I kept thinking about it, drifting off and on, images came and went, some that seemed clumsy and dumb, like one of a big rough guy wearing a skirt, the kind the girls in the early 1960‘s loved, long and flaring. It just looked stupid on him, like on a World War ll soldier putting on a skit in a prisoner of war camp. A reminder of the common world when that isn’t available.
So I thought of a different, more subtle familiarity. More like the feeling of Carl Jung’s archetypes. The feelings that growing up in our common society gives us but the kind we may not want to think about. For instance the feeling of always being dragged down by common and seemingly important situations that should be positive but which always cause humiliation, personal injustice, and especially the injustice of never being able to defend against them. We can repress. Or attach ourselves to other, more common distractions that can easily bury them. We don’t even put names on these feelings. Names make their retrieval too easy.
These must be some of the familiar feelings that move inside us when we read good poems.
Now I’m going to go splash my face with water and make coffee. See ya. I’ll read this over later. And see if it sounds at all familiar. And try to figure out why my subconscious would be putting it to me.