WEDNESDAY MORNING:
The dream was
Kafkaesque and dark, but it had a certain redemptive quality to it that Kafka
never did. It felt suffused with transcendence and the simple dignity of
survival, minus the civilized embarrassment at having to PLOT for survival.
I realize that it was my
selflessness that left me out of any sort of ordinary maturity. Whilst my peers
went about their business trying to secure themselves and their well-being at
any cost, devising false ethics out of unsympathetic competition and
narcissism, where was my focus?
It was on the hallways
of my high school, and how I was not ready to part with the rough contours of
those pillars that upheld the school roofs. I had no personal attachment to
them in the way that my close friends had had, as though it was I that had
vandalized the roofs by tossing peanut butter at them, having left my mark if
not in peanut butter crust then in a change of cafeteria policy. No: my
attachment was selfless and inspired from start to finish. Maturity for me
meant the freedom to devote more and more of my focus to these simple things:
buildings, plants, and vague spirits for which education had only a ghost of a
name.
It is for this reason
that I first gained the courage to check my messages from St**** only after
having past through the High School Campus, passing the most recent staff with
a sense of entitlement after having taken a battle wound when I slipped on the
edge of the Performing Arts building, trying to pass over it gracefully and
failing by an excess of trust.
Someone should really
do something about that wretched building.
My dream contained
within it a detail that to Conscious Thought is a revelation: that one of the
heavily barricaded cloisters in which I would hide from my traitorous fellows was
in fact directly adjacent to one of the classrooms of the fictional campus that
R.B.H.S. shared with Palomar College. It had all ways resembled a lab,
especially one belonging to a Mad Scientist from a Video Game (esp. Quartz
Quadrant from Sonic CD or the final boss fight in Crash Bandicoot: Warped.). I
can understand that I found shelter here. After all: the game that I had
infiltrated was simply an other of a number of games I had initiated in
childhood, back in the Bernardo Point Apartments. Those were days I knew myself
and how to persevere, to lurk in my own private integrity before it was
condemned by peers, elders, and even my younger friends. And those were days I
knew how to INITIATE A GAME. It follows logically that a great deal of the
struggle I am involved in is of my own device. But that does not pardon those
kids who could not play by my rules. The Game is too sacred at this point to
pardon that.
Why do I play it at
night? Because it is only under the auspices of the Game that I MYSELF created
that I can travel under cover of Darkness.
My meeting on Sunday
with my Soul Sister imbibed me with the confidence I need to interpret my OWN
dreams. She disproved Shannon’s claim that Dreams come from a realm that Art
does not. It is nothing I will hold against Shannon, arrogant as he may be; he
is simply more sensory, and that much has all ways been clear. Now I employ my
artistic storytelling impulses towards their proper ends: The PROPER conveyance
of this Dream Imagery to its consummation in Wisdom. And the past has no shadow
upon me, even as I listen to the songs of my own composition that were condemned
as “sad” when I simply conceived of them as being “passionate”.
After all: why ought I NOT
to act as my own interpreter? Sure: even Jung regretted that he had no Jung to
interpret his own dreams. So be it; Jung not only regretted his dependency upon
others, but he by the same taken aggrandized his own superior authority,
lamenting that his fellows could not live up to his God-given genius.
It is time that I live
up to my OWN genius. Some of my fellows still require guidance; their problems
are too severe for them to handle alone, on the ego’s terms. But what my
dialogue with my Soul Sister evidences is that I have transcended that need,
and I can trust myself in these Independent Times. And I will not allow my good
will to my ungrateful neighbours to compel me to level with them as a beast of
burden for their neuroses.
I hear sirens outside.
They are frequent nowadays. The usually triggering sounds again sound like
childlike wails of joy and of excitement. In that order.
What follows is my
interpretation: that I had to escape from adulthood upon recognition of the
corruptness of its institutions. I fled to childhood, but my enemies followed.
