doctor to examine what evidence remained, the latter was close to speechless.

It stuck in the doctor’s throat to admit that he could no longer see any reason for an operation. When the man told him how he had achieved such a miracle, the doctor just said “You cannot be serious”, before suggesting that he could perhaps continue doing whatever he was doing and come back in another week.

The man had no intention whatsoever of letting on that without the antibiotics, his leg would have become so infected from such a rapid healing that it would surely have killed him.

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2015

The Slippery Slope

THEY told me I was too small. Too loud. Too quiet. I was eating my food all wrong.

HE told me that’s just human nature. It’s a dog eat dog world. He told me I wasn’t aggressive enough. I had to toughen up. And yet, he told me to tell no-one.

SHE taught me I was too clever for my own good. It was better to keep my mouth shut.

THEY told me i was too nice. I couldn’t understand why consderation of others was regarded as a weakness. I tried to live by example, but gave in. I even became ‘bad’ for a brief moment and hated myself even more.

I taught MYSELF to suffer in slence and in time, my self-loathing was complete. Soon the whole world would walk all over me.

Hand to Hand

I have a former work colleague who is happy to watch people arguing partisan politics online for hours on end. Me, I couldn’t do it, it would drive me insane. But so she tells me, she has spotted an interesting trend. Something interesting is happening in the Brexit/Scottish independence debates.

We all know the script. Usually, it is the conservative/defending position that takes the more aggressive stance. The opposing side is the ‘enemy’. Although generally speaking, the progressive position plays less dirty, with repeated exposure over time, both sides can become as bad as each other.It is now standard practice for political campaigns to use paid agents provocateurs to veer public opinion in their favour or away from where the discourse might naturally flow. These campaigns also act as magnets to organic trolls acting out their fear of the unknown. You can always tell which ones are which. The paid trolls give themselves away every time in their sheer stamina and consistency in their use of poltical jargon. It is laughable to think that only the Russians could be capable of such a thing!

The organic trolls, however, are real people. Sad, maybe. Bitter, maybe. But real nonetheless.

And this is where tentative change is occurring.

Taking an argument about COVID resrictions in the UK as an example, the engagements might start with the usual mudslinging but if the time is taken to interrogate the reasoning behind certain assumptions and postions, what becomes clear is that a) the ‘troll’ is acting on misinformation, a misapprehension or a misunderstanding b) they genuinely believe what they are saying c) they are over the moon to discover that they have the wrong end of the stick and d) they are really just scared and want someone to take the time to listen to their concerns. The overriding theme is loneliness.

Of course there are maldoers and idiots among them, but contrary to popular misconception (promoted by the media I have to say), the majority of these bitter, angry people are as sensitive as you or I, they have just learned to process their emotions differently. In the rush to embrace other disenfranchised parts of the community, such as ethnic groups, women or the LGBT community, the old mainstream was pushed to one side by the progressive elites.

Obviously, there are individuals out there who have figured this out and who are willing to take the time to engage on a more human level with their political opponents. They are not engaging from a position of moral or intellectual superiority but as equals. Friendships are forming. Some are meeting in real life over coffee.

I am writing this because I feel strongly that our brothers and sisters across the Pond need to be reassured that this is how it is done. Not by Washington, not Westminster – just us.

Reunifying a divided population is possible but it has to be undertaken in a sprit of compassion – at the grass roots, on an individual level. It is less about finding common political ground than about rediscovering our common humanity. If we can do that, the politics will do just fine.

The Skipper

foxy

IT WAS still there then. My cardboard mattress topped with musty carpet still intact, thank God nobody else had found my refuge. The corporate umbrella, concealed by thick bushes and at full mast to shield me from the elements, hadn’t moved since this morning. Under it, still rolled up, was my four-season sleeping bag.

The flattened boxes, damp and soft from five days of use, were dispensable. The ones I had just lifted from the nearby supermarket carpark were even better suited. Now with any luck there would be no snow and I would be guaranteed a good night’s sleep, just like the one I had had the night before. The very thought of lying cold and awake was too much to bear.

I finished the rolled up cigarette I had started yesterday, then fought with my sleeping bag until I lay half shut like a Swiss knife. Safe, warm and dry, what more could a homeless man ask for. Rock bottom wasn’t always so bad now, was it. Snuggled in a toasty sleeping bag, the stars upon you, it was easier to pretend that things could only get better. That is until you remembered you were alone, so so alone.

Just as I began to drift off, I felt something brush against the back of my knees.

“What the ****?”

I shuffled, thinking I it must have been a rat or a bird. Then I felt it again. There was no mistake, something large was pressing into me. I lifted my head to look over my shoulder only to find a wary pair of eyes and pointed ears looking back at me. Tucked between the back of my knees and a large stone was a small fox. We locked eyes, both as bemused as the other, until finally It ducked its head back behind my knees. The moon winked behind a cloud, just as I closed my eyes.

All was well.

“Night night, wee pal.”

