"A dream is a redistribution of the signifying elements of everyday existence under the impact of desire. " (V. Burgin, as archived by E. Bougis)
"Desire is the redistribution of the signifying elements of nocturnal existence under the impact of dreams." (S. Freud, as confabulated by E. Bougis)
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tales from Lynchdom…
A couple recent Lynch moments.
A few days ago when I got home from the gym, I stopped by a local (grand)mom-and-(grand)pop shop to buy tuna and a sports drink. I had to wait a minute behind another customer and his son (?). Their backs were turned to me but I sensed they were shuffling their hands around a shelf. They said nothing. They turned to leave the shop and came at me with bright red daggers of fingers. Oh. They had merely bought sweetened, dyed strips of squid for a snack. Turns out the father was mute/deaf and he and his son were bickering over how many squid strips they had bought (or could still buy). As they were bickering, in their audibly halcyon way, a middle school girl sidled up to them to join the debate, even though I don't think she spoke sign language. Realize, of course, that whatever fluency the father and son had in sign language was gone with the wind, unraveled by the strips of squid seizing their stammering fingers. I was tired from my workout but also rushing to get a shower to go to work, so the whole thing felt like a time-lapse film.
And the other…
I forgot while writing this post and multitasking on the Internet.
[UPDATED:
A few days ago when I got home from the gym, I stopped by a local (grand)mom-and-(grand)pop shop to buy tuna and a sports drink. I had to wait a minute behind another customer and his son (?). Their backs were turned to me but I sensed they were shuffling their hands around a shelf. They said nothing. They turned to leave the shop and came at me with bright red daggers of fingers. Oh. They had merely bought sweetened, dyed strips of squid for a snack. Turns out the father was mute/deaf and he and his son were bickering over how many squid strips they had bought (or could still buy). As they were bickering, in their audibly halcyon way, a middle school girl sidled up to them to join the debate, even though I don't think she spoke sign language. Realize, of course, that whatever fluency the father and son had in sign language was gone with the wind, unraveled by the strips of squid seizing their stammering fingers. I was tired from my workout but also rushing to get a shower to go to work, so the whole thing felt like a time-lapse film.
And the other…
I forgot while writing this post and multitasking on the Internet.
[UPDATED:
I remembered my Lynch moment. Tuesday at my cram school, I got there early to sub for someone, so I was surrounded by students I don't normally see. I was making copies with the machine near the bathroom door and one boy, maybe five years old, came closer, pointing at the bathroom. "It's changed," he chirped. "It was pink, now it's not." Another teacher corrected him that nothing had changed. "It's changed, it's not pink now." As my copies extruded sheet by sheet, I had an insight. I reached over and flicked the light switch on. The floor tiles took on a dull patina of pink. He and the even smaller girl beside him waddled closer to examine the change. "Yes, it's pink, see!" Then I flicked the light off and they giggled. I stepped away and they proceeded to play with the switch for themselves.
This may seem more like a Norman Rockwell than a David Lynch moment, but the reason it struck me is because I imagined myself morphing into a child as I had my epiphany about the boy's perception of bygone pink. And in my reduced state, he swelled to an incredible intellect, like a boyish wizard. And when he pointed into the bathroom again, through the drapes wafting in the doorway, the lights flicked on and off, each second of light revealing Twin Peaks Bob hopping in a crouched ball of sadistic glee.]
But I can tell you about a dream I had a couple nights ago.
I was being extorted by a mobster into pulling a hit on his main rival. I was staked out in a building under construction and was given a long-range bolt gun (a super nail gun, really). The weird part is that my shooting position was across the hallway from the mobster's office, perhaps so he could keep an eye on me and be sure I "done de t'ing right." I think the building was the mobster's new headquarters, and it was already partially in use even while still being built, so all kinds of people were popping in on me. I tried to escape once or twice, I think to go save my family, but I was always brought back to finish the hit. I remember a few close-up views of my targets through the scope and although I killed the rival early on, I had to keep fighting his henchmen as they were firing back at me. This led to a sequence of me shooting numerous nails into a few video-game-esque henchmen on the roof a couple blocks away. At one point they shot a grappling hook cable onto the girder on my (third) floor. I killed the henchmen, unhooked the grappling hook, ran downstairs and refastened it on the girder on the first floor so as to mislead them of my location when other henchmen rushed into the building. My plan was to ambush them from the stairwell as they looked for me (they knew the grappling hook had been fired accurately by the henchmen I later killed). I woke up thinking, "But wouldn't they just rush up the staircase and outgun me?" I realized, grimly, that I'd just have to take them on with my bolt gun.