Tony betrayed me by asking about my childhood. He tried to reconstruct it, and
so my childhood became confined in semblance to that shifting building that I
explored with Andrew. But it was only a temporary holding cell. I escaped. I
fled along the familiar channels. I first found refuge in the Museum, but it
was taken over by sabotage: Romantic Disappointment. So I escaped and found the
Collossal Jungle Gym. This represented the Fifth Chakra, a powerful one for me.
All my prospects seemed to think that I was “good at talking”, and I had all
ways enjoyed Speech and Debate. I have come a long way since the Notorious Stuttering
Days in Sixth Grade.
That number: six. It
triggers me as I listen to the reversed tracks on my most recent and personally
successful album. Both are suggestive of the Devil. Tony personified the
concept of the Devil by first ascribing it to K. and then to discrediting it,
planting in my mind the fear of someone “worse than” K. The strawman works
wonders as all ways.
Most of my fears are
but petty wounds from Greater Battles. Those Battles are over. That I must
remember. And “worse than” is not the Absolute term that Tony makes it out to
be; it is very relative, and since it does not NEED to be an Absolute it
retains its Universal Integrity. Such is the paradox: that if every thing goes
then Every Voice Matters. And that brings me back to the Throat:
By avenue of this
Career in the Language Game I crossed the extraverted bridge into a ship that
set sail through the Dark Night of the Soul. This is surely a pirate’s ship. I
remember how my Soul Sister was a pirate in a past life. I remember that I told
her about how I used to play at piracy in Day Care. The games all ways began on
a Jungle Gym. How had I forgotten? I suppose I never did; I was simply
apathetic. Adulthood is a mistake. Simply ignoring the Unconscious does not
make it go away. I am ready to listen now to my Inner Child. It is the very
prerequisite to Love.
This ship brought me
into day-light. The mutiny was unsuccessful. I used my heroes as Guiding Stars.
Lynch was one. So was Linklater. And most recently Gilligan. I only wonder if
Vince ever visited Gilligan’s Island. But I shed my facetiousness.
The ship did crash
ultimately. This was the event from The Curse of Monkey Island. In that game it
precluded the mutiny. In my dream, the mutiny came first.
I landed on the Island
of Blame, and like Prospero I had to make my way back. I had to play the game
by its own rules and limitations. Hence it was the part most obviously modeled
after Monkey Island. I struggled, only managing to acquire a shovel and a few
trinkets of dubious value and utility. But I managed to make it far enough
Inland to take part in the Three-Dimensional War Game. So the Life of Action
overtook the Life of Thought, Blame was escaped, and I ascended to the top of
the Battle Field, not unlike Jak does so many times or Spyro does. I must have
glided out, whether by glider or by my own wings. But it is possible that I
teleported or otherwise ascended on a Flying Sea Vessel. Still: it’s possible
that ship was from too long ago to have been so. I don’t remember how I escaped
the Island. But perhaps each day I find myself needing to do so. Did I ever
escape in fact? I hope so. Otherwise I know not what lies beyond this Island. A
Sea of Misery, as for Prospero? I hope not. And I hope that hope is not vanity.
This much is certain:
The Game of Blame is where the Rules Come From. The Life Beyond this Isle HAS
no rules. And so perhaps my own integrity is enough. Perhaps this simply means
that I must fight my final battle without help. So be it. I am still innocent.
That much I know.
I think I understand
now.
There is a Tesseract
within the Island of Blame. It transports me to High School. I play the game of
High School and it becomes the Reality. This must be what it means to travel
Four-Dimensionally: to have the smaller microcosm of the “Illusion” subsume the
“Reality” of one’s most recent game and to BECOME REALITY, whilst the other
game is seen to have only been a game all along, and it becomes Illusory in a
four-dimensionally relative way, shrinking into the confines of the New Game.
So it was that I
transitioned from High School back into my barracks. And I used the secret
passage in the barracks (for all ways there is one in a lab without a boss, and
even sometimes in one with one.) to make my way back to my childhood. There it
was night, and the mutineers were looking for me still. So I played along. It
was my game, after all. I could beat them.
But how shall I, now?
Dm.A.A.
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