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 Tricks
emanate from the depths of the trickster, an
archetypal figure, part myth, part man, part
psychic reality. As myth the trickster bears a
striking resemblance to the alchemical image of
Mercurius with his fondness for sly jokes and
malicious pranks -- tricks of the trade so to
speak.
Typically
the trickster is half animal and half god. He can
change form and function within the blink of an
eye, and quickly inhabit the position of saviour or
devil, as in medieval fetes when the trickster
appeared as "the ape of God."
In
human form the trickster demonstrates a mercurial
temperament with sudden shifts in mood and
mannerisms. One moment he can be warm and
affectionate, lavishing emotional treats on all and
sundry, while the next, he can be cold and hostile,
devoid of contact, detached and distant. His
bestial side loves to shock and inflict pain, but
he can also turn gracious and heal with a soothing
sound or unspoken glance.
As
a psychic truth, the trickster has long been
identified with the "shadow side of the self," like
a dark cloud or envious impulse. But this is also a
reality waiting to be overturned, whereupon it can
become a benevolent endeavour, a treat, waiting yet
again to become a trick. For the trickster, change
is the game, confusion, the aim. Having spent some
years studying and working with R. D. Laing in the
mid 1960s, and many more years reflecting on the
events that had occurred, I think the term
"trickster" provides an apt description of this
Scotsman in his many manifestations and
transformations. Moreover the term succinctly
subsumes the phrase that Laing popularised, "the
divided self."
Two
examples come to mind about the mercurial nature of
Laing, both as healer and bedeviller. The first
relates to a lecture he gave in Vancouver, Canada,
in 1988, a year before he died. A video of the talk
was later shown on TV under the quixotic title,
"Did You Used To Be R. D. Laing." In it he
discusses a consultation he did with a middle aged
man who was "very depressed, suicidal, in the
depths of despair." Instead of beginning with the
usual psychiatric history, he asked the patient,
"When was the last time you were happy," followed
by, "Can you scan back over the last twenty four,
or forty eight hours, or more, to a time when you
felt ok?"
The
man replied that he enjoyed going for walks and
whistling. Laing asked him for the tune and began
to whistle with him. Subsequently they both began
to tell each other jokes. Laing intimated that by
the end of the session both of them had become
friends and were having a good time. Then Laing
pointed out that fifty minutes had passed and that
the session was over. The man went to the door, but
his face dropped after he suddenly remembered why
he had come for the meeting, to get help for his
depression. He complained he hadn't gotten his
monies worth. Laing replied that for fifty minutes
he had forgotten his despair, wasn't that worth the
period they had spent together? Here was Laing the
trickster at his best. His treat was to trick a
suicidal person out of his despair.
The
second example comes from my personal experience.
In 1965 I moved to London from New York to be with
Laing. Very quickly I was literally thrown into the
deep end, both with regard to the relationship that
I established with Mary Barnes (eventually
described in the book we wrote together,
Mary Barnes: Two Accounts of a Journey
Through Madness ) and to the general turmoil at
Kingsley Hall. By the spring of 1966 I felt
confused, depressed, and close to the edge. So I
turned to the person for whom I had turned my life
upside down for help. In particular, I wanted to
see him in therapy. After hearing my plight, he
suggested that I meet with John Layard, an elderly
Jungian analyst (and anthropologist) who, like
Laing and myself, was also living at Kingsley Hall.
In fact Layard had also sought Laing's help for
depression, and as I ultimately found out, was in
therapy with him at the time.
Reluctantly
I agreed to see Layard in his cell at the top of
the house. He sat on the bed. I sat on a small
chair near him. After a bit of chit-chat he told me
to come closer and asked me to put my finger on his
right temple. I did and was guided to a hole under
the skin. He told me that he had once tried to blow
his brains out after he had been rejected as a
lover by his former friend, the famous poet, W. H.
Auden. (Years before Auden had chosen a young boy
instead of him. Later I learned that he had been
part of a homosexual clique that included Auden,
the writer, Christopher Isherwood, and other
prominent intellectuals and artists.) Layard
continued that he had gone back to his room, put a
gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. When he
came to, he first thought he was in heaven, but he
soon realised that he was alive because he felt
pain and was bleeding profusely. Evidently the
bullet had missed his brain and blown a hole in his
skull, a sort of self-trepanation.
Soon
after this revelation (he hadn't left any room for
me to talk about myself), Layard started to run his
hand up my thigh. In response I got up and walked
out of the room. The next day I tackled Laing about
the incident and yelled at him for referring me to
Layard and not himself. He then suggested that I
see Marion Milner, a senior psychoanalyst who had
written extensively about her work with artists.
She, in turn, referred me to Dr. Norman Cohen, with
whom I had a long and productive analysis.
One
could say, "all's well that ends well," except that
I had been very shaken up by the trick Laing had
played on me. Years later the same trick begot a
"meta trick," that came to light after Laing's
death, and after several biographies of Laing had
been published. One was by Bob Mullan, professor of
applied social studies at the University of Wales
in Swansea. His account was based on taped
interviews with Laing in 1988. During this time
Laing gave Mullan an entirely fallacious account of
the incident between Layard and myself. This was
the "meta trick" which reached beyond the grave.
Mullan used it in his work (Mad To be Normal:
Conversations with R. D. Laing) and
other biographers have repeated Mullan's passing on
of Laing's prank.
On
the first occasion I felt paranoid and
destabilised. On the second go around I felt angry,
but also wryly amused. Was I so important that
Laing would lie about me? Was Laing aware of the
mischief he was perpetrating? Or was the tale but a
further example of a trickster's undifferentiated
consciousness and unrelatedness?
But
then the thought occurred to me: who was the
trickster, Laing or myself? Why should anyone
believe my story, save those who have felt Layard's
holey forehead? And am I using this account just to
settle a score?
More
important, could a trick have been transformed into
a treat by the passing of time? In retrospect Laing
did me a favour by rejecting my wish for
therapeutic engagement. He chose to remain aloof
from me, which helped me to embark on the painful
process of shedding my idealisations of him, and of
learning to stand my own ground.
Perhaps
the final treat was to let me know I still
mattered, even if he had to fudge a story about an
"anti-therapeutic" encounter.
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