Tuesday, December 31, 2013

The Negative Anima. A poem and a brief essay.


The Temptress

 

Eventually you’ll meet a woman

With your open arms

Who’ll threaten

To consume you in

Her apathetic charms.

 

Go Beyond It

Don’t accept her offer

Or her gift

of guilt

 

Lest you wilt

Like a flower

in her power

 

That is Not how Life is built.


-----------------------------------------------------------

This is a somewhat old journal entry. I have transcribed it from my journal with the intent of elucidating a frequently overlooked fact. If it appears vague, I beseech that the reader venture into it, if only to skim the surface. If all goes well, it shall plant a seed that will sprout within one's mind and fruits of wisdom that will be ripe to pick when the season has changed.

"Careful, almost fearful attention to detail is very important. It is what sets the man apart from the ape and the gentleman apart from the man.
The line-break of a poem is as noble as the zigzag in the original Stone that was found by a caveman on the day that anthropologists call the birth of the Human Human. To be able to set aside all 'practical' concerns and to become preoccupied with what sets one leaf apart from another is the mark of a man in touch with the Anima.
To condemn this as nonsense is the mark of a brutish man who is out of touch. Such a man needs to condemn attention to detail as 'unimportant' or 'crazy', seeking solace in some future goal rather than the glory of the Present. He will always second-guess himself until he is comfortable in her snare again. He will rationalise that it is only human to be so depressed. His own negative Anima will haunt him, and by Reason he will suppress the symptoms, yet likewise it is his patriarchal attitude that forbids the Constructive Anima, the inner Goddess in whose presence..."

dm.A.A.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Dream Journal Ninety-one.


I dreamt of Kristen Miao. We were dating. She was very seductive and fairly sweet and pleasant, with a tinge of sarcasm salting her personality.

A large part of the dream concerned the Marching Band. I saw again Jason Wolf, looking cocksure yet stripped of all vestiges of paternal authority, appearing as a boyish peer.

The plot seems redundant to mention at this point. A long stretch of the dream was set in an extensive video game that was not yet at the degree of dramatic intricacy that predated my internment at the hospital, yet was mounting. The game began on a playground.                  dm.A.A.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

I cast four stones into the well


I cast four stones into the well

In order to surmise

By what the echo of those stones would tell

Of all my self-directed lies.

 

And with each stone I cast inside

I did not hear a splatter

For in my self-appointed pride

I forgot there was no water.

 

And so it seemed as though I had

Not cast four stones at all

And I thought that I had gone mad

Standing beside the wall

 

For I could not recall

If there had been four stones

Or three

For when each stone would fall

It would make no tone

To me.

 

And of course each stone was designated

For a prior purpose

A theory as to whether

Or not I did deserve this.

 

And to what extent

Yet by the end I found

That no matter how many stones were spent

I could not see the ground.

 

And so I settled for the Sun

And I forgot the well

For it is so much fun

When you don’t answer to hell.

 
Dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Ninety.


I dreamt that Kresten and I wound up back at my house after deciding not to go to the Strip Club. Kresten had a habit of talking very loudly. It was late, but my father was still awake. The light was on in the Computer Room. I tried to tell Kresten to keep his voice down. He was rambunctuously talking about what would have happened had we ended up going. My father overheard. I later got the impression that he* was telling my mother about this, jocularly, as I headed upstairs to my room. They were either in the kitchen or the living-room, in the dark.

*My father.
                        dm.A.A.

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Facebook as the pinnacle of all modern evil.

We live a life of privilege here in the United States. Even those who have it worst have it better than those that have it best in some other countries. I will suspend all existential debates in the vein of Frankl about how suffering is relative to address this from a practical angle.

Joseph Campbell, the mythologist, asked throughour his career, "Is the machine going to rule us or are we going to use the machine to human purposes?" My friend Ali, a forty-five-year-old professor at the University of California in San Diego and a refugee and survivor of a fight for democratic freedom in Iraq whose success spared his life, said to me, with a tragic demeanour in his eyes, that the Americans established technology not "as a tool but as a goal". It used to be a tool, but it became a goal.

What are the symptoms of someone who has gone over to the Dark Side? Is it paranoia? Is it a strong Will to Power? Is it the stringent dogmatism of serving the ruling elite? All of these were characteristics of George Licas's Darth Vader in Star Wars. They are also qualities that brilliant thinkers in recent history such as Alan Watts, Aldous Huxley, and Gilbert Keith Chesterton, Jo Rowling and Marie-Louise von Franz had dilineated and even rendered artfully in writing.


The question therefore is screaming in our faces: If technology is excelling at an exponential pace, then why is Science Fiction lagging behind? If technology provides us with unprecedented power, why are we so disempowered? Suspending the subjective for a moment, let's observe the statistics. 1% of the United States population has an outrageous degree of the nation's wealth, surpassing byfar even the cynical expectations of most U.S. citizens who took a poll that asked them to estimate what wealth distribution in the United States was.

The prejudices that I have personally contracted from trying to conduct an intellectual discussion with others are numerous and seemingly equal in their villainy. I only hope that my frame of reference is so peculiar and limited that this is not endemic of an American Zeitgeist.

