Sunday, August 18, 2013

Non-sequential, Inconsequential, Dreams

My thoughts never process chronologically. Always these jumbled things I manage to edit before I get it out through whatever medium. For example this:

"ghetto shipping containers slow motion gang documentary poem def poetry rape cute girl crush younger version music cybermen farm trapped tremors bullets  path slowest runner I was going to die woke barely could move"
I was writing a personal tumblr post about a dream I had. I copied the completed text mostly verbatim here. This blog has been... dormant, I know. The thought that whatever happened to grooveshark lost most of the music I used depresses me. But I'm on tumblr often. I like it there.

I had a dream last night(this morning?). It started out like a whovian nightmare with me being trapped in a small house with possibly The Doctor, a companion and one other. It was like the movie tremors, but with cybermen replacing the burrowing worms. Which meant as little movement as possible to avoid vibrations. 
Somehow I escaped that and for some reason I ended up in a tiny ghetto with houses made from shipping containers. I've dreamed of seeing this place before but never dreamed of actually being there. I was in the company of someone who lived there. Somebody humble but respected by everyone there. I didn't visualize a face. I was introduced to someone who seemed to be the leader there. He was the spitting image of Gucci Mane. He was intimidating but I was welcomed. 

I was allowed to explore a bit. They were having a big cook up; I wouldn't call it a barbecue. When I returned to where everyone was I saw a girl I once found attractive, in real life, sitting by that leader. But she was younger, dangerously younger. I could tell from her light skin and outfit that she wasn't from there. I don't know what I was doing but I didn't notice those two left until I heard her scream. My heart sunk and I thought the worst. I thought she was being forced to do something she didn't want to. I ran in the direction of the scream. What I saw was a group of people dressed alike near the leader's container that I also, somehow, knew weren't from there. 
Adrenaline is often called a fight or flight hormone. It brought me to that point with the urge to fight but at that very moment it was sending a different signal to my body. Confused, I turned around to look at the others who chased behind me after the scream. They were all turning to run. Then I started to run too. 
I was the slowest of this pack. I saw more of the matching clothes gang pour through the cracks of the little community. I though I was going to die. I knew I was going to die. I knew I'd be picked off. I kept running. 
That's when everything slowed down. I was running in slow motion,  scared out of mind as I saw bullets slowly passed me, barely missing me. As we were exiting that lot that held the little community my focus slowly shifted. First to the bullet that passed right across my line of vision, from left to right. Then to the shooters in those same matching clothes in the distance to my left. I was going to die. Finally I focused ahead to Humble and Respected running for his own life. I kept running. 
That's when the narration started. Much like a documentary or tragic drama, a booming James Earl Jones sort of voice started to give what sounded like a eulogy of Humble and Respected. The voice mentioned his poetry and I immediately, silently envisioned one of his performances. He was going to die. We kept running. 
As my imagination stretched to its limit to create some sort of escape from this I got awoken by my mother. She was asking if I let the clothes rinse in the washing machine yesterday. I did. I was barely conscious enough to answer coherently though. She commented on how I fell asleep with my laptop in my lap. I didn't even feel it there. After she left I bent my knees and poured everything I could remember into a text post. Then I started to edit.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Inquiries About Finality

Moiriai Mimcry, Atropos Acts
Moirai Mimicry, Atropos Acts by Me
How do you know it's the end? How do you know when to end it? How can you tell when something has run its course? This kind of arbitration plagues me in so much of what I do. I've never initiated the dissolution of any relationship I've been in. If you read my blog you might be able to tell that most of my posts end somewhat disjointedly. I'm not a finisher. But pruning is necessary for any worthwhile growth, right? And I specify pruning, not the brutally destructive flames of burning bridges. How do you know when a branch is no longer beneficial to growth?

Having never learned these things I've developed a sort of hoarder mentality in aspects of my life. I sentimentally retain the useless wrappers from the new thing I buy. I keep facebook friends that I haven't spoken to in years and don't expect to in the distant future. I saved the page of that one thing you posted that I thought you were amazing for. I hold out hope that memorial refuse will be relevant again. I end up holding onto the memory of something that was never really there. I think I'm afraid of acknowledging that.

Maybe this sentimental debris is one of things holding me back. It's strangely paradoxical; admitting that I don't truly have something is preventing me from gaining something new. Then again, my sentimentality is what keeps this blog alive. I started it at a time when peers typically started blogs and abandoned them when that shine wears off, when the engagement desists and their wealth of brownnose peers get tired of giving them social proof. Deleting them or leaving the derelict memories in a corner of a server somewhere. But I keep it up when only a couple of people ever let me know they've even once looked forward to this edited thought vomit.

