Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Dreams and shit
I'm outdoors. The weather is dry and dusty. I'm with my friends. There is a platform and a noose. We decide it is a good idea to take turns to both simultaneously hang ourselves and slash our throats. The trick is to slash the voicebox without damaging the arteries on either side. I feel apprehensive, but peer-pressured into participating. A female friend goes first. She hangs herself, and another friend slashes her throat with a box cutter. He cuts an artery. She plays with her blood. My apprehension grows. Everyone else enjoys themselves. It's my turn.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Scripts of Dreams
I've learned a couple languages in my day, and one of the tired, common profundities I hear from teachers is that once you start dreaming in the target language, you're well on your way to mastering it. This little bit of wisdom is usually produced as some great revelation, that the students should consider themselves lucky should they ever experience such. Well, I've dreamed in Korean plenty of times, and it sounded just like how it sounds in real life: totally unintelligible. I like my English dreams just fine.
But... who is to say that I actually dream in English? If you were to ask me what language I dream in... actually, no--go ahead and ask me. Go on. It's okay. Your turn.
...
"Well, English, sort of."
...
"Oh, what do I mean by 'sort of'? I mean the accent is American... the letters are Roman... the words are English... but is the vocabulary English? That's the question."
...
"Two cats."
My brain renders dream-dialogue as English as best it can, but is a spoon a spoon in a dream? Can incorrect grammar suddenly become correct? I once dreamed that I was reading a poem, a great epic, composed by some long forgotten author. It went on and on and on and I was totally hooked. I remember instances in the dream where I realized I must be dreaming and, oh so briefly, wondered where all this poetry was coming from--was I coming up with it on the fly, myself? Tapping into some hidden memory? If I were conscious, could I recognize this poem as something decent? Or was it all just tripe, random bits of word fragments pieced together in a Frankenstein poem?
I managed to write down one of the stanzas, as I groggily regained consciousness. It made no sense grammatically, but it was pretty. Not the most amazing thing in the world, but hey: this is not the greatest poem in the world--that was lost in my dream--this is just a tribute.
I can probably answer the question as to whether the words themselves are random, meaningless garbage, by taking a different dream I had recently, this one about math. Bryan told me he was going to hike the John Muir Trail next week. He did not explicitly invite me, as is his habit, but I was considering inviting myself anyway, as is my habit. But he told me he would take just seven days to do it. Seven days? I quickly did my dream-math in my dream-head:
212 miles / 7 days = 14.1 miles per day
No, don't try to contradict me. It worked out to exactly 14.1 miles per day in my dream. I eventually bowed out of the running because even that perfectly reasonable amount would be too much for my knees to take safely, I thought. But it was a moot point: some guy (whose real relationship to me or Bryan I could only explain in my dream-English, but suffice to say he was some sort of camp director) showed up and turned the world all wonky and Bryan and I eventually ended up falling off a cliff and dying. So that settled that.
14.1 miles is obviously way off. It's less than half the real amount. But, when I think about it, it's pretty goddamn accurate! What was to stop my brain from reaching for 3176.8 miles per day and seeing that it was good? Nothing at all--my brain can do whatever the hell it wants to. Yet, I can't help but think the 14.1 figure was nothing more than randomness--a handy figure chosen because it looked okay, because some part of me wanted it to be the figure, and not because my brain even bothered attempting to do anything that might remotely resemble arithmetic.
Applying this assumption to language, I can only guess that that poem I read in my sleep was probably just a bunch of butchered phrases, smashed together in repetitive couplets, and my brain was providing all the interpreted emotional meaning. In which case... Perhaps those emotions, the impact of the reading, and not the writing at all, is the true script of dreams.
I'm going to bed now.
But... who is to say that I actually dream in English? If you were to ask me what language I dream in... actually, no--go ahead and ask me. Go on. It's okay. Your turn.
...
"Well, English, sort of."
...
"Oh, what do I mean by 'sort of'? I mean the accent is American... the letters are Roman... the words are English... but is the vocabulary English? That's the question."
...
"Two cats."
My brain renders dream-dialogue as English as best it can, but is a spoon a spoon in a dream? Can incorrect grammar suddenly become correct? I once dreamed that I was reading a poem, a great epic, composed by some long forgotten author. It went on and on and on and I was totally hooked. I remember instances in the dream where I realized I must be dreaming and, oh so briefly, wondered where all this poetry was coming from--was I coming up with it on the fly, myself? Tapping into some hidden memory? If I were conscious, could I recognize this poem as something decent? Or was it all just tripe, random bits of word fragments pieced together in a Frankenstein poem?