With every culture comes its own responsibilities for the individual. Where simpler societies relied heavily on language and communication, the advent of the computer in very recent history has created a culture that is the pinnacle of rugged individualism. Gone are the days when I learn my knowledge from a human source, except where I am so fortunate to stumble upon a minority of people who share this ideal with me. Neitzsche's view of the mechanical Universe, one that has for long been criticised and debunked by philosophers who followed him (with all due respect to his genius, on the part of this writer, at least) seems veritable now. In an increasingly simulated world where people live consciously in the program of the Computer, the world appears to the conscious mind to follow that program as well. Where people mistake the gregariousness of facebook for a sense of solidarity with mankind, for instance, there is a fundamental confusion. Facebook offers little more than participation mystique -- the projection of the contents of one's own mind onto the environment. Post-modernism makes this seem pardonable and inevitable, yet many people are well beyond post-modernism now; its prevalence is the result of its popularity, and, in turn, its popularity is the result of its prevalence. There is a formal logical fallacy which is called "appealing to mass opinion". Which perpetuates such a cycle. By "many people" I do not refer to a majority of people; I refer to the still substantial minority that has been educated, either by schooling or by self-teaching, if not another unknown method, to the point that they are equipped to challenge the dogmatism of the majority. Yet anti-intellectual still runs rampant, and in this Brave New World where the novelty of each new intellectual invention takes precedence over any consideration for History, we run a greater risk than ever before of falling into the hubris that had usurped the throne of judgement for the leading roles in the great tragedies since antiquity. The more that we feel ourselves to be reaching a kind of theoretical Point of Infallibility, in other words, the greater our danger of this limit actually being our own destruction. In truth, if we compare the mentality of a stringent rationalist, dogmatist, believer in Scientism (as distinct from the actual process and challenge of Science), and generally technological dependent* individual to that of a suicidal, self-destructive person, we should probably find, without need of any experimentation other than our own experience, how strikingly akin, if not identical, the two mindsets are on an individual level. Yet it is this individuality which is always obscured in the face of statistics and the "authority" of Science. Science, once a tool, hasalso become a goal and a way of life which is not wholly different at times from the barbarism of much older and now dead societies. It is no mistake that the Nazis are now looked down upon in many forms of formal debate as a redundant example of the evils that modern man is capable of perptrating with immense ingenuity but a fundamentally confused psyche. Yet they have become almost like an archetype now for the Mad Scientist. Mengele was probably a greater inspiration for N. Cortex and other more sinister modern mad scientist stereotypes than Victor Frankenstein was.
All signs point back to the individual psyche. It is too easy to say "Well, what do you expect ME to do about it?" Yet whoever feels "disempowered" in the face of the statistics and Science is dually confused.
The very definition of "me" in that question is what needs in turn to be questioned. This would appear absurd to someone with so little background in philosophy that he or she ignores the very prejudices that the philosophies of the Modern Age had engendered in everyone. Yet the consideration is fundamental and indispensable.
The Marxist way of thinking (which is not to be confused with the Communistic way that the ideals were implemented) is that there is no sense of individual identity except in relation to Others. This idea predates Marx and is apparent in schools of Buddhism. The individual cannot exist except in relation to others.
Upon examination of this idea, one is like a burglar who enters a museum and risks tripping a tangled web of alarms. If postulated in dogmatic groups of pseudo-intellectuals, one is confronted with the confused prejudices of individuals who want only to use the tools of Reason to perpetuate their own ignorance, which is a habit of abuse that seems justifiable in an age where technology is seen as a goal rather than a tool, going unnoticed by people who had forgotten the original necessity of discursive thought and what purpose the mind serves for the total human organism.
Some will say that the allegation engenders conformism. Yet the opposite is in fact true. The prejudice that many have in mind is none other than John Locke's original Tabula Rasa idea, which is arguably the fundamental principle of modern compulsory education (at least in the United States, from my experience) and therefore a deeply conditioned way of thinking which, when presented as a concept, seems to "make sense" because it so adequately describes the established paradigm with which the developing child is largely molded, at least in consciousness. This is another instance of the same cycle that I had mentioned hitherto. Thankfully, a reserve of psychic** potentialities remains and is probably at work with greater autonomy and authority than the conscious ego; it is our saving grace, arguably, at least according to the findings of Jung, which he admitted to be very minimal (though they probably surpass the conscious knowledge of the Unconscious that the average layman has by a collosal margin).
Tabula rasa, which may be likened to the Taoist idea of the Uncarved Block, represents the uneducated and unconditioned*** mind of the child as an "empty slate". It hasd been used probably also to justify a patriarchal attitude towards "primitive" societies, and it justified the concept of Manifest Destiny.
The basic evaluative attitude that people take to Tabula Rasa is that this "empty slate" is intrinsically worthless. Alan Watts says that the basic, fundamental fallacy in Western thought goes back to Aristotle, who said "Ex nihilo nihil fit". This is translated "out of nothing comes nothing". The prejudice is countered by Watts when he points out that in Eastern philosophy this is not so. He equates "nothing" and "nothingness" with yin in Chinese philosophy and "something" and "somethingness" with yang.
Where the Rationalists saw the "Tabula Rasa" as a problem to be remedied, the Taoists long before them had agreed that the Uncarved Block, the uncivilised mind, was ideal. Their way of thinking was in a sense a subversive way by which to get rid of conditioning from the very stringent Confucianist society which, from time to time, could not follow its own traditions.
Modern man can probably exist with both a Tabula Rasa that has been written upon and an Uncarved Block, meeting both ideals. In fact, he or she does. The conscious mind most often understands the World in terms of its cultural conditioning. The Unconscious, however, remains free. It is not uncorrupted, for what affects one aspect of the human psyche definitionally affects the whole psyche; it is present in a system of tremendous interdependence. Yet the psyche's knowledge is never effaced, even if it is obscured to consciousness. The Unconscious always Knows, and its autonomy is seen in dreams, Art, and neurotic behaviour.
 The presence and possibility of evil do not suggest that the Unconscious is intrinsically confused. This presumption oftentimes compels people to try to remedy it by consciousness. Jung's theory was that consciousness can operate in accord with the Unconscious and bring about a harmonious resolution. When this is not done, interference from the conscious program tends to occur. It is then that discord arises. This is experienced as a generally uncomfortable situation for self and others that can escalate into a tragic problem. Jung was not unprecedented in his thinking. Buddhists, Taoists, and other Eastern religions had pointed this danger out repeatedly. Although their cultures differ from ours substantially, and for that reason we must not try to resolve our problems by following their methods, the work of Watts in comparative philosophy helps us now to see more clearly the problems that plague the Western mind from the closest thing to an outsider's perspective that we as Westerners can fathom.
