Hatred is not a mental illness

For the most part I’ve avoided political topics in this blog, and I don’t intend to change that. However, our President has crossed a line that I can’t, as an advocate for mentally ill folks, ignore. This week he distanced himself from his promises to do something meaningful about advocating for tougher gun laws when he described mass murderers as “mentally ill” and suggested  that improved care for the mentally ill would prevent mass shootings. We may be sickened by the violence of these hateful acts, but that doesn’t mean that the perpetrators are sick, in the sense of being mentally ill. It’s an insult to all mentally ill people to conflate hatred with psychopathology. People with diagnoses of mental illnesses are  no more likely to be dangerous to others than people without mental illnesses, and are more likely to be of danger to themselves than to others.

I know what I’m talking about. Throughout most of my career in the mental health system, I was certified as a Designated Examiner in the Probate Court. That meant that I routinely assessed people and testified in the Probate Court as to whether they met the criteria for involuntary commitment to psychiatric facilities. The two primary criteria are that the person is credibly diagnosed with a mental illness, and that he or she is at risk for harm to self or others. I was proud to play a part in a system that protects the civil rights of mentally ill persons, and assures that their right to due process is honored.

Xenophobia and race hatred aren’t symptoms of mental illness. They are learned prejudices, not psychopathologies. The President would have us believe that lethal hatred is a symptom of mental illness, not a product of hatred for “the Other.” Our national mental health system is a disgrace and needs to be adequately funded. But even if we had a system that provided adequate treatment for all of our mentally ill citizens, the impact on our national crisis of mass shootings would be negligible. It’s domestic terrorists that we need to worry about, not mentally ill people.

I was raised with guns. My father, an Army officer, was a world class expert on small arms and an avid NRA member. He saw to it that his sons learned to shoot at an early age, in NRA gun clubs – first with bb guns, then with .22 caliber rifles. I own guns, and I taught my wife to shoot them. A reasonable interpretation of the Second Amendment would protect the right of most citizens to own handguns, hunting and target rifles, and shotguns; but we’ve got to draw the line somewhere. You can’t buy or own hand grenades, flame throwers, bombs, or tanks – and that’s how it should be. We need to re-instate the ban on military-style semi-automatic assault weapons, such as the M-16 (AR-15). We also need to ban clips and magazines that hold ten or more rounds. Until we do this, the body count from mass shootings will continue to rise.

The signers of the Constitution couldn’t have envisioned our modern military weapons, or the mass shootings we see all too often these days, The rifles of the eighteenth century weren’t as accurate as modern rifles, and had to be re-loaded after every shot fired. Today we have semi-automatic rifles, which fire one round each time the trigger is pulled. Fully automatic rifles, which fire rapidly as long as the trigger is held down, are rightfully banned; but some semi-automatic rifles can be easily modified to be fully automatic. With clips that hold from a dozen to a hundred rounds, such rifles are weapons of war, designed for rapid slaughter. They should not be for sale to civilians.

A ban on the manufacture and sale of assault weapons won’t completely solve the problem, as there are already millions of them out there. However, the overwhelming majority are in the hands of responsible gun owners, who will never use them for mass murder. As long as they’re not allowed to be traded or sold, most of them don’t present a threat  to public safety. But an absolute ban on sales would make it harder for people who decide they want to kill people to acquire an assault rifle. A massive public relations campaign promoting a national, voluntary buy-back program would gradually reduce the number of assault weapons over time.

We also need to have a national dialogue about the “Otherizing” of racial and ethnic minorities by hate groups – the “Us vs. Them”mentality. School children need to be educated about the stereotypes that are being used to indoctrinate people to fear and hate people who don’t look like them or believe in all the things they believe in. They need to be able to recognize the lies that are told to recruit domestic terrorists. Part of the reform of our mental health system needs to be a public education program, to try to end the stigma about mental illness that is so prevalent in our society. Mentally ill people have enough problems with stigma as it is, without being blamed for mass murder.