This may seem more like a Norman Rockwell than a David Lynch moment, but the reason it struck me is because I imagined myself morphing into a child as I had my epiphany about the boy's perception of bygone pink. And in my reduced state, he swelled to an incredible intellect, like a boyish wizard. And when he pointed into the bathroom again, through the drapes wafting in the doorway, the lights flicked on and off, each second of light revealing Twin Peaks Bob hopping in a crouched ball of sadistic glee.]
But I can tell you about a dream I had a couple nights ago.
I was being extorted by a mobster into pulling a hit on his main rival. I was staked out in a building under construction and was given a long-range bolt gun (a super nail gun, really). The weird part is that my shooting position was across the hallway from the mobster's office, perhaps so he could keep an eye on me and be sure I "done de t'ing right." I think the building was the mobster's new headquarters, and it was already partially in use even while still being built, so all kinds of people were popping in on me. I tried to escape once or twice, I think to go save my family, but I was always brought back to finish the hit. I remember a few close-up views of my targets through the scope and although I killed the rival early on, I had to keep fighting his henchmen as they were firing back at me. This led to a sequence of me shooting numerous nails into a few video-game-esque henchmen on the roof a couple blocks away. At one point they shot a grappling hook cable onto the girder on my (third) floor. I killed the henchmen, unhooked the grappling hook, ran downstairs and refastened it on the girder on the first floor so as to mislead them of my location when other henchmen rushed into the building. My plan was to ambush them from the stairwell as they looked for me (they knew the grappling hook had been fired accurately by the henchmen I later killed). I woke up thinking, "But wouldn't they just rush up the staircase and outgun me?" I realized, grimly, that I'd just have to take them on with my bolt gun.
Labels:
Dreams,
Funny and Random,
Memoirs and Friends,
Movies
Friday, October 8, 2010
Gym regimen - October 2010
A3 workout: Back and hamstrings: 45 mins
91kg, BMI 25.5
Warmup: stretching, Ski machine, step-ups
Leg curl: 15, 10, 8 @ 30kg, 35kg, 45kg
Stiff-leg deadlift: 12, 9, 6 @ 65kg, 75kg, 85kg
Lever pulldown: 12, 9, 6 @ 70kg, 90kg, 110kg
Lever bench row: 12/6, 8/6, 6/6 @ 65kg, 85kg, 100kg
[I did 6 reps of hammer-grip rows after the underhand-grip rows. The hammer-grip handles are closer together, which works the middle back more, while the underhand handles are wider so as to work the outer back (latissimus dorsi).]
One-arm dumbbell bench row: 12, 8, 6 @ 18kg, 22kg, 27kg
Ski machine: 3 mins, 3 mins, 3 mins
+ + +
I love working my back! I also felt more secure on the stiff-leg deadlifts. Tonight I will work traps, tris, and delts and maaaaay go paintballing this weekend. But I'm just so stingy. The outing to Tainan tomorrow is enough "fun time" for me for one weekend. I feel fairly confident in saying that the last of Taiwan's "really hot days" have passed until next June or so. Still gets muggy and bright but for the most part we are now in that great, blustery, cool season called fall.
I've been sleeping more lately, admittedly, with the help of some great afternoon naps. I had a very elaborate but rapidly foggier and foggier dream last night. It was set in a modern metropolis, like New York in Manhattan, but the first sequence of action took place in a Greenwich Village/Oxford burrough that was decidedly creepy and mysteriously run down. The opening "sequence" had me and two other blokes going into a cellar apartment of a man who seemingly dealt in rare books. Once in his lair, though, his Gollum-like perversity became disturbingly clear. For not only was an oily, bedraggled blend of Hannibal Lecter and Count Olaf in frumpy, dusty clothes, but he also seemed to have three rows of teeth, one lower and two upper. His inner teeth were fairly normal, although rather "English", but his outer row of teeth was oversized and gap-toothed all the way around. I gathered that he wore them like dentures. Why? Well, it seems his fetish was to trade books not for money but for bites of people's flesh. 