The issue of the computer becomes apparent again. The computer segregates people from one another. If Marx is correct in presuming that man is a social animal, this means that the mind of the individual naturally tends to function in relation to others. Our unconscious complexes, it has been shown, are oftentimes the result of conditioning from other people. We may try to escape those who have wronged us, yet they continue to reappear in dream and to affect our decisions. When this happens, we shrink away into a confined world where we do not make the "mistakes of the past" which may have been inevitable. If this is not the case, then we repeat mistakes in defiance of our own better judgement and the sometimes merited pleas of others. Yet going to either the extreme of agreeing to all forms of treatment or the extreme of rugged, narcissistic individualism is equally fatal. The computer enables us to do both at once. Social networking, because it takes place in virtual reality, is barely more real than Multiplayer Role-Playing Gaming. The only difference is that its consequences probably run more deeply and are more destructive. When we confuse the contents of our own minds for the World, we mistreat others. We may maintain this ruse for some time, yet that is only by a system of conformity. We perpetuate, thus, dogmatism in an attempt for the individual to feel secure. Yet the individual is not in actual relation with others. One is in relation to information which is always just barely obsolete. A message sent is already a description of the past. The attitude that we take towards the past must be grounded in the Present.
Statistics seem to unify us, but in fact they do nothing of the kind. By settling upon a uniform way of interpreting statistics, we feel that we understand each other. Yet this is one of the greatest threats to the individual in reality -- to both his or her conscious and Unconscious personality. An individual who becomes isolated from society can be very fortunate in this predicament, because it gives his or her self the ability to observe how the mind operates outside of the social framework. This empowers him or her to understand the unconditioned Unconscious and how it feels about the conditioning of the mind.
Statistics are chiefly understood as abstractions by the frontal lobe, in the left hemisphere. They are understood most often as numbers or geometric symbols. They are a branch of mathematics. The problem with statistics is that they are confused, absurdly, with a kind of "governing law". The ancient Newtonian theory of the Universe suggested that everything could be predicted according to mathematical principles. This probably contributed to Neitzsche's influential theory of the Mechanical Universe, which had been challenged and debunked by Alan Watts.
If an individual is made to feel that his or her behaviour is determined by the "estimated likelihood" of his or her success, then he or she in turn begins to behave in a fashion that corroborates this thinking. There is no need to feel that the past determines the Present in the fashion suggested by Newtonian physics. Yet to the degree that a large group of people hold this prejudice, to that degree the individual struggles immensely to live out of his or her Natural Impulse. The state enforces conformity by a Kafkaesque method wherein "unusual" behaviour merits investigation in an attempt to "protect the society". If the individual is disempowered in relation to his or her Soul, he or she can justify mistreatment of outliers by claiming ignorance. Yet to say that "the only thing that I know is that I do not know" is often a lie. Knowledge may be Unconscious, and to say that one "knows that one does not know" is in a fact a much more villainous lie than to assert that one Knows, even if one has no empirical evidence or rational way of formalising this Intuition.
The happiness of the individual in such a society becomes increasingly myopic and egotistical. It seems increasingly to depend upon the hope of eventual reward whilst ironically deriving its stimulation from immediate gratification.
Scientism is the other great threat to the individual. Scientism is distinct from Science. Science is the process by which an individual, usually with a great deal of wonder, open-mindedness, sensitivity, and clarity, investigates the World by a particular method. It is not the only method for such investigation.
Scientism begins with the presupposition that the Scientific Method is the only method of arriving at truth. Yet even individuals who do not have this prejudice run the risk of falling into the traps of Scientism, which can also be called Scientific Dogmatism.
The distinction between a scientist and a follower of Scientism is as profound as, if not directly analogous with shocking lucidity to, that which rests between the theologian and the clergyman. Where the theologian interprets the texts of religion according to his or her own experience, the clergyman perpetuates an orthodoxy. Gone in the eyes of the Sciencist is the wonder of the Scientist****. In its place is a stringent closed-mindedness that says that "this is how the world is" with ironically medieval disregard for the philosophical prejudices that make such a statement possible. Yet the Sciencist will presuppose that philosophy and religion are universal methods of enslavement or are otherwise inferior methods of liberation. This attitude is precisely what makes Science a method of enslavement in an alarming number of circumstances. It is so precisely when and because it regards itself as the solitary liberator. To say that "the world definitely is this way" stands in stark contrast to the goals shared by Science, Philosophy, Religion, and other methods of liberation. It is nothing short of the medieval attitude the Scientific Community condemns, the dogmatism that philosophers abhor, and the evil that Religion done well seeks to combat. Yet true freedom is particularly rare, apparently, in our modern civilisation.
It is precisely the sense of division that an individual perceives between these various schools of thinking that perpetuates that individual's disempowerment. And it is precisely the sense of division that exists between people in a society that in turn engenders this thinking in the socialised ego of the individual. The division perpetuates itself by the same vision cycle I have mentioned twice already through our abuse of technology.
"Well, what do you expect ME to do about it?"
This can now be rephrased: "Well, what can I do about it?"
This is not a question that I can answer for anyone other than myself. All that I know is that the human ego is born out of conditioning by Others. The individual's "innermost" thoughts, if understood verbaly, will tend to be the product of conversation. Conversation in itself is not bad, yet it can be abused, overdone, and excessively depended upon.
Jung made reference to the findings of some gentleman whose name escapes me in dilineating a distinction between Directed Thinking and Non-directed thinking. The former is a predominantly extraverted method of understanding the world predominantly through practical language. Its goal is adaptation to the society, and as such it is concerned with the ego and not the Unconscious. This is not to say that it is dispensable. It is to point out that it is in itself very limited. Non-directed thinking, conversely, is the product of the Unconscious, if it can even be called a "product".
Because the ego understands the world in terms of language, all troubling thoughts that can be verbalised must be acknowledged as being entirely dependent upon Others. To understand what lies underneath this web of influences and even to grasp these influences more deeply, one method is to adopt the view that the Unconscious must check up on the Conscious. This it seems to do inevitably, so the task of self-examination becomes the understanding of the Unconscious even in waking life. The Unconscious probably does not require a conscious scheme in order to act; the opposite is true: Consciousness requires the Unconscious. Non-directed thinking can be understood in waking life through the active play of imagination, attention paid to dreams, et cetera. This method makes possible the oftentimes arduous "Hero's Journey" that Joseph Campbell refers to. Only through understanding oneself can we understand the external world. Philosophy cannot be practiced by computers. No computer has yet been invented which can be a substitute for the human being. We like to think that such a thing could be possible. Yet our technology is a product of our consciousness. There may have been, from the outset, an unconscious impulse to conceive it, yet it will always be limited to what we can accomplish in our waking hours, it seems. The computer follows a rational pattern we can understand in turn by Computer Science. Calling this a "science" seems again, however, to suggest a vicious cycle. The computer is our invention; it is not something we can study as we study Outer Space unless we can acknowledge that Computer Science is a form of psychology. Because the observer is the observed, any statements made about the World are in a sense statements about the Self.