 

 

My Red Cross service at Ground Zero

In my last post I wrote about my first tour (with my wife, Maria) as a Red Cross Disaster Mental Health Volunteer  in Manhattan, weeks after the 9-11 attacks. In 2001 Maria was employed, and I was between jobs. She’d been given two weeks leave to serve in New York, but couldn’t get an additional two weeks for a second tour. So, after my first tour ended, I was in a position to apply for a second tour and was again assigned to Manhattan. By this time luxury hotels were filling their rooms again, and I was given a shoebox of a room at the Pennsylvania Hotel – which happens to be my preferred lodging when I visit The City. And this time, when I in-processed  at the Red Cross headquarters in Brooklyn, I was given a prized assignment. I would be working at a Red Cross Respite Center at Ground Zero.

Ground Zero was fenced-in, and access was restricted to those who worked there. The sacred ground where the World Trade Center towers had stood was now known as the Pile by those who worked on it. Two weeks earlier, superstructure was still being torn down by giant machines resembling metal dinosaurs, and the wreckage could still be seen from outside the fence. Now operations were mostly subterranean, and Ground Zero was a vast pit, crawling with activity. The Respite Center I was assigned to at Ground Zero was there to serve anyone who worked on the Pile. The cafeteria operated 24/7 and free services were available for off-duty workers. Our clients included police and firefighters, demolition workers, engineers, telecommunications workers, machine operators, and National Guard troops.

Outside at Ground Zero, everyone had to wear a hard hat. The Respite Center was housed in a college student union building with a large atrium, a cafeteria and big rooms on the ground floor, and two more stories of smaller rooms, behind wide balconies  overlooking the atrium. Serving at the Respite Center was a very different experience than serving at a Family Service Center. It was where people working on the Pile went for meals, and when they were off-duty. Everything was free, from the cafeteria to a supply store with batteries, towels, work clothes, boots, gloves, etc. Workers who had long commutes could stay to sleep in dormitory rooms, without going home after each shift. There were also showers and darkened nap rooms with recliner chairs. There was a big media center where off-duty workers could play cards, or watch TV, or use a computer to play games, send e-mails, or surf the Web.  They could sign up for free massages or attend twelve-step meetings.

All Red Cross volunteers were there to pamper our clients and to help them deal with  the stresses of working on the Pile. We disaster mental health volunteers were there to listen to those who wanted or needed to talk, to be available and accessible. We knew not to ask intrusive questions or to initiate conversations about working on the Pile. We ate with the clients in the cafeteria and we schmoozed. We took snacks and coffee out to the cops and the National Guard troops providing security around the perimeter of the Pile. We filled in for other volunteers, washing dishes or making sandwiches, so they could take a break.

As with my first assignment in Manhattan, I was there to serve as a facilitator and troubleshooter – but in a different context. Our primary job was to provide respite to people doing stressful work. Bodies and body parts were still being found in the rubble. At one point I heard a local Salvation Army volunteer at a cafeteria table with firefighters ask a question about finding body parts. I took her aside and told her why her question was inappropriate at a Respite Center, where workers went to get away from their work on the Pile. She caught on.

There’s no telling how many New Yorkers developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) due to the events of 9-11, but in my two Red Cross tours in Manhattan I encountered quite a few. Some had seen bodies falling from the burning towers; others had run for their lives when the towers fell. I was asked time after time if what the person was going through was “normal.” The people asking that question might be experiencing depression, anxiety attacks, fear reactions, anger, and other PTSD symptoms. I don’t know how many times I said something like this to trauma victims: “What you’re experiencing used to be called ‘shellshock’ or ‘combat fatigue’. It’s not just soldiers in combat who have the kind of symptoms you’re having. You’re a civilian who suddenly found yourself in a war zone. What you’ve described to me is a normal reaction to an extremely abnormal experience. You’re not going crazy.”

Another question I got a lot from people experiencing symptoms of PTSD was, “Will it always be like this?” While I had to tell them that I couldn’t answer their question, my replies included positive suggestions about recovery: “Everybody’s different. Some people keep re-opening the wounds, or convince themselves that they’ll never get better, and don’t. Some people just get better over time. If your symptoms don’t begin to diminish, and disable you in some way, you should consider counseling..  But the important thing is to keep an open mind about your recovery. Trust in your ability to heal, and get help if you need it. Nobody has the right to tell you that you should have already gotten over it by now.”

