Forbidden Drives Pick Our Jobs And Professions


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mee Image Therapy' By VOLNEY G. MATHISON<
BIDDEN DRIVES PICK OUR JOBS AND PROFESSIONS
ANY person to state the reasons
for or the primary causes of his
having taken up the profession or
the line of work he is in, and he
is apt to give you an answer that
sounds reasonable, acceptable,
and not illogical.

Hardly one person in a
thousand is aware of the fact that
)•m has NOT deliberately and intelligently selected his profession or activity on a 10096
conscious level. Most of us are quite unaware
that our job, work, or profession is usually
selected indirectly on the subconscious level.
Or that thereafter one ingeniously invents,
elaborates, constructs "reasons" why one has
elected to be in one's "chosen" profession or
hpe of activity.

This at once raises another major question. If our supremely wise subconscious has
^ore or less directed the selection of our
job, how does it make the abysmally gruesome
mistakes constantly observed in the field of
human activities?
It makes the mistakes because it does not
have transmitted to it correct, accurate, and
complete data from its lookout station -- the
conscious mind and its associated consciously
perceptive apparatus. The subconscious makes
no mistakes within itself -- it acts always for
the survival and the welfare of the organism
on the basis of all previous and present data
available to it.

This can be more convincingly demonstrated through case histories.

The first is that of a man who was born
on a poverty-stricken cotton ranch in Texas.
His girl-mother, only 16 when he was born, was
from a once-wealthy German family that had
been wiped out in some Prussian war. She had
married a restless, intellectual, itinerant
laborer of Norse descent, and together they
tried to develop a Texas farm. They lived in
a dugout -- a hole in the ground with a sod roof
over it. The mother, while carrying her baby,
hoed cotton all day long, barefooted under the
blazing sun. The total proceeds of this backbreaking labor for a whole year, as she computed it in advance, would be only about $65.
So, as she hoed, she said frantically, savagely to herself: "I've got to get out of here!
I'll DIE if I don't get out of here!"
A secondary prenatal event was her almost
getting bitten in the field one day by a huge
rattlesnake. The couple had a few chickens,
and the husband, on the lookout for hawks, had
his shotgun handy as he worked in the field
near her. He snatched up the old gun, blazed
away at the striking snake, blew its head off.
The muzzle of the gun, when he fired, was only
a few inches from his wife's stomach. The
blast, on the basis of modern findings, was
fully perceived by the unborn baby, by way of
a shock and sound-pressure wave passing
through the womb of the mother.

When the baby was born, the little 96pound mother had but scanty clothing for the
infant, the sod hut was draughty, and during a
January "blue norther", the temperature dropped
so low the baby nearly froze to death.

The evenings in the sod abode were spent
mostly with the intellectual father reading
aloud to the mother from the monumental political work of Henry George -- "Progress and Poverty". This book undertakes scientifically to
expose the fallacies of some conventional beliefs on economics. The father closed each
evening with the reiterated, i.e., duplicated,
comment: "You see, you can't believe much of
what you hear. You must use your own eyes,
read up-to-date scientific books, and always
find out what is really going on. One must be
wary about believing things people declare are
'eternal truths'. One must always investigate
and find out the facts."
Briefly, they did finally get out of the
cotton ranch. Let us take a look at the infant
grown into a young man.

When he was the same age as that of his
mother when she was carrying him and saying,
"I have to get out of here or die," the boy
had already become a licensed wireless operator. He sailed for years on dozens of ships,
big and small; the ships on which he sailed --
he preferred tramp freighters -- were, of course,
always getting out of somewhere. The boy had
subconsciously selected going to sea for two
reasons: Mainly, he went to sea because this
satisfied fully his urge to "get out" of places. He might have accomplished this by railroading instead -- and he almost did go railroading in his teens -- but the chromosomes and
the genes of his Viking ancestry said: "No, to
sea! That's the way to get out of places!"
He became an adventure fiction writer,
and wrote steadily on shipboard while the vessel was under way, but became idle, moody, and
restless while in any port -- even some of the
exotic ones, such as Shanghai, Helsinki, and
the like.

Before becoming a wireless operator, he'd
worked a little on farms, but found he hated
the sound of steel against the soil, such as
the clink of a hoe blade against a stone. He
had an extreme dislike of any sudden popping
noises, particularly the report of a gun. He
even picked a little cotton, but broke out in
a severe skin rash, felt ill, and earned only
about 20 cents a day at this work.

In accordance with his father's repeated
injunctions to beware of false and misleading
ideas, especially when dished out by glibtongued demagogues and preachers, he became
well-known as a "fellow you can't tell anything to, not even if it's for his own good".
Yet he could read most any up-to-date scientific book and get most of everything in it of
value in a few hours. "Find out the facts!"
was the subconscious command.

In his earlier years, the psycho-physical
shock of having been nearly frozen to death as
an infant in the sod hut remained dormant, but
later on this, too, became activated. It manifested itself -- at times of intense activity
and mental stress -- as an extreme sensitivity