* Excessively dependent.
** This is not to be confused with mystical potentialities, which is the conventional way of using the term psychic. My use of the word here is more inclusive. It may include mystical elements, but, in this instance, I am making a general reference to the psyche of man: His or her conscious and unconscious functions.
*** I am referring to intentional conditioning as opposed to unintentional or informal conditioning.
**** I refer to the sort of Scientist who meets the description I had delineated. This is not a reference to the formal title of the profession, and my definition may even extend to individuals who do not practice science professionally.

dm.A.A.

My understanding of Neville and Malfoy.

This is not to be taken as a dogma. I read that Malfoy represents the frontal lobe. His name means "Bad Faith". Neville Longbottom represents the hind-brain, or the Medulla Oblongata.

When Draco Malfoy steals the Rembrall from Neville, it is the process of surrendering the faculties of Memory to the jurisdiction of the Frontal Lobe. This is an act of Bad Faith.

When Harry, the hero and the Divine Potter from alchemy, retrieves the Remembrall and returns it to Neville, it represents a re-assertion of the Intuitive Mind. When the Rational is in control of Memory, it abuses its power and is misled by its own natural shortcomings. It bullies the Intuitive mind in this instance. By retrieving the Remembrall, Harry restores this balance. Now the individual will only remember the important things when the unconscious, which speak through Intuition, WANTS a memory to be used. This prevents an abuse of power, as in our system of checks and balances in the United States government, although one should be cautious not to take this analogy too literally; the functioning of government and how we understand it is very different from this psychic function and crisis. The chief symptom of health is a mind that is clear and not crowded with troubling memories.*


* This is not to say that useful memories cannot be upsetting. It just means that one is no longer troubled by the excessive expenditure of attention on memories. Even a memory that was "good" upon conception can become troubling.

Dream Journal Eighty-nine.


The dream that I just emerged from is Too obvious to marginalise.

 

My family was preparing to move out of our old house. Before we left, I was absentmindedly perusing the exterior. I had a flashback of the house as it had been ‘before my father remodeled it.’ The patio wall had actually been flat. The barred window stood halfway down the walkway to the backyard, so that one had to go through the house in order to get to the yard and the other side of the bars.

In Actuality, this house must have, according to memory, had the same architecture throughout the history of my knowledge of it.

Prior to our departure, we all set foot outside, yet not together.

There was a sloping hill that ran down from our house perched at its peak.

There were people at its base doing some kind of ward work. I began to walk out, fell, and rolled down the hill. My family greeted me at the bottom. They had all ready been at the bottom, unless I am mistaken. I don’t think they followed me.

 

The house began to flood. This was unintended. I realized that I had left all of my possessions therein. We all had. I frantically complained. My parents were relatively unphased.

 

The dream changed…

 

There was one week left of school. There were only two days left, I think.

The Monday was reserved for people who had signed up for extra events for their classes. The extra credit from signing up was supposed to help me pass, but I didn’t count on it. I was going for fun.

I had agreed to an Athletic man (who looked like the head of the traditional Mexican dance club at Palomar) that I would make it to the all-day meet by 8:am sharp.

This was a stringent deadline; having volunteered portended bad consequences for the whole team if I refused.

I was also signed up to help the Speech and Debate team all day. I showed up on campus early. The campus looked like the community college downtown.

 

In one classroom, the young, tall Asian boy who was head of the team, resembling Vincent, drew my attention from the front of the room to the bleak whiteboard at the back. It had a very precise timeline for the tournament.

 

I realized that I was double-enrolled. I chose the athletics. I did not tell Vincent.

 
                                    dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Eighty-eight.


       The memories are hazy.

The dream was anxious, confused and possibly tragic. It was set predominantly in a familiar structure: A fortified shopping mall that was part theatre. This must have been the place I rescued the Maiden. Parts of it were new. A sterility pervaded passages that had a sterile demeanour like the corridors of labs in the University of Maryland[, where mother and father would take me as a child, because they worked there.].*

 

The events followed a new plot in a familiar location. Parts of it were on campus. A kind of game was ongoing betwixt myself and the other members of a kind of fraternity. This game was played with a kind of total, nihilistic cynicism as apart from Joy as the ash is apart from the Flame.

 

* Notes for Jennifer.

The modest mouse record appeared again. I listened to about three songs on it. One was notably funky and gregarious.