Police (“New York’s Finest”) and firefighters (“New York’s Bravest”) were especially hard-hit by the 9-11 attacks, as they were mourning the loss of so many colleagues. All human remains found in the Pile were turned over to a special squad of policemen and firefighters, to be removed with ceremony and respect; so people were still being traumatized, weeks after the attacks. I felt privileged to be in the company of the men and women of the police and fire departments, and to play a small part in New York’s healing. I’d visited Manhattan before, but this time I felt a part of it. I fell in love with it.

 

Red Cross Disaster Mental Health Service

I’ve served three two-week stints as a Red Cross Disaster Mental Health Volunteer, twice in Manhattan in the weeks following the 9-11 attacks, and once after a hurricane in Louisiana. To qualify as a disaster mental health volunteer for the Red Cross you have to be a licensed mental health professional, and you have to go through Red Cross training. Because of the unique challenges of being a disaster mental health worker, the tour of duty was for two weeks, while most other Red Cross volunteers served for three. The Red Cross is paramilitary in its organization and operations, with a strict chain of command and very specific job descriptions: driver, food service worker, family services worker, logistics and supply worker, etc. To serve in a Red Cross disaster operation is to become part of a well-oiled machine.

Not only can the workdays be long and stressful, but if there are no local hotel or motel rooms available, workers might have to sleep on cots in a big tent or at a shelter. You get one day off a week. While most volunteers have a specific duty station, disaster mental health volunteers are flexible and have the run of the entire operation, doing whatever they can do to be helpful and to keep things running smoothly. We were taught in training that we were not going to be doing counseling, but rather using our clinical judgment and skills as troubleshooters and facilitators: doing interventions when tempers flare, soothing people who’ve been yelled at by an angry client, listening to people who just need to unload, and talking to people about stress management. We would be working with both Red Cross staff and volunteers, and clients (disaster victims), some of whom would be suffering from symptoms of PTSD.

Like most Americans, the events of 9-11 had left me grief-stricken. I was as depressed as I have ever been, feeling like I’d lost family. My wife Maria had already taken the Red Cross courses required for certification as a disaster mental health volunteer. I immediately signed up for the training and within two weeks was certified. We put in our applications for service and were assigned to Manhattan. Airline flights had just resumed, and we were issued some of the first available tickets to JFK. We wouldn’t know where we would be assigned until we in-processed at the Red Cross headquarters for New York City. I’d volunteered so that I wouldn’t have to go on feeling helpless; I would be helping the healing process. It was my therapy, the best way for me to deal with my grief.

One term our trainers used in describing our function within the site operation was “schmoozing.” This meant just walking around the site and getting to know folks, greeting people and chatting with them, asking open-ended questions, letting people know that you’d be there if needed. We wore the same vest that all Red Cross volunteers wear on duty, with nothing to identify us as mental health volunteers; but within a few days at least someone at every duty station knew who the “mental health folks” were, and understood our function.

It was our job to be available where we were needed, and accessible. Sometimes we filled in – making sandwiches or toting trash bags to the curb – to enable volunteers to take a break. We tried to de-fuse tense situations when we could. We asked people, “How’s your day going?” and told duty station managers, “Let me know if I can be of help.” We assessed the morale and did what we could to keep it high. Sometimes volunteers came to us with things like, “You might want to ask Fred how he’s doing today. He just found out his mother’s in the hospital.” Other times a staff member or volunteer might approach one of us, ask “Got a minute?”, and talk for twenty minutes.

Maria and I were assigned to a Red Cross Family Service Center housed in a huge gymnasium/sports center in Greenwich Village – a ten-minute walk from Ground Zero. You could still see and smell the toxic haze from the fallen towers. Manhattan was on edge: recovering from the shock of the 9-11 attacks, and fearful of another attack. The swank hotels were near-empty, so we were assigned a room in a luxury hotel, a block from Carnegie Hall; but we worked fourteen-hour days, and were too exhausted to appreciate the luxuries. Contrary to the stereotype of rude New Yorkers, we found the local folks we encountered to be friendly and helpful. People on the street, seeing our Red Cross i.d. badges (which enabled us to ride the subway for free) made us feel welcome, and many thanked us for “coming to help us out.”

