Jung was a bit of a revelation for me. I think that story is a deeply human concept. We talk about "learning" three-act structure and all the systems, or formulas, that describe story. We aren't learning to impose anything, of course, not really. All the systems and structures and all that do, really, is *describe* something that already exists. We aren't imposing three-act structure, we're hard-wired for it. If you don't believe that, take any novel, any short story, or film, and steal a third - beginning, middle, or end - of it. It doesn't matter which one. Give it to anyone - five to eighty-five years old - and they'll ask you for "the rest." When someone reads a "system," they often say it "resonated" with them - which is why they embrace it, because it is "true" for them. Someone has described for them the truths they've been assimilating about story all their own lives. Jung was that for me about humanity, something else I'd like to think we're hard-wired for. :) Floating about in my head, before reading Jung, were certain, difficult-to-express, thoughts about people. Like Miss Marple, I knew that this group, and not this other group, of people, were, at their core, the same *kind* of person. I knew there were things most people accepted as true, without having the right dictionary of words to discuss them. Jung gave me a lexicon of words that finally let me think *concretely* about people and, by extension, characters and story and film. Jung was a dude! I think it would have been pretty cool to grow up in a house with such intriguing ideas for dinner-table conversation - as long as I wasn't being analyzed in the process. :)

Your genetic destiny is hunting you down, Waka :-) The first, last, and only thing I wanted to be in life was a psychologist. The first, last, and only career path my mother ever forbid me to travel was the one leading to being a psychologist. For her generation, they believed there was some sort of voodoo in the practice. Not so much, huh :-) Here's one to run by your father and baffle him, if you're in the mood. For seven years I stopped having dreams of any sort. Zero, zip, zilch, not even a passing fantasy. The first to return was a sleeping dream. I and an unidentified friend were on the second floor of a white-white mansion with a spiral staircase, leaning over the railing and watching the people waiting for what we knew was an Elvis concert. He wasn't showing. I heard a sound to my right, turned and saw Elvis, buck naked except for a pair of rhinestone studded go-go boots (thankfully from behind) standing on the sill of an open window, his hands thrusts towards the heavens and bellowing, "Giiiive me ma sandwich! Giiiiive me ma sandwich!" That ought to keep your father occupied for a time and give you a rest from the "analysis." Have fun Junging around.