 

The record was known to several others. Most of them must have been from the fraternity/sorority.

 

The outcome of the game probably determined the fate of the record. Negotiations were being made for it. The ownership of the record would be determined by at least one and probably both of these factors.

 

I rode the train on a novel and tormented, tiring trip to an old, familiar place. Part of it was in Palomar. Yet I visited it for about an entire school year. The dream followed my visits. There were long stretches of daytime passing through a fictional San Marcos by Sprinter. San Marcos was a desert interrupted by periodical Oases and fortified cities.

 

dm.A.

The Uselessness and Danger of Memory.

The way that a memory is described lacks the uncontrollable quality particular to that memory's original conception.
In the absence of such a quality, the memory lacks Realness. The individual attempts to contact the Realness of the original appearance by manipulating the qualities of the Conscious Mind. This is called Analysis. It is an exersion of Will which may be a power drive. The psychosomatic effect of this rumination, if not its cause, is a kind of stress. Others will be affected by this. Not all will be conscious of it.
To disregard the Original Intuition by 'disproof' through Analysis is therefore oppressive and foolish.
To become excessively attached to the Memories is as misguided as to use the dead, discarded skin for the purposes one would require a Live Snake for. The only sensible compromise is to live in constant vigilance of the Original Intuition. For this reason, Memory is largely a handicap whose necessity is limited to the practical affairs of Our Current Society. It follows that we should and must limit our dependency upon it, rather than aggrandising it as I've been told the ancient Romans did.

dm.A.A.

Monday, December 23, 2013

Dream Journals Eighty-six and Eighty-seven. (Epilogue.)


Last night is difficult to remember.

            I  awokeclutching myself again,

my clenched fists at my

Sternumand my elbowsbent

inward.  The dream was

emotionally trying

            again.I had not

            fulfilled something

            important from the

            prior night.

 

                        Dm.A.A.

 
The dream was peculiar.I am not
even certain that I fell asleep. My
mind was a muddled stew whose
meat and potatoes were the
remembered images of the
episodes of the Legend of
Korra.A cynicism pervaded
it. For every moment of
glorious appreciation
that,in Waking Life,
my sister and I welcomed
these images with,the
Dreamer found
ruthless fault with those
same images. dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Eighty-five.


Last night’s dream,as anticipated, was comforting. It should have beenobvious, because for the first time in weeks I  went to bed with a sense of eagerness rather than dread or mere tiredness.

The imagery was significantly Worldly. I played in a Concert Band again.I played the trumpet. This enterprise was somehow formally  linked with a  theatre production wherein  I  was thankful that I did not have to perform, at the dreaded prospect I contemplated (unusually rationally, for a dream) of having had to perform thoroughly  unrehearsed.

The production was put on within  a very  large fortress most akin to a palace. It was somehow  or another related to our survival or safety, as though  each partcipant’s part were not merely for his success andnot really for anyone’s entertainment,but was in fact  of imperativeand dire urgency to the prosperity  of the group. It was as thogh we were in a castle preparing for a war that may or may not have struck, but vigilance Necessitated that we behave as though it would.

            My role involved affair deal of improvisation and perhaps a bit of work on my trumpet,and it had a tremendous  deal  of memorisation, as a pivotal  role.I can only recall, upon contemplating it in passing, immense gratitude and almost the maddening vertigo of someone who has just unwittingly survived what would have otherwise been a fatal and totally unexpected fall. I had an entirely Uncarved Block -an unadulterated tabula rasa – in regards to my part.

 

            It followed that the dream segued into a dramatic battle for the freedom of some Damsel in Distress.Set in the same compound,I found myself  a  fugitive and Undesirable in the midst of this fortress which felt  most  akin to a map from  Halo.

 

I had to pull off an exquisitely delicate yet straightforward procedure. How I had become an enemy  spy  I do not recall, either because the reason was not  divulged or  my  memory is unsubstantiated in regards to that transition.

Even nowwriting it, at any rate, I am inspired and  moved to chart the  design of this mission, for it was so precise and felt unmistakably like a Video Game.

 

An image from a prior dream resurfaces in  memory. One of many islands or images of the same Island, each the setting of  a  Monkey - Island-style puzzle that indicated quite plainly an underlyingand ineffable Mystery,had this setting. It recurred incalculable times (if not incalculable because of sheer number, then because of obscurity) :

A tunnel towards the North Shore of  the  Island, at the left foot of a hill with a monumentof central significance, wherein a small  train entered as though part of an amusement park ride.

 

            In this instance, the tunnel was without a train, but its interior resembled most an extended stairwell. The walls were the primer gray of a grim warehouse and it seemed to have  the  feel of one continuous, twisting  landing, labyrinthinebut not  Byzantine, direct but stark and foreboding in its deceptive simplicity, asthough being caught would be that much more intolerable and torturous a fate.

 

 

My ideal was not to be seen as I approached  and  traversed the narrow, rectangular corridor that circumvented the young  maidens  holding cell.

This was an ornately decorated  rectangular cubicle whose scrambled-egg golden fact, one of its elongated sides,  looked out over the entire courtyard through (either windows or) window - panes in the corridor that led past itsentrance.

The vibrant  house was most like the monk’s temple in Ripto’s Rage  wherein  Spyro confronts the Yeti; it may have been almost identical.

 

The holding cell was not the centerpiece of the compound, but it was probably a close second. My actions might have been very barely, if at all, visible from the Courtyard, probably by virtue of the narrowness of the windows,the thickness of the bars between them, or their opacity,if memory serves.

 

            I knew  that the  cards were stacked against me, asthough an intelligent agency had predicted(and even orchestrated, like level designers) my strike,

My advantage over being spotted owed to my ability to incapacitate what guards didspot me. They were almost uniformly young everymen who lookedsoewhat (but  very notably,and probably more than incidentally)like Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

 

I entered the chamber and met the young woman. The word ‘maiden’I had used previously is  not to be misleading; contrary to being  idealized or ‘old-fashioned’, she was covetably Realistic  and  Modern.