I managed to write down one of the stanzas, as I groggily regained consciousness. It made no sense grammatically, but it was pretty. Not the most amazing thing in the world, but hey: this is not the greatest poem in the world--that was lost in my dream--this is just a tribute.
I can probably answer the question as to whether the words themselves are random, meaningless garbage, by taking a different dream I had recently, this one about math. Bryan told me he was going to hike the John Muir Trail next week. He did not explicitly invite me, as is his habit, but I was considering inviting myself anyway, as is my habit. But he told me he would take just seven days to do it. Seven days? I quickly did my dream-math in my dream-head:
212 miles / 7 days = 14.1 miles per day
No, don't try to contradict me. It worked out to exactly 14.1 miles per day in my dream. I eventually bowed out of the running because even that perfectly reasonable amount would be too much for my knees to take safely, I thought. But it was a moot point: some guy (whose real relationship to me or Bryan I could only explain in my dream-English, but suffice to say he was some sort of camp director) showed up and turned the world all wonky and Bryan and I eventually ended up falling off a cliff and dying. So that settled that.
14.1 miles is obviously way off. It's less than half the real amount. But, when I think about it, it's pretty goddamn accurate! What was to stop my brain from reaching for 3176.8 miles per day and seeing that it was good? Nothing at all--my brain can do whatever the hell it wants to. Yet, I can't help but think the 14.1 figure was nothing more than randomness--a handy figure chosen because it looked okay, because some part of me wanted it to be the figure, and not because my brain even bothered attempting to do anything that might remotely resemble arithmetic.
Applying this assumption to language, I can only guess that that poem I read in my sleep was probably just a bunch of butchered phrases, smashed together in repetitive couplets, and my brain was providing all the interpreted emotional meaning. In which case... Perhaps those emotions, the impact of the reading, and not the writing at all, is the true script of dreams.
I'm going to bed now.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Speaking of post-apocalyptic, what about this swine flu? What if we have to run for the hills away from angry flu stricken mobs? Maybe this is the real beginning of 12 monkeys? That would be interesting. Maybe we should capture some spiders and stuff now so that we won't have to travel back in time later...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Post-Apocalyptic Ramblings
Trying to think of the first book/movie/story I knew of that incorporated a post-apocalypse scenerio. I know I was aware of it before I saw Terminator 2 in 1992, but I can't think of anything off the top of my head, let alone just beneath my scrotum. So rather than trying to think out loud and come up with what was first, I'm just going to list acouple of books/movies that I love that fall within this.
Terminator 1 and kind of 2. Fuck 3 except the last 15 minutes or so.
Jericho
Waterworld
The Postman - book & film
12 Monkeys
Mad Max (only seen second 1/2)
Night of the Living Dead/ Dawn of the Dead/ Land of the Dead
Episode of Twilight Zone where the guy survives a nuclear war in the library basement then breaks his glasses at the end. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_Enough_at_Last)
The Happening (acting could be better but I like the story)
(Really want to see Deep Impact)
Wall-E (except the last 10 minutes)
The Stand - book & film
(Not post-apocalyptic but falls under Survivalists)
LOST
Lord of the Flies
Anyway, just brain ramblings at work before I try to sleep for 2-3 hours.
Terminator 1 and kind of 2. Fuck 3 except the last 15 minutes or so.
Jericho
Waterworld
The Postman - book & film
12 Monkeys
Mad Max (only seen second 1/2)
Night of the Living Dead/ Dawn of the Dead/ Land of the Dead
Episode of Twilight Zone where the guy survives a nuclear war in the library basement then breaks his glasses at the end. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_Enough_at_Last)
The Happening (acting could be better but I like the story)
(Really want to see Deep Impact)
Wall-E (except the last 10 minutes)
The Stand - book & film
(Not post-apocalyptic but falls under Survivalists)
LOST
Lord of the Flies
Anyway, just brain ramblings at work before I try to sleep for 2-3 hours.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Yo
As the first person to post on this blog, I thought I should post something truly enlightening. Something worthy of worship and disdain alike. Something to fuel discourse, debate, and consideration for eons to come. So here goes:
Boobies.
Boobies.
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