At first he set upon the younger fellow with us and bit a chunk from his cheek, I believe. The young man wept but quickly pulled himself together without losing much blood. Then, once we got the biter to settle down and talk shop, things seemed fairly stable, until suddenly he bit into my older friend's right sleeve and tore off a small chunk of flesh and fabric. The older friend was used to this kind of treatment, so he reacted with a painful chuckle (or was it a chuckling groan of pain?). Right away he grabbed a pair of scissors and wrapped a wad of cotton around the front so as to clean out and mend the wound in his arm. The biter could barely contain himself while my wounded older friend tried once more to discuss what books they might obtain on this visit. Finally, the biter hovered in my direction, working his jaws like a dog chewing an invisible bone. He wanted to bite my fingers, so I had the awkward challenge of both fending him off with my hands and not presenting them as gifts to be bitten. This is when I got a close look at his teeth. Very upsetting.
Teeth have been a vivid trope for me ever since reading Anna Karenin as a senior in high school.
I made it out with my hands intact and I think we got a few books. It was a breezy, slightly moist day in "Oxfordhattan."
Suddenly the action had me in uptown and a high bird's eye view allowed me to dream of a giant alien spacecraft crashing into the city. It wasn't totally devastating, since the chip came in almost parallel and slid along the tops of many skyscrapers before it came to a halt. On top of the spaceship was huge statue of what was apparently their leader. He looked like a (blue) mix of Stitch, The Brain, and Al Capone. Once the debris and some of the frenzy had settled down, I somehow found myself on top of the ship as it opened and met the blue Stitch Capone. He looked exactly like the statue, so much so that even when he spoke he retained the half-open smirk in the corner of his mouth. 
After that things get hazy. The ship didn't belong to a race or tribe of aliens but seems to have been manned by aliens of all kinds who served under the Stitch Capone like a team of smugglers or rock & roll space bandits. I think it became increasingly evident that the bandits were on earth to harvest human tissue, perhaps to sell on the interstellar market ("blackhole market"?). The last parts of the dream were a mix of City of God and District 9, as far as the gritty, impoverished surroundings went, and the wobbly, edgy camera work went.
91kg, BMI 25.5
Warmup: stretching, Ski machine, step-ups
Leg curl: 15, 10, 8 @ 30kg, 35kg, 45kg
Stiff-leg deadlift: 12, 9, 6 @ 65kg, 75kg, 85kg
Lever pulldown: 12, 9, 6 @ 70kg, 90kg, 110kg
Lever bench row: 12/6, 8/6, 6/6 @ 65kg, 85kg, 100kg
[I did 6 reps of hammer-grip rows after the underhand-grip rows. The hammer-grip handles are closer together, which works the middle back more, while the underhand handles are wider so as to work the outer back (latissimus dorsi).]
One-arm dumbbell bench row: 12, 8, 6 @ 18kg, 22kg, 27kg
Ski machine: 3 mins, 3 mins, 3 mins
I love working my back! I also felt more secure on the stiff-leg deadlifts. Tonight I will work traps, tris, and delts and maaaaay go paintballing this weekend. But I'm just so stingy. The outing to Tainan tomorrow is enough "fun time" for me for one weekend. I feel fairly confident in saying that the last of Taiwan's "really hot days" have passed until next June or so. Still gets muggy and bright but for the most part we are now in that great, blustery, cool season called fall.
I've been sleeping more lately, admittedly, with the help of some great afternoon naps. I had a very elaborate but rapidly foggier and foggier dream last night. It was set in a modern metropolis, like New York in Manhattan, but the first sequence of action took place in a Greenwich Village/Oxford burrough that was decidedly creepy and mysteriously run down. The opening "sequence" had me and two other blokes going into a cellar apartment of a man who seemingly dealt in rare books. Once in his lair, though, his Gollum-like perversity became disturbingly clear. For not only was an oily, bedraggled blend of Hannibal Lecter and Count Olaf in frumpy, dusty clothes, but he also seemed to have three rows of teeth, one lower and two upper. His inner teeth were fairly normal, although rather "English", but his outer row of teeth was oversized and gap-toothed all the way around. I gathered that he wore them like dentures. Why? Well, it seems his fetish was to trade books not for money but for bites of people's flesh. 
