A few things about the dream post:
I know these little vignettes aren't going to have the meaning for you that they do for me. Yes, I'm trying really hard to communicate and using every trick of florid writing that I know to beat them through into your brains. But in the end, no matter what color or font I use, even if I tap some kind of archetype or something, it's gettin down to the difference between you and me, because for me they are formulating and for you they are not.
Just going through the process of remembering these dreams is bringing them back to me with a crazily intense sense of personal iteriority that it's obvious you'll never be able to share. I'm thinking of the actual icky-sticky feeling of the butterfly's legs around my finger, I'm thinking of the confused panic of ducking down to elude the cops in a stolen vehicle in the parking lot across from Safeway. If instead I try for something more traditionally literary, describing some event or experience that "actually happened," we may be able to achieve a precious illusion of commonality--I really love that shit too, but it's degraded, it depends on so much on a tangled web of convention.
This isn't news to you? Maybe that's another thing that separates us--I've always been fairly capable of assuming that everyone else can read my mind and addicted to trying to know what and how you are thinking. Despite a half a century of solipcism, it's a novel concept for me to feel otherwise.
So when I share these dreams with you, maybe I'm not inviting you into them--you don't have to care. But I'm inviting you to try it yourself. This process is really quite magical--it doesn't matter what the sons of bitches mean, they ARE you.
Oh, and if we do meet some night, the password is "trillium."
I know these little vignettes aren't going to have the meaning for you that they do for me. Yes, I'm trying really hard to communicate and using every trick of florid writing that I know to beat them through into your brains. But in the end, no matter what color or font I use, even if I tap some kind of archetype or something, it's gettin down to the difference between you and me, because for me they are formulating and for you they are not.
Just going through the process of remembering these dreams is bringing them back to me with a crazily intense sense of personal iteriority that it's obvious you'll never be able to share. I'm thinking of the actual icky-sticky feeling of the butterfly's legs around my finger, I'm thinking of the confused panic of ducking down to elude the cops in a stolen vehicle in the parking lot across from Safeway. If instead I try for something more traditionally literary, describing some event or experience that "actually happened," we may be able to achieve a precious illusion of commonality--I really love that shit too, but it's degraded, it depends on so much on a tangled web of convention.
This isn't news to you? Maybe that's another thing that separates us--I've always been fairly capable of assuming that everyone else can read my mind and addicted to trying to know what and how you are thinking. Despite a half a century of solipcism, it's a novel concept for me to feel otherwise.
So when I share these dreams with you, maybe I'm not inviting you into them--you don't have to care. But I'm inviting you to try it yourself. This process is really quite magical--it doesn't matter what the sons of bitches mean, they ARE you.
Oh, and if we do meet some night, the password is "trillium."
No comments:
Post a Comment