There is within us a kind of memory, of an archaic past, imbedded within us, the kind of a life we all led as we as a species flourished, as our brains expanded, as we developed language and art. Living now in modern world, we live in a mix. It can be sensitizing, as when we remember and reflect on nature, and it can be desensitizing, which happens to us when we try to cope with certain facets of modernity.
The vision, the deeper intuitive memory, which cannot lend itself to any commercial packaging beyond its own nature, comes across as spiritual vision. The intuitions can be labeled sometimes the stuff of religion, perhaps depending on the force that seems to accompany their visions.
The loaves and the fishes has a ring of a communal effort, as if the crowd silently chipped in and shared what they had out of their own pockets with the rest as the baskets were passed. Jesus Christ, when told his family is waiting for him, responds that those who join him are family, beyond the particular blood relationship, as if to further put the point across of how we are to live in this world to make it all work out. It sounds like he's being a jerk to his loved ones, lessening the importance of the family unit which raised him, etc.
The intuitive memory of our history does not necessarily need the heaviness of religion. It could be a memory within that strikes a chord, say as Shane MacGowan recalls his extended family gathering in a Tipperary farm house on a Saturday night to play and sing all night. Or when someone finds something familiar and grounded about tending bar, as if remembering the communal of the hunt effort, the run of adrenaline. Or as one remembers a society led by the wise female rather than the strong male calling all the shots, as in myths of modern advertising. In our deep past we outgrew, for a time, the primate habit of male dominance and pecking order, lived communally, everyone embraced for their individual ability, a point posited by ethnobotanist psychedelic thinker Terence McKenna I've come across on youtube.
Gut thinking is often communal. I find it bent often enough toward the exploration of consciousness of which literary endeavors come from.
And this is the sort of thing I think about, to mull over with my therapist, that deeper sensibility, hopeful that there is indeed such a thing within us, that we might bond over. Offering a way for us to understand the foolish and stupid things we do in life, like not approaching the pretty girl at a reunion football game obviously waiting for me, me feeling stung or pessimistic by her hanging up on me the night before, well within her rights.
By the time we've stopped to find terms for something, often enough, we have fallen away from the reality of the present moment into the realm of male domination. We need to help each other find peace with each other beyond and before the placement of terms by which to understand. Then we can see the very deeply flawed practice something, like fracking, for instance, is.
Writers are those who must write, who must look to find terms that are in tune with reality, and their work is often a struggle. One doesn't envy Ted Hughes in many ways.
A sketch before work.