At first he set upon the younger fellow with us and bit a chunk from his cheek, I believe. The young man wept but quickly pulled himself together without losing much blood. Then, once we got the biter to settle down and talk shop, things seemed fairly stable, until suddenly he bit into my older friend's right sleeve and tore off a small chunk of flesh and fabric. The older friend was used to this kind of treatment, so he reacted with a painful chuckle (or was it a chuckling groan of pain?). Right away he grabbed a pair of scissors and wrapped a wad of cotton around the front so as to clean out and mend the wound in his arm. The biter could barely contain himself while my wounded older friend tried once more to discuss what books they might obtain on this visit. Finally, the biter hovered in my direction, working his jaws like a dog chewing an invisible bone. He wanted to bite my fingers, so I had the awkward challenge of both fending him off with my hands and not presenting them as gifts to be bitten. This is when I got a close look at his teeth. Very upsetting. Teeth have been a vivid trope for me ever since reading Anna Karenin as a senior in high school.
I made it out with my hands intact and I think we got a few books. It was a breezy, slightly moist day in "Oxfordhattan."
Suddenly the action had me in uptown and a high bird's eye view allowed me to dream of a giant alien spacecraft crashing into the city. It wasn't totally devastating, since the chip came in almost parallel and slid along the tops of many skyscrapers before it came to a halt. On top of the spaceship was huge statue of what was apparently their leader. He looked like a (blue) mix of Stitch, The Brain, and Al Capone. Once the debris and some of the frenzy had settled down, I somehow found myself on top of the ship as it opened and met the blue Stitch Capone. He looked exactly like the statue, so much so that even when he spoke he retained the half-open smirk in the corner of his mouth. 
After that things get hazy. The ship didn't belong to a race or tribe of aliens but seems to have been manned by aliens of all kinds who served under the Stitch Capone like a team of smugglers or rock & roll space bandits. I think it became increasingly evident that the bandits were on earth to harvest human tissue, perhaps to sell on the interstellar market ("blackhole market"?). The last parts of the dream were a mix of City of God and District 9, as far as the gritty, impoverished surroundings went, and the wobbly, edgy camera work went.
Labels:
Bodybuilding,
Dreams,
Exercise,
Memoirs and Friends
Monday, October 4, 2010
Gym regimen - October 2010
A1: Quads and Biceps (MONDAY): 45 mins
91kg, BMI 25.5
Warmup: Calisthenics, stretching, leg extensions, curls, squats
Leg extension: 10, 10, 10 @ 30kg, 35kg, 40kg
Decline leg press: 10, 8, 6 @ 130kg, 150kg, 170kg
Squat: 12, 9, 6 @ 70kg, 80kg, 90kg
EZ Barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 40kg, 42.5kg, 45kg
Incline dumbbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 10kg, 14kg, 18kg
Hammer barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 25kg, 35kg, 45kg
Cooldown: Ski machine, crunches, Russian twists, Hindu squats, stretching
+ + +
I was tired of hour-long workouts, so I've switched back to a 4-day A-routine and cut each exercise down to three sets. Plus, my Wednesday has become busy enough that's it's too much of a hassle to stick to a 3-day routine on Monday, Wednesday, Friday/Saturday. So it's actually more economical to do shorter workouts on more days: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, with a whole weekend of rest.
I had a great pump on the incline curls and hammer-grip curls. The squat felt nice too, but I'll have to research about how to protect my lower back. It wasn't sore from my last workout, but I can definitely "feel it" on my last set of squats. The key, I think, is that I must keep my back more erect than forward. It was nice to finish quickly enough that I had time to do some ab work.
Lately, I've been having some interesting, relatively vivid dreams. We've also got a "cold" snap in Taiwan these days, which is a delight. This past weekend I made a concerted effort to sleep a lot, and probably slept at least 24 hours in two days. I find it's very easy to get sick during season changes in Taiwan, and all my teaching hours do put a strain on my system, as always. I just can't afford to get an otorhinopharyngeal infection like I've had a plenty of times in the past. With age comes weakness, no doubt, but also wisdom to counter that weakness. I'm actually healthier on a regular basis these days than I have been in years prior. Finally in a good groove, knowing my limits, giving more time to rest. Adequate sleep makes such a difference. God help me to sacrifice my night-owlish fears (or pride?).