A family service center is where people who’ve lost their residence or their livelihood due to a disaster go, to apply for and receive (if they qualify) vouchers for food, housing, and other necessities. A kitchen on the premises dispensed free hot meals, and there was a free snack bar next to the huge waiting area. Clients were given a number and often had to wait for hours to see a family service worker, who would screen them for eligibility and fill out the requisite forms. Supervised child care was available. The primary task for mental health volunteers was to keep an eye out for potential problems and to schmooze the waiting area, available and accessible to the waiting clients. If things got volatile in the desk-filled basketball court, where family service workers sometimes had to turn down clients who couldn’t establish eligibility, mental health volunteers might be summoned to facilitate the situation.

Clients who clearly needed to talk to someone, or were in evident distress, were told that while we couldn’t “do counseling,” we were mental health professionals and good listeners. Sometimes we were able to answer questions, do brief interventions, or refer people to local agencies and resources, if they needed clinical services. I remember one ad hoc psychoeducational group that Maria and I led for parents, in a room off the waiting area. We heard such things as, “I can’t tell my kids not to be scared. I’m scared!” and “Is it normal for my teenage daughter to still cry every time I leave the apartment?”

More about my experiences as a Red Cross mental health volunteer – including my assignment to a Respite Center at Ground Zero – in my next post.

Prisoners of metaphor

Humankind has been called “the magic animal” because of our linguistic ability. Robert Anton Wilson put it this way: “Language. . . allowed people to do what no other animal seems to do, namely to visualize and/or verbally ‘contemplate’ something that is not present before their senses. This fantasy or reflection or cognition allows us, then, to compare the imagined with the experienced.” The amazing discriminating mind that language has enabled is, however, a two-edged sword. Language has made it possible for us to progress as a species –  to create civilizations, art, literature – but it’s also responsible for a kind of suffering that’s unique to the human animal.

Any bad situation can be made much worse by the way we think about it. Our human imagination can make us depressed, fearful, or enraged without a realistic external cause.  If it’s responsible for the building of magnificent cities, it’s also responsible for the Holocaust and other man-made horrors. As a retired psychotherapist, I know well that people often suffer needless pain because of the way they think.

The purest truths, it seems to me, reside in our experience. Anything we say about things we experience is once-removed from reality. We  have to rely on metaphor to communicate our truths. Nothing we say or write about  love can match the purity of our experiences of love. Most words don’t have absolute meanings, and the possibilities of misunderstanding another person’s words are endless. We encode our thoughts into words, and every listener must decode them. Two people hearing the same sentence or speech might decode it in very different ways. Language is a leaky vessel for conveying Truth.

Not only do we have words for specific phenomenal things, like rain; we also have words for things that don’t exist in the same way that rain exists. Concepts like Justice and Salvation and Divine Right are noumenal, and might not have the same meanings to different people. And yet people often act as if certain noumena were as real as rain, and had some absolute meaning. Wars are fought over things (Honor, God’s Will) that are totally subjective, or can’t be proven to exist in the way rain exists. To most Muslims jihad means the inward spiritual battle against sinful impulses, but to some it means killing infidels  in the name of Allah.

The Wharfian hypothesis – a popular linguistic theory for much of the twentieth century – suggested that our experience is created by the language that we speak. While a person from our culture, at the beach, would see waves in the ocean, someone from another culture might see the water waving. According to the theory, the first person perceived the waves as things, while the second person perceived a process. While the theory has been largely discredited, I think there is some truth to it: language may not determine one’s experience, but it certainly shapes it to some degree.

Linguistic conventions can make us prisoners of metaphor. Words can almost instantly arouse emotions. A good orator or storyteller can put her audience in a trance. A speech can turn a crowd into an angry mob. In both his essay, “Politics and the English Language” and his novel 1984, George Orwell wrote about the manipulation of language for political purposes. Wittgenstein wrote, “The limits of my language means the limits of my world.” He also wrote, “Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language.” In my last post I wrote about the linguistic trap of “is,” and E-Prime as a tool for becoming more aware of what “is” is in our language and our thought. To the degree that you’re unaware of the limits of language as a means of conveying truths, you are under its bewitchment.