After I made the first draft of this post, having trouble finishing yet another thing, I came across some advice from Dr. John Gottman on the Four Horsmen of the Apocalypse [of a relationship]. It isn't the definitive guide to telling when something will end or how to end it but I think it's a good start. It's one step on that journey.

That step, however, is in the direction of another goal and another question. Once one knows how and when to end things, how do you begin?

What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. 
TS (Thomas Stearns) Eliot, "Four Quartets"

Now Playing 'Yes, We're Sinking' by eaneikciv

does anybody read these?

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Boy, Aeternus and Dreams

Ball 1

"Do not wait; the time will never be just right. Start where you stand, and work with whatever tools you may have at your command, and better tools will be found as you go along." 
Napoleon Hill

Puer Aeternus: The young god, eternal youth, a sickness. I may not fall under Jung's classification of the man who refuses to grow up but I see parallels which I don't like. Much like a horoscope, I cherry picked whatever I think applied to me. I too avoid doing what I need to unless I'm enthusiastic about it. There's also the the pride, depression and waiting for the world empathetically reform itself so I can pursue my dreams. My subconscious is wiser than my conscious psyche and probably already connected these and other dots.

I had a dream recently. I was hanging around on a street vaguely like one near my house with a few faceless but strangely familiar friends. It was late evening, getting dark but still with decent visibility. Like someone put some cheap UV40 sunglasses on the sky. It was without the orange and purple blends of the sunsets I know. I was being my usual wallflower self, hearing but not quite listening to the indecipherable dialogue. Generally content.

For whatever reason, I decided to take a walk back to the previously non existent house. As I walked, I remembered the house and the house became. It was her house. I realized we were hanging by her house. As I remembered who she was, I was in her house and there she was. The familiar house in retrospect was my own. I don't know why my subconscious gave it to her. It just did.

I liked her. Everything about her. But she wasn't actually anyone I knew. If you've watched 'A Scanner Darkly' you'd be familiar with the scramble suit which hid agents' identities but to us, the audience, was a rapidly changing and sometimes mixed image of  persons. That's who she was. Every woman I'm attracted to right now. All at the same time.

In my-her house there was Mix Girl's parents and a few more faceless friends by the kitchen. Probably eating and drinking. My subconscious considered it unimportant. I exchanged some mute words with her father for a little until he left with his wife to another section of the house. The room we were in was both living room and kitchen/dining room arranged side in the halves of one big rectangle. The living room was closer to the front door with chairs arranged all about. The sofa, which in waking reality is a love seat, faces the door. Now, I don't have 'game'. This would be very atypical of an introvert. But now me and Mix Girl were on that sofa and we were about to talk.

Noise outside interrupted us before we even began and I got up to investigate. The friends from the street had just carried someone who was having some type of breathing problems and laid her near the door. She was an old classmate. The only person I clearly recognized in the dream. She was already feeling better, luckily, and I stayed by her for a bit.

We talked a little about how our peers have been changing. Some of us are getting married, having kids and a few are about to add a 'Doctor' to their names. We built good rapport. But just as I seem to do with anyone I unintentionally start getting close to, I essentially run away. I wished her well and headed back inside.

The last thing I remember was stepping inside and seeing Mix Girl still sitting alone. The moment I stepped in,  my point of view switched to behind the sofa, seeing the back of her head and I saw myself, standing at the door, looking at her. Then I woke up.

The reason I managed to remember all this is because, as I woke up that morning and tried to recall the dream, one thing really struck me. I remembered the classmate I spoke to passed away 3 years ago. The images of the dream were more cemented when I retold it to my friend who always gets everything. I started to realize how strange it felt that when I try to explain something I previously said to her, she not only understood but had already given a thoughtful response. Strange in a good way of course.

I'm not sure what it means seeing my deceased friend but what I took from the rest of the dream was the need for me to not only take action, but to put some effort into it. I haven't seen many of my friends in a long time but it's within my power to change that. There are things that I probably thought would fall into place with time but I can't rely on that. The cure that Carl Jung suggested for the puer aeternus is work.
“Work is the one disagreeable word which no puer aeternus likes to hear, and Dr. Jung came to the conclusion that it was the right answer.”
My own mind has been telling me this and it's way past time I listened. I've taken steps. I'm still far from what I wanted but now I can see the next step in my path. I'm stepping out of a haze, I'm more determined to work than I have in as long as I can recall. For that I am happy

Now Playing: Frank Ocean - 'Wiseman'


work harder


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