The interior looked as though it were the inside of the vault in Battalia ( in Ratchet and Clank) that one accesses by the Hacker device; Plain and almost homely, like a warehouse but with traces,unlike the Ratchet and  Clank level, of the quality  of a traditional Japanese  lodging.

 

We quickly orchestrated our escape. Whetheror not  it  had been successful may have never been resolved,My guess and hypothesis is that we managed to escape  the  structure, if notthe compound, but to what extent is a blind spot.

 

I almost recall repeating the infiltration several times,as though it had been,in fact,a video game. Several times, it seems, or at least Once, I had to run the long  way  around  after reaching the  North Wall of the rectangular building (to the right of the fromt door, from the girl’s position looking out). This was because, almost sinisterly, the girls guarding the perimeter seemed to know Exactly where I was and often even gave me the haunting impression of leading me on to ambush me by suddenly changing direction. I had to killthe girl when this happened.

 

This felt as though it were the most significant episode.Prior to it, probably, I had been on a  train.

I  was leaving a city most akin to Prague as I imagined it from reading Kafka. My interest in psychology as a potential career seemed to have been alluded to by the setting, for it was in ‘fictional’ Prague that the Contessa hypnotisedCarmelita Fox.

 

I remember the train being like the Coaster,but feeling  Behemoth.I was grateful that I had not left anything on the Platform, but I was terrified at the sheer prospect of it.

I was disturbed by  the realization that, had I realized such an emergency mere seconds after the doors shut, none would sympathise, and there would be nothing I could do by screaming for them  to  stopthe train for even a second. Even if it

were my Life’s Work, any such apparently  merely  material concern  would  at best only prompt  incrimination  from the driver that  I  could be so stupid  to  le ave such  a purportedly precious thing unat tended. The episode  seemed  to end with my wondering,  matter-of-factly and almost as Camus  wouldhave, what could be so important.

 

 
                                                dm.A.A.



 
[           I recall a dream I had wherein I would up within a home on my street. It was ineffably prophetic.Today, I realized that this was probably  Parham’s home.

 

                        10:43a. Nov. 27,2013

 
                                    dm.A.A.        ]

Dream Journal Eighty-four.


            The previous night’s dream was another dramatic departure for unprecedented psychological territory. The atmosphere could best be described in terms of the architecture.I found myself in a thoroughly metropolitan area most reminiscent of Downtown San Diego. The city was somewhere that I had never been to before or otherwise not in a long time. It hadthe impersonal, leviathan austerity of adult responsibility, most akin to the city that Faramir took Frodo , Sam, and Smeagol to, wherein Frodo confronts the Witch-King, ex cept  that its impersonal quality felt more accidental than intentional.

 

There were three peculiar situations I had to confront:

Each seemed to involve some Other telling me something disparaging about me.

I can remember at least two of these confrontations vividly. The first  was  between only me and  Kresten. He was accusing me of being a homosexual. The second confrontation was between me and either Dylan White or Joon Park, if not both incarnate in one person: The Berkeley  Asian Graduate with glasses, in

which  instance  Mochi would have  likely  been the third constituent, as though he were Andrew and Dylan and Joon were I and Kresten, respectively.

We met I whilst I  was part of a group of old acquaintances on the spectrum of friends at a tiny cafe.  The interior was in shape most apparently the taco restaurant that Kresten and I had gone to the preceding evening in Actuality. It felt by design as though it were the concession stand wherein Grimes dances while the clerk behind the counter swats a  rat  (therat being implied, off-camera) in adjacence to the  light  from the Pepsi machine that partly illumines and glows behind Grimes. It felt Accidentally as  though it were the ice-cream parlour thar  I visited with my family in Downtown when I was bvery young,wherein I looked with envy upon  a twenty- some thing  Korean couple. Its personal environment reminded me  of the  french  bakery that Charlie Brown exited, the butts of the baguette crunching off as they hit the  sides of the door way. It was also reminiscent of the café in the film version of ‘Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows wherein Harry,Hermione and Ron are ambushed by Death Eaters.

 

Dylan enteredtheshopthrough the transparent front door as I was all ready a part of a group of acquaintencesonthe spectrum of friends seated  about a table.

The cash register was tomy right,nearby,and several olf acquaintances from high school, close merely by virtue of incident and the fact  that  we had been classmates,  ratherthan by some profound moraleffort or shared emotional experience, occupied the seat to my left and the seat across from that one. I was facing the open doorway when Dylan entered. He promptly occupied the chair across from me.

 

            The weather outside must have been rambunctious. The time of day looks, at one moment in my memory, as though  it  were towards the end of mid-day. There was a cutting brightness of hue that mirrored Dylan’s derision.Yetother attempts to recall it evoke an evening with the same restless foreboding.

 

The light  overhead had a  vivid and condescending glow: ironically gentle white in the midst of a blue ceiling that, in memory, oscillates between the dark indigo of night and an austere  cerulean blue, with the tenacity of an  Authority.

 

Dylan*reprimanded me for what I hjad posted to facebook. He was in the guise of Joon now, and it is possible that  he had actually been Joon  consistently.With a  look  of total pity but an unforgiving incrimination anda total absence of understanding, he told me that everyone had seen what I wrote about Dana and that they were in unanimous in regarding this with deepest Shame and even apprehension.My  peers at the table seem to have corroboratedthis. I proceeded to follow the group about a college campus.

We were in a thoroughly civilized,  affluent and unapologetically imperfect Area. It was towards the end of the afternoon. The Sun was setting into a deep blue evening the likes of which Ihad only seen whilst visiting  Dylan  in  Actual Berkeley.