Our belief systems are largely constructed from our native language, and the conventions we live by are largely determined by the culture we were raised in. Because we’re all acculturated, we tend to share certain assumptions about what is real, and what is right or wrong, with the people around us. It’s even been speculated that each of us live our lives in a culturally-induced trance state. It’s easy to find seeming irrationalities or blind spots in people whose belief system differs significantly from your own, not so easy to become aware of your own culturally-transmitted limitations or fixations.

Imagine living in a culture whose language didn’t have the word “week,” and which didn’t have the convention of a seven-day week. How would life be different? Years and months are phenomenal  measurements of time, based on solar and lunar cycles. The four seasons are likewise phenomenal. The seven-day week is an arbitrary, contrived convention which affects the lives of most people on the planet. It’s noumenal, but seems to be experienced by most people as real, in the way that rain is real. Many workers wake up with the blues when they remember that it “is” Monday, and tend to have a bright mood when it “is” Friday afternoon. If you  were a castaway on a desert island, would you have a reason to know what day of the week it “is”?

It’s only Monday if you think it is. Your experience or interpretation of almost anything you encounter in your life is mediated by your belief system, your mental map. It’s possible, as Alan Watts put it, to miss the meal and eat the menu. We all need mental maps to navigate our way through life, but the map isn’t identical to the territory it depicts. If you don’t like some of the places your mental map takes you, you can re-draw parts of it – whatever your age. If you pay attention to the tricks and traps of language, it need not ensnare you, or limit who or what you may make of yourself.

 

 

Tools for philosophy

Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote, “Philosophy is not a theory, but an activity.” There are five essential branches of philosophical inquiry: Metaphysics  is the study of existence; Epistemology is the study of knowledge; Ethics is the study of proper action; Politics is the study of force in human affairs; and Esthetics is the study of art/beauty. You don’t need a college degree, or formal training, to engage in serious philosophical dialogue. Anyone who speculates about why innocents suffer while the greedy thrive is a philosopher. Anyone who questions dogma is a philosopher. Anyone who thinks for herself and explores alternatives to the conventional wisdom is a philosopher.

Philosophizing can happen in living rooms and on the street. When people seriously debate about abortion or capital punishment or taxation, they’re engaging in the activity of philosophy. As a philosopher you’re not obligated to come up with final answers or solutions, only to ask pertinent questions and make reasonable assertions. Philosophy isn’t a contest. It’s been called an interesting extended conversation that’s been going on for a long time. You needn’t identify yourself with any established “school of thought” (stoicism, Platonism, existentialism, etc.), but can be eclectic in your reasoning. I think of myself as a guerrilla ontologist, which I wrote about in two prior posts on “Agnosticism and certainty.”

One way  you can recognize that you’re talking to a philosopher is when you hear him say, “Define your terms.” It’s a basic tool that philosophers use. When someone asks me if I believe in God, my likely response is, “Define God.” Then we can talk. Real dialogue requires that we understand one another’s definitions of words, because most words don’t have absolute meanings. Another basic tool that philosophers use is formal logic, but that’s too complex a subject to get into here. Yet another is the three-step syllogism, such as the classic example: 1. All men are mortal. 2. I am a man. 3. Therefore, I am mortal.

Another helpful philosophical tool is the thought experiment. It’s a tool for changing your perspective, examining your values, or thinking outside the box of your preconceptions about an issue. It usually takes the form of a “what if ______?” question, followed by a question about what you would or could or should do in that situation. A classic example of a thought experiment is, “If your mother and your wife were both drowning and you could only save one of them, which one would you save, and why?”

Another classic thought experiment is the runaway streetcar scenario. What if you saw that a runaway streetcar was about to mow down five people in its path, and you were standing by a rail switch that would re-route the streetcar to a track where only one person would be killed. Would you throw the switch? Would your decision be different if  the five were strangers to you, and you knew and cared about the one person who would die because of your decision to throw the switch?