91kg, BMI 25.5
Warmup: Calisthenics, stretching, leg extensions, curls, squats
Leg extension: 10, 10, 10 @ 30kg, 35kg, 40kg
Decline leg press: 10, 8, 6 @ 130kg, 150kg, 170kg
Squat: 12, 9, 6 @ 70kg, 80kg, 90kg
EZ Barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 40kg, 42.5kg, 45kg
Incline dumbbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 10kg, 14kg, 18kg
Hammer barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 25kg, 35kg, 45kg
Cooldown: Ski machine, crunches, Russian twists, Hindu squats, stretching
I was tired of hour-long workouts, so I've switched back to a 4-day A-routine and cut each exercise down to three sets. Plus, my Wednesday has become busy enough that's it's too much of a hassle to stick to a 3-day routine on Monday, Wednesday, Friday/Saturday. So it's actually more economical to do shorter workouts on more days: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, with a whole weekend of rest.
I had a great pump on the incline curls and hammer-grip curls. The squat felt nice too, but I'll have to research about how to protect my lower back. It wasn't sore from my last workout, but I can definitely "feel it" on my last set of squats. The key, I think, is that I must keep my back more erect than forward. It was nice to finish quickly enough that I had time to do some ab work.
Lately, I've been having some interesting, relatively vivid dreams. We've also got a "cold" snap in Taiwan these days, which is a delight. This past weekend I made a concerted effort to sleep a lot, and probably slept at least 24 hours in two days. I find it's very easy to get sick during season changes in Taiwan, and all my teaching hours do put a strain on my system, as always. I just can't afford to get an otorhinopharyngeal infection like I've had a plenty of times in the past. With age comes weakness, no doubt, but also wisdom to counter that weakness. I'm actually healthier on a regular basis these days than I have been in years prior. Finally in a good groove, knowing my limits, giving more time to rest. Adequate sleep makes such a difference. God help me to sacrifice my night-owlish fears (or pride?).
Labels:
Bodybuilding,
Dreams,
Exercise,
Memoirs and Friends,
Teaching in Taiwan
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Gym regimen - September 2010
13 September 2010
Off-week
90kg, BMI 25
0. Warmup: Exercise bike, stretching, barbell flyes, lat pulldowns, curls, squats
1. Dumbbell flyes (per hand): 10, 8, 6 @ 15–27kg
2. Lat pulldowns: 16, 13, 10 @ 50–70kg
3. Hammer-grip curls (H-bar): 10, 8, 6 @ 25–40kg
4. Delt flyes (per hand): 10, 8, 6 @ 15–18kg
5. Tricep pulldowns: 10, 10, 8 @ 25–35kg
6. Incline bench press: 10, 8, 6 @ 50–70kg
7. Decline leg press: 16, 13, 10 @ 150–180kg
8. Dumbbell stiff-leg deadlifts (per hand): 15, 12, 10 @ 18–27kg
9. Ab wheel crunches (kneeling): 15, 15, 15
+++
I suppose I didn't take the Sun Moon Lake swim as easily as I could have. I did 3.3kg in about an hour, trailing a safety floatie-thing ("noodle" in Chinese), with my sandals and shirt tied to it, plus gads of people in front of me as I made my way. 27,300+ people are supposed to have crossed the lake. One man is still missing. Prayers for him and his family! After the swim I had to stand around for two hours waiting for my group to gather, during which time I prayed the Rosary. Then, after lunch, we had to walk an hour up the hilly road to get to our vehicle. A very tiring day. But well worth it. Had a number of dreamlike moments throughout the day but have not had dreams the past two or three nights.
Tonight a guy at Central, with whom I now happen to work, said I "look big" and "must have some power." I admitted, "I do… have a decent amount of power." He nodded and then guessed my weight at 90kg. Bingo. It was unusual, since I never thought I would "look big" to anyone, much less myself. But I am seeing some gains and I was actually taken aback last week when I saw some photos my girlfriend had taken of me during my Friday workout. I guess my large, tall frame is finally coming into play.
Stay tuned.