 

                                                dm.A.A.

 
*/Mochi/Joon.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Dream Journal Eighty-three.

Mochi and I were pirates last night,al – though we did no pirating. Rather, we
Traveled to another country, presumably by airplane, although I cannot remember the plane ride. Whatever vehicle we took, I can barely recall the trip.
It must have been by train, although we wound up at an air-port by the end of the dream . The ‘ot-hercountry’ that we visited must have been another state, yet in this case the states of America were no  longer one continuous country.

We met, over the course of  a  week (that supposedly began on late Saturday or Sunday) many people.
There was a giant shopping mall in the midst of a  city. We met Brianna and her friends.
Some of them were not real people. One in particular turned out to be her boyfriend.  We saw them snogging,and this depressed Mochi toward the end of our trip as we were leaving.

Prior to this, our group formed and we explored and investigated the mall leisurely. The weather was cooland brisk. It had the feeling of adult independence, in contrast to maternal care, and  so there was an existential angst in it.
All of the adults we made friends with had a sense of de tachment about them.

As Mochi and I left the mall, we headed towards the airport. This was like nothing I’d seen in dream in a long time.It felt less comfortablebut more Real than any prior recent dreams.
The airport was an enormous complexthat was  as  bustling and impersonal but terrifying  and beautiful by an almost unearnable degree  in  its own r ight.
Mochi and I overlooked our plans. He had an electronic calendar which sho wed each of the days of the monthas  Tarot cards.
He gave  me at first the impression that we would be staying for anothe r week. This  idea I liked because  I had surmised that the  airport wherein we were was the same that I had visited with my family long ago in my remote childhood. The tenacity and austerity of it was Godlike. I was not entirely sure that it was the same,but my hope that it was was greater than my doubt.
 I wanted nothing more than to investigate it, and even to live in it forever. I told Mochi that my family and I had lived in The midst of this airport for several weeks. This was the truth.
My memories were tender.
I was disappointed to find that we would not b e staying, however. Mochi said that I needed to find a  way  to  get home. I needed money. We had ag reed with our school, appare ntly, that we would  only begone for one  week.It was during the schoolyear.
I asked  Mochi when we had left. We calculated and he told  me that  it must have been on Sunday. I checked with him. It  made sense.
The Science Olympiad event had beenon Sat urday.

There was Some sort of souvenir that I brought home from Brianna and her friend s, but I cannot recall  it. It was of relevanceto Mochi as  well. I was incredulous and wanted to  stay behind.
Yet I ended up traveling home  with him.

   dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Eighty-two.


The  dream from the prior night  was a complex of episodes that were predominantly disturbing and unnerving. The most vivid of the images involved bees. I was confronted with a swarm of bees that were probably from the video ‘Doctor Bees’. I watched them operate in terrifyingly methodical unity.I watched their leaders, who were slightly larger. At one point, I was coated in them.

 
They operated according to a hive-mind. I could feel the tension of their paralyzing conformity  like the terror of schizophrenia in my frontal lobe. I thought of the clicking of cicadas. The claim that such are the sounds of ‘mating’ was the conviction that evoked the horror, even if that formal comparison – between my agony and the chirping of cicadas– may have not crossed my mind until now.            dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Eighty-one.


Mochi admitted to having done methamphetamine in last night’s dream.

 

The dream was set in large part in Palomar College. The campus had been extended to the proportions of an exceptionally complex city.A large episode of the dream was set in the theatre. I was involved in the production. This is not the first time that such a thing had occurred in dream. Yet it was the first time that I had performed with such temerity and an almost total absence of fear as to whether or not I remembered my lines. My memory was more confident, albeit still sketchy.

 

I was alarmed by how little intimidation I found within myself. On-stage, although I had presupposed that I  was playing an important role, I found that I had very few lines to deliver.At any rate,  I did not feel intimidated, beyond a limited degree, by the length of the play or how little I knewand remembered of my lines. It was as though I could improvise the lines and knew the play by heart, with painful ease.

 

Later, I met outside the fortified structure of the college castle. This may have been the same fortress at the beginning of this book. The dream took on the quality of a film as  night al most set in.I am reminded now most of the temptation to watch Drive’.

 

I met Bobby and Gabe.

There were many other people whom I did not know.

I was carrying a bottle of some sort. At one point, someone put some kind of vulgar and deplorable substance, like feces,*into the liquid,while I  was not looking. I was unnerved. This must have happened next to atree in the enclosed lawn that we were in. The lawn was enclosed  by a wall like the wall  enclosing a city.

 

I played in a band with Bobby and Gabe, I think.I also rode the train very frequently. The pervasive mood was hostile and restless angst,but it was not harsh; it felt like the sort of environment that did not mean to be impersonal. The details escape me.

 

                        dm.A.A.

 

* or dirt and cigarette butts.

 

 

Cont.

 

I was following Gabe, at one point, to arrive at some destination. I did not know what we were seeking.

 

I must have come into conflict,at one point, with a terrifying monster in the figure of a puzzle piece.

 

There was some task that I had to accomplish towards the end of the dream. I cannot remember what it was. I awoke in a state of agitation. I perpetually failed to attain this marginal goal.The task necessitated that I ride the train to some location. It was imparted upon me by a scholastic authority.
 

I visited, also, the attic of a house.The house was a museum. I had been there in a dream before.

 

The environments of the dream were sprawling.They were reminiscent of the long racing level in Crash Team Racing that was set in the mayan temple.

 

It is possible, however,that I am revisiting the memories of prior dreams.

 

There was a riotous uproar in the city. People were rushing and fleeing.

 

These events are recurring motifs and may be mere memories.*                   dm.A.

 

 

*The reason, possibly, that I regard these details with a minimal sense of importance may be that they are symbolic only of memories.

 

                                    dm.A.A.

 

However,they could be fragments of my Shadow.