Under what circumstances you might kill someone is also a values question posed by the thought experiment: if you could go back in time and had the opportunity to kill Hitler before he rose to power, would you? What if he was only a baby? Thought experiments like these help you to examine your values. Examination of ones values (sometimes called values clarification) is a specific process: what do you value over what? Do you believe in absolute values? Certain Republicans have cast themselves as “values voters,” as if they held a copyright on values. Everyone has values, from the Pope to a Mafia don like Tony Soprano. We all value this over that when it comes down to making practical or moral decisions. I don’t believe that any ultimate authority exists, when it comes to what we understand as being real, or just. That’s one reason I consider myself to be a guerrilla ontologist.

Another helpful philosophical tool for English speakers who want to better understand the role of language in our thinking is E-Prime. E-Prime (which I wrote about in my post, “It’s only Monday if you think it is”) is English that omits all forms of “is.” Nobody suggests that E-Prime should replace English, but it’s a tool for understanding what “is” is in our thinking. The Aristotelean “is-of-equivalency” posits subjective things as objective things, creating an either/or dichotomy that need not apply. If an apple “is” sweet, it cannot be tart or sour. If one person in a room says that it’s hot and another says it’s not, one of them has to be wrong. If “is” is omitted, and one person says “I feel hot” and another says “I don’t,” there’s no conflict. Wars are fought over where, precisely, the border “is.”

Formulating sentences in E-Prime is an exercise in the activity of philosophy. It helps to make you aware of how language affects your worldview and your judgment. Here are some examples of English sentences and their E-Prime translations:  “He is a liar” becomes “He lies a lot.” “She is very pretty” becomes either “I find her very pretty” or “I’m attracted to her.” (That she “is” very pretty can be disputed; the two E-Prime alternatives cannot.) “He is the smartest man in the room” becomes “His intellect impresses me.” “Look! There’s a UFO” becomes “I can’t identify that flying object.”

The use of E-Prime eliminates subjective bias, or what I call the objectification of subjective experience. Try writing, or copying someone else’s writing, in E-Prime and see what you learn. I think that your philosophy will benefit from the activity. I describe this blog as a psychology blog, “with a side of philosophy.” More about the traps of language in my next post.

 

At the Ministry of Mystery

Here’s the seventh and final installment of my Ministry Series:

 

I had searched long enough – too long – and was ready to give up on my quest for the Great Secret. Life without Meaning was too painful to endure, and I determined to go home and end my life by my own hand. I was parched with thirst, in a semi-delirium and near fainting. I only entered the government building to find a water fountain, to quench my thirst and find the strength to make it home. Inside, I asked a security guard where the nearest water was, and he pointed to a nearby door. I entered, slaked my thirst at the water fountain, and turned to leave.

A man in a trench coat and a slouch hat walked up to me. “Been looking for the Ministry of Mystery, have we?”

“But . . . how do you know?”

“Doesn’t matter. See, the thing is, it’s never in the same place twice. Finding it is . . . a matter of attitude. Just follow your nose, Bub. And believe.”

And then he was gone. I looked for him out in the hallway, but he was nowhere in sight. Only then did I notice the sign above the door: The Secretariat of Serendipity.

My head was suddenly, miraculously clear, my heart pounding: alive, alive, alive. I may have lost my Meaning, but I again found Hope. Back out on the street I felt the heat of the sun; studied with quicksilver awe the upturned faces of the members of a Cloud Counting Club as they stumbled past me on the sidewalk, unaware of their surroundings; followed my nose to a bakery, where I bought and ate a small cinnamon loaf; listened to the clang-buzz-tweet-roar-shuffle of city life. Looking as if with new eyes, I looked up and there it was: the ministry of Mystery – in a place where I had often looked and it had never been. I went inside.

There was only one person in the sparsely-furnished little office: a circus clown in full regalia, with a custard pie balanced on the fingertips of one hand. He beckoned mischievously with the other, and I crossed the room to face him. Beneath the face paint he looked – amazingly – like myself!

“Welcome, K.” he said in a voice just like my own. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Expecting – you have? Who . . . who are you?”

“I am,” he replied, “the Truth.” He went on. “One day the village idiot was seen riding around lickety-split on his donkey, frantically looking for something. When people would ask him what he was looking for, he would reply, “I’m looking for my donkey!”