 

Copyright (c) MK MacInnes 2017

Heaven’s Gate

A FEW years back (2014-15), during the most turbulent throes of my inner journey, I turned to the most readily available source of information, the Internet. It was only too easy to find an explanation for what was happening to me. Not only was I ‘ascending’, so was the whole damned planet. In short, the ‘awakened’ part of humanity would evolve into a higher dimension, while those that didn’t would remain in this denser reality. Conveniently, both would become invisble to the other. The ‘good’ guys would ‘escape’ the Apocalypse. Sounded pretty appealing.

Despite the holes, once I had adjusted to the idea, I embraced it. Months later I found myself in a situation where I thought to myself “Hang on, something isn’t right here.” The thing is that instead of feeling more centred, balanced, calm, during my quest to find out what was going on with my soul, I became more anxious, as the list of practices I had to learn, stuff I had to know, grew longer. Like which angels did what or what colours to avoid during visualisation. Worse, when was IT going to happen. The Ascension ‘symptoms’ grew worse the more aware of them I became.

Using different key words, I googled a bit deeper, only to find that the Ascension program was most likely a spectacular con, designed to distract those who might otherwise be capable of breaking the status quo and make a few bucks in the process. This alleged hoax was perpetuated by the very agencies that were supposedly trying so hard to prevent it occurring at all. (Did it never occur to anyone that the ‘Illuminati’ might actually WANT every Misfit under the Sun to pack their bags and “””” off to another planet?!)

I also learned that following a spiritual path was less about acquiring ‘spiritual’ knowledge and more about ditching belief systems altogether. Deep down I had always known this and a load was lifted.

So I nipped it in the bud, spent less time dwelling on it and more time following my own inner guidance system, regardless of whether it conformed to any known spiritual practice. Hey presto, the electrical sensations in my crown chakra soon stopped.

Now that I have come to an understanding of the individuation process as described by Carl Jung, the best argument against a collective Ascension scenario is this. One of the basic principles of analytical psychology is that in order to become more whole, we each have to delve into our own Unconscious to integrate the Shadow, those parts of our psyche that we have rendered inaccessible. According to Jung and others, this is done at an individual level. Yes, critical mass can be achieved collectively but it is NOT a group effort. More importantly, in order to ascend, we first have to DESCEND.

Denial and dissociation are what create the Shadow in the first place. And, no matter how many times we try to kill or refuse to acknowledge it, the Shadow doesn’t simply go away. So what makes us think that by committing the most spectacular act of dissociation ever we can guarantee our own salvation? What happens when the Veil cracks and the Shadow comes back to haunt us millennia from now? What will have prepared our descendants for the shock of coming into contact with a world we had wilfully chosen to ignore?

I am not suggesting for one minute that the idea of collective planetary ascension has no truth to it – indeed, if it is a hoax, the best ones have a basis in truth – but that wholesale acceptance of the ‘Ascension Program’ as it has been packaged is a trap. Even if the prospect of splitting off from the horror of life on this planet is real enough, take it from me, when you commit a deliberate act of forgetfulness and it comes back to bite you in the bum, it is not pretty.

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2020

Lives

8 October 2008

I WAS gutted when the time came to rehome my beloved Muttley. The last moment I set eyes on him was at the kennels. I had arranged for a pet courier to transport him from there to a rescue centre just outside Manchester and, to spare me the agony, the manager had offered to take care of the formalities. It was bad enough leaving him, knowing I would never see him again. I dragged myself to the bus stop, hoping no-one would see my tears through the pissing rain.

31 October 2020

I HAD vowed never to find myself in that position again. Yet here I was. Four stressed foster-cats with behavioural issues, one bullying two of the others, in a one-bedroomed flat, a reduced income and an owner whose hands were tied due to COVID.

I had known for weeks that I would have to take drastic action but had drawn the line at taking them to a cattery, where they might languish for weeks. Now, with the threat of lockdown imminent, having strangers coming to my house was not an option. Besides, I didn’t trust myself to make the right choice in deciding who I could trust to guarantee their welfare.

I had enough food and litter supplies for two until January. After three heart-wrenching days of flip-flopping between trying to soldier on and take two of them to a cat shelter, and which two, my mind was finally made up. The two that I’d caught in flagrante, mother and son. Just as well he’d been neutered.

Getting a suspicious aggressive tom into the carrier was at first easier than I thought, achieved through meticulous cunning on my part. I had never seen such Fury. Much longer and he’d rip the carrier to shreds. Fixated on his claws, I didn’t see the zipper creeping, and before I knew what hit me, he was out, cool as a cucumber. In the end I had to leave him to it in order not to stress him further. Only the mother made it to the shelter. I didn’t relish a fresh attempt on Monday.

4 November 2020

So far so good. Monday was a breeze, made smoother by the administration of valerian extract the day before. The remaining two, Mimi and Robbie, are happier and enjoying the luxury of having a room to themselves – and they’re not bolting their food for fear it’s going to disappear. The neIghbours are happier that it’s quieter at night (touch wood) and I’m happier being able to get my house, and to a degree my mental health, back in order. I am under no illusions – two will still be tough over the winter months but together the ‘kids’ and I have a fightIng chance.

And based on Muttley’s experience of landing on his feet in a forever home most dogs would give their last bone for, I have every confidence that the right people will welcome Tron and Biscuit to their hearts.