Gabriel informed me, when I asked if Carl’s,Jr. was still hiring, that they[would] be hiring in  a week.’

 

I regret that the remaining peculiarities slip my mind by such a margin. I was in the band room and the Marching Band program again. I saw Connor and Shawn. I showed up periodically. I missed some rehearsals, but not the final show. I still remember the faces of my acquaintances as we stood in regiment,ready to take the field. I also recall haunting the Concert hall backstage after the final concert,and in the interim.I was in my attire,but my demeanour was uninvolved.

 

                                    dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Eighty.


Following the dream with the pool,the following night showed me a rude interruption to my pleasant image of  myself. I had risen to  power in the midst of great political upheaval as a tyrant.Idealistic, fanatical, and unrelenting in my piety, I conquered the People and advanced my cause towards the Objective Greater Good.’

 
                                    dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Seventy-eight.


Last night, I dreamt that I had to ask my friends for money. I neededtoeat at a pizza restaurant. My friends had become either miserly  or  vigilant and refused to give me money.

The restaurant refusedto provide me with anything, for they knew that I was broke.Somehow, the dream also involved an ostenatatiously Ornate theatre that I could gain  no admittance to for the same reason.The theatre seemed important.

 

Finally, at the end of my dream, I opened my wallet and found,therein, seven  or  thirteen collars in cash.

 

 

Much of the dream had taken place at night-time, ridingthe Sprinter. It is likely that  I  needed the money to pay  a  debt(for transit?)
                                                                        dm.A.

Dream Journal Seventy-seven.


The night prior to that dream, I dreamt a dramatic b ut unnerving and Kafkaesque adventure. The dream culminated on this street: Avenida Rorras.

The episodes leading up to this scene are muddled in memory. I recall fleeing from a place that must have been at once the island on which the girl was hunted and the Beach, at least in feeling.

 

Ultimately, I was fleeing someone in the midst of an invasion. The Jnited States government had declared tyranny upon the People. I had hitherto been at the high school, where a rally by my peers was silenced.

 

As I ran home, I encountered my father and sister. I began to climb up the wall of a white factory building that was architecturally almost identical to the stores that surrounded the Graziano’s plaza.

 

This building was at the peak of the slope that descends from the street of Avenida Venusto to the apartment complex whereinLiz,in Actual Life, lives. I airbendedto run up the side, as I had always wanted to defy gravity. My father, however, began to shout for me to get down.His shouting  interrupted my  ascent by throwing off my concentration.I had to fight to ignore it, and regained my footing on the roof.

 

From the roof, I could see the street. My sister was on the sidewalk.She was glaring ragefully and yelling. She wanted me to get down. I found her attitude unjust.

I entered Avenida Rorras from around the bend where it intersects with Venusto.I had voluntered for one of the houses on this street to be burnt down in protest: My house. I must have been surprised to find that it was my house, and only so.

 

It was late afternoon. The National Guard had arrived on my street. The had a scooter ready to set fire to the house. This scooter looked like something of thekind of technology one would find in the Legend of Korra.

It rode close to the ground. Its wheels were further apart than one’s legs  would be. One would sit within it and steer it by pushing one’s thumbs into the circular,red mandala-shaped radar screen it had in place of a handlebar.

The cops,who were also men of the Guard, dared me to ride in the unattended scooter. In fact, they masked their own insecurity with their sardonic teasing. I sat down in it anyway.The controls intimidated me at first. I triumphed,however.I got the machine to work.As though I were in Halo or Ratchet and Clank, I glided about the street in the hovercraft.The wheels had been(or became) hoverpads. I approached the cop cars and fired.Red gelatin,harmless in appearance, covered the vehicles.

 
                                                dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Seventy-six.


I dreamt a plethora of images. The dream culminated  in a  vivid scene. There stood, in the midst of a carnival,a tall tub of water,The carnival was in fact  probably not a carnival but a continuation  of the expansive dormitory compkex wherein, very long ago,I fled from and fought many foes. It had the dreary austerity of the Palomar College campus that had been  the setting of the dream , predominantly,before then.

 

The tub was, at any rate,a carnival atttraction. The atmosphere was one of my family paying visit to the Del  MarFaire shortly aftermybreak-upwith Ally.

 

I had this  dream the night I met Alexis.

 

            The pool was full of something like water but that might have been akin  to gelatin. The conscious impression, in retrospect, is that this did not post a mortal threat,but this is dubious.

 

People were lined up and crowded for an attraction.The pool was a game.A muscularm shortless man swam about insie. The cubic pool  was enclosed within a larger wooden structure  of the Same material: Vertical, wooden planks.The containing warehouse was open partly to the sky  and partly to the surroundings, yet its entire lower half appeared shut with the exceptionof a subtle path, austere and narrow as the entrance to a green building  housing a dumpster that ad mitted patrons to try the  challenge.

 

A diving board overlookedthe pool from several yards (I think six)above the water’s surface.The challenge was: Dive anf hit the water so gently that the muscle-man will not be  knocked over the edge of the pool.

 

Bystanders whohad presumably all ready gone stood  in a crowd about the pool. They were watching as my family ascended a lift to reach the jumping-off point.

 

As the lift,a wide platform, (wooden and rectangular,and presumably levitated by invisible ropes)pulled me up, I faced backwards, my back to the  wall  of the pool.

Looking down, I must have seen the Zen monks from Deer Park Monastery, an orthodox sect who had, prior to my steppingonto the platform, imparted upon me stern admonishment.

 

When I reached the top,my father had all ready gone. I watched my mother jump (neither my sister nor our dog had been With us). I did not get to jump by the end of the dream, if memory serves. I was too absorbed in watching my mother after she had jumped.

She landed crudely, yet I was not payingt attention to the muscle–man.She was treading water, not anxiously, but still frantically.

 
                                                dm.A.A.