“Huh?”

“What you are looking for, bozo, is what is looking.”

“HUH?”

The clown looked deep into my eyes, soulful infinity in his gaze. “Remember,” he intoned, “who you really are.” And with that, he threw the pie in my face.

Food for thought.

 

And on that day I left Centre City, never to return. Up until then I had never really thought about the wider world wherein I now wander. I carry my few possessions in a sack, over my shoulder: wandering, working where there is work to be done, sojourning here and there when invited, getting to know new brothers and sisters, and loving the living of life. Pursuing the paradox now plain as the nose I follow throughout Homeland, singing my simple new song:

“My life is a quest, there’s a Grail I must claim.                                                                               (The Quest and the Grail are one-and-the-same.)”                                                                                                                                               ————————–

 

I’d love to hear from some of you who follow my blog what you think of my Ministry Series, and if you’d like to see more fiction on my blog. I’d thought the series to be complete, but am working on a new installment, “At the Ministry of Merchandise.” Thanks for reading!

Jeff Koob

 

 

 

At the Directorate of Dreams

Here’s my sixth installment (of seven) of my Ministry Series:

 

Wandering in a daze, for once unfocused in my quest for the Great Secret, I found myself – for the first time in my life – on the outskirts of Centre City. It had never seriously occurred to me that I could leave the city; but maybe the Truth I sought was not to be found in the cyclopean hives of bureaucracy and commerce. So I left the city on an untraveled road and soon came to a hill. I had read about hills in books: they were for climbing. And so I climbed.

High on the hill was a cave. Caves (I had read) were where hermits and wise men lived. So I entered the shallow cave, only to find a bearded old man in a white robe, sitting in blissful repose. “What do you want, my son?” he asked as I approached him.

“Please, sir . . . what’s the meaning of it all? What’s the Great Secret?”

“Son,” he replied, “you’re a dreamer.” And I fell out of bed.

So the next day I searched the Directory of Directorates, Bureaus, Ministries and Secretariats at the library, and then found my way to the Directorate of Dreams. The waiting room was crowded, so I  took a number then took a seat. After a few hours my number was called and I was directed to a numbered stall within a honeycomb of identical stalls, and sat down before the desk. A bookish, bespectacled young woman sat behind the desk, her hands clasped on her spotless blotter. “Now then, are you here to file a dream, to access a file, or to access an interpretation?”

“You file dreams here? Catalogue them?”

“Where else would you expect dreams to be accounted for, if not here? Somebody has to do it, right?”

“Um, of  course. Well, I suppose I should file my dream first and then . . . maybe an interpretation? Is there a fee?”

“There’s no filing fee unless your dream is an Original. Do you suppose that your dream is . . . an Original?” Her tone was amused.

“I should think so.”

“They all think so, don’t you know. But you’d be surprised how rare a truly original dream is. I think we’ve about got them all by now. So tell me about your . . . original dream.”

“Well, first I dreamed that I was on the outskirts of the city.”

“Uh-huh, sounds like a D37 so far.”

“Er, and then I actually left the city. I was alone on the road.”

“Yes, clearly a D37TQ. Go on.”

“I came to a hill, and when I climbed it I found a cave.”

“Sir, what you had was a D37TQ, subtype RT95 – if there was a wise old man in the cave.”

“But . . . how did you know?”

“It’s all in the archetypes, sir. There is a finite distribution of discrete symbols in the human psyche. Although the permutations theoretically approach the infinite, true Originals are, as I said, very rare. So you asked him what . . . the meaning of life, perhaps?”

“Uh . . . something like that.”

“A subtype RT950, then. And what, pray, did he tell you?”

“That I’m a dreamer.”

“So there you have it.”

“Have what?”

“Well, you certainly won’t be needing an interpretation, now will you? No fee. Will that be all?”

“I suppose so . . . unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to know the Great Secret, would you?”

“Wrong agency, sir. Try the Ministry of Mystery. Oh, and would you be a dear and tell the secretary on your way out that I’m going on my lunch break? Good day.”

Leaving me lost in the lurch of my sad, solo search.