Off-week
90kg, BMI 25
0. Warmup: Exercise bike, stretching, barbell flyes, lat pulldowns, curls, squats
1. Dumbbell flyes (per hand): 10, 8, 6 @ 15–27kg 2. Lat pulldowns: 16, 13, 10 @ 50–70kg
3. Hammer-grip curls (H-bar): 10, 8, 6 @ 25–40kg
4. Delt flyes (per hand): 10, 8, 6 @ 15–18kg
5. Tricep pulldowns: 10, 10, 8 @ 25–35kg
6. Incline bench press: 10, 8, 6 @ 50–70kg
7. Decline leg press: 16, 13, 10 @ 150–180kg
8. Dumbbell stiff-leg deadlifts (per hand): 15, 12, 10 @ 18–27kg
9. Ab wheel crunches (kneeling): 15, 15, 15
I suppose I didn't take the Sun Moon Lake swim as easily as I could have. I did 3.3kg in about an hour, trailing a safety floatie-thing ("noodle" in Chinese), with my sandals and shirt tied to it, plus gads of people in front of me as I made my way. 27,300+ people are supposed to have crossed the lake. One man is still missing. Prayers for him and his family! After the swim I had to stand around for two hours waiting for my group to gather, during which time I prayed the Rosary. Then, after lunch, we had to walk an hour up the hilly road to get to our vehicle. A very tiring day. But well worth it. Had a number of dreamlike moments throughout the day but have not had dreams the past two or three nights.
Tonight a guy at Central, with whom I now happen to work, said I "look big" and "must have some power." I admitted, "I do… have a decent amount of power." He nodded and then guessed my weight at 90kg. Bingo. It was unusual, since I never thought I would "look big" to anyone, much less myself. But I am seeing some gains and I was actually taken aback last week when I saw some photos my girlfriend had taken of me during my Friday workout. I guess my large, tall frame is finally coming into play.
Stay tuned.
Labels:
Bodybuilding,
Dreams,
Exercise,
Memoirs and Friends
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Gym regimen - September 2010
8 September, 2010 (W)
Ur-Workout: 50-60 mins
91kg, BMI 25.5
0. Warmup: Stretching, leg extensions, leg curls, lat pulldowns, bench press
1. Bench press: 12, 10, 8, 6 @ 60–77.5kg
[Arched my back and tucked my scapulae.]
2. Cable pulldowns: 12, 10, 8 @ 50kg, 65kg, 75kg
[I love how I could feel these work the whole length of my lats. I could have done 80kg my last set but treated this workout as a semi-recovery day.]
2a. Lever bench row: ø
3. EZ Bar military press: 10, 8, 6 @ 35-55kg
[This was a fortuitous gain in weight. I was a bit hazy on my last set, so I made the bar 55kg instead of 50kg, which I only realized when I put the bar down. Hoorah!]
4. Barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 35–45kg
[Very tight form on these and I didn't feel tired like last workout. I curled higher, up to my chin for the one-count squeeze.]
5. Elbows-out extension: 10, 8, 6 @ 14–20kg (per hand)
6. Decline leg press: 15, 12, 10 @ 140kg, 155kg, 170kg
7. Stiff-leg deadlifts: 12, 10, 10 @ 50–65kg
[I was cautious with these, since I haven't done them since late July. It's great to feel my hamstrings sore today. I was getting much stronger on the leg curl machine, but these deadlifts are a superior exercise.]
8. Standing calf raise: ø
+++
I'm trying to keep the workout short, so I will do abs on at least two off-days. I had a close call on the bench but I'm okay. It was so muggy. I'm annoyed the free weight room is so open to blinding sunlight. And it has no fans!! Yesterday was just "one of those days." A near-injury at the gym, arriving late to a tutee, getting caught in heavy rain just as I left the tutee to go teach at a cram school, and then getting a complete flat on the way home.
On the upside, I have been dreaming more lately. The dream journal seems to be helping. Full-time classes begin next week and tomorrow morning I have a meeting at the school in question, so, boys and girls, summer is completely over! Time to get to up early everyday. I did well Tuesday and this morning, so I know I can do it. I'm the type of person who is actually less productive when I have more free time. I need the pressure of a full schedule to motivate me to use my time more efficiently. And I definitely need something to do every morning, otherwise I become a night owl, which is its own curse in disguise.
Stay tuned.
Ur-Workout: 50-60 mins
91kg, BMI 25.5
0. Warmup: Stretching, leg extensions, leg curls, lat pulldowns, bench press
1. Bench press: 12, 10, 8, 6 @ 60–77.5kg
[Arched my back and tucked my scapulae.]
2. Cable pulldowns: 12, 10, 8 @ 50kg, 65kg, 75kg
[I love how I could feel these work the whole length of my lats. I could have done 80kg my last set but treated this workout as a semi-recovery day.]
2a. Lever bench row: ø
3. EZ Bar military press: 10, 8, 6 @ 35-55kg
[This was a fortuitous gain in weight. I was a bit hazy on my last set, so I made the bar 55kg instead of 50kg, which I only realized when I put the bar down. Hoorah!]
4. Barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 35–45kg
[Very tight form on these and I didn't feel tired like last workout. I curled higher, up to my chin for the one-count squeeze.]
5. Elbows-out extension: 10, 8, 6 @ 14–20kg (per hand)
6. Decline leg press: 15, 12, 10 @ 140kg, 155kg, 170kg
7. Stiff-leg deadlifts: 12, 10, 10 @ 50–65kg
[I was cautious with these, since I haven't done them since late July. It's great to feel my hamstrings sore today. I was getting much stronger on the leg curl machine, but these deadlifts are a superior exercise.]
8. Standing calf raise: ø
I'm trying to keep the workout short, so I will do abs on at least two off-days. I had a close call on the bench but I'm okay. It was so muggy. I'm annoyed the free weight room is so open to blinding sunlight. And it has no fans!! Yesterday was just "one of those days." A near-injury at the gym, arriving late to a tutee, getting caught in heavy rain just as I left the tutee to go teach at a cram school, and then getting a complete flat on the way home.
On the upside, I have been dreaming more lately. The dream journal seems to be helping. Full-time classes begin next week and tomorrow morning I have a meeting at the school in question, so, boys and girls, summer is completely over! Time to get to up early everyday. I did well Tuesday and this morning, so I know I can do it. I'm the type of person who is actually less productive when I have more free time. I need the pressure of a full schedule to motivate me to use my time more efficiently. And I definitely need something to do every morning, otherwise I become a night owl, which is its own curse in disguise.
Stay tuned.
Labels:
Athletics,
Bodybuilding,
Dreams,
Memoirs and Friends
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Dreamlike...
I opened the door of the refrigerator and removed two eggs from the upper tray in the door. It left two, hollow, sentry eyes in the two-tiered array of 24 egg rings. I entered the kitchen, cracked the eggs into a tin, tossed the shells, scratched my chin, and went back for one more egg. I opened the door of the refrigerator and saw 24 eggs in the tray. I stopped breathing. I tried to look away but was frozen. I hope I dream of eggs.
Labels:
Dreams,
Memoirs and Friends
Monday, September 6, 2010
Dreamlike…
On the way back from the theater, I stopped at a convenient store to pay a small parking ticket I'd gotten that night. As I was leaving, a man with crutches, a club foot and a very thick left sole walked in to buy something. I left and noticed his keys were still in the ignition of his scooter. Who would steal a crippled man's scooter, with its cane-holder and widened floorboard? I drove farther up the same road and stopped to get a drink before I reached home. As I parked I saw a man sitting on a bench: his left foot was injured, wrapped in a bandage, and he had a pair of crutches resting by his side.
+ + +
Last night I was walking to get some steamed dumplings. It was after hours, so the sidewalk was dimply lit and nearly all the shops were closed. It was late. Virtually no one else was on the streets. I passed a clothing store and immediately noticed someone standing at my left. A pale figure. It was a mannequin. I paused and turned on my heel to behold her. She was naked and armless, her hips turned toward the street, her head back towards the store, towards me. I leaned in––we were half a mannequin's length apart––and gazed at her eyes: a dusky purple eye liner filled the eye lids. I walked on to eat my dumplings. On the way back, I stopped before her, much closer now, and gazed into her face. "I want to dream this mannequin tonight," I said, out loud, to any invisible mannequins that might have been there. I let her face fill my field of vision, and felt fear. She was unblinking, despite her feeble nudity and solitude. "I want to dream this mannequin tonight." I did not dream of her.
Last night I was walking to get some steamed dumplings. It was after hours, so the sidewalk was dimply lit and nearly all the shops were closed. It was late. Virtually no one else was on the streets. I passed a clothing store and immediately noticed someone standing at my left. A pale figure. It was a mannequin. I paused and turned on my heel to behold her. She was naked and armless, her hips turned toward the street, her head back towards the store, towards me. I leaned in––we were half a mannequin's length apart––and gazed at her eyes: a dusky purple eye liner filled the eye lids. I walked on to eat my dumplings. On the way back, I stopped before her, much closer now, and gazed into her face. "I want to dream this mannequin tonight," I said, out loud, to