proximoception (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
proximoception) wrote2013-01-09 02:51 am
proximoception) wrote2013-01-09 02:51 am
(no subject)
Woke after four hours - fuck - to some extent because my body's not yet adjusted to these hours, to some because I had some white wine which dehydrates me cruelly, partly because of other discomforts and most of all because of one of those dreams that are bad during but so fascinating to trace the meanings of after that you lie awake doing that. The me who authors dreams is pretty attractive to the me who has them because I'm not that good at talking to myself - I'm too aware such dialogues are scripted, are in every sense designs. But I'm less interested in lost, deep aspects of self and more in what I'm actually like to others, and strangely I can sometimes read bits of that from the dreams, which feel like they're constructed by that other I in a sort of Rawlsian enforced ignorance of who the dreamer would be, or maybe more accurately that there would actually be a dreamer. Not all that Rawlsian, since they refer only to my memories and concerns, since only to me could they ever be very meaningful, but starting from a standpoint of similarly principled disinterest.
And all the thoughts about dreams - these thoughts but then many others - got me thinking about the book I mentally replot every month or so, which as it usually does got me thinking about the second, very different, much sillier, much funner imaginary book I also rework. Neither of which is the crucial-feeling nonbook from so long ago that I avoid even thinking about. Though I feel presences from it diffusing into the less silly latterday one sometimes.
If only I could hire the dreammaker to actually write one of these.
Maybe I can sleep again after some food and painkillers.
And all the thoughts about dreams - these thoughts but then many others - got me thinking about the book I mentally replot every month or so, which as it usually does got me thinking about the second, very different, much sillier, much funner imaginary book I also rework. Neither of which is the crucial-feeling nonbook from so long ago that I avoid even thinking about. Though I feel presences from it diffusing into the less silly latterday one sometimes.
If only I could hire the dreammaker to actually write one of these.
Maybe I can sleep again after some food and painkillers.
no subject
When I do have dreams where the 'dream-I' seems to be ignorant of the 'waking-I', the unconscious narrative will usually turn into something fragmentary and random, as though the first-person hero of the drama were some supporting player one sees twice a year, through another's eyes, in brief glimpses--and on the basis of these glimpses alone, the dream invents a weird parody of one's waking personality, a grotesque. So, say, if you meet some person twice a year, the dream, instead of speculating on what that person might be (if you met them often and knew them well) will instead assume: what I know about this person is all that I can know about them, and what they know about me is everything they can know about me. I try to forget most of those dreams, since they're (largely) easy to make out, uninteresting, and totally untrustworthy. Although they do tell me what I'm actually like to others, they always ignore the fact that my knowledge of so-and-so is incomplete, or insufficient (or that the other's knowledge of me is based on a five-minute, or five-day encounter). That, in my waking life, most relations would become grotesque parodies of real-life if I only imagined, e.g., that I knew the girl behind the coffee shop counter as well as I knew my own sister. Dreams never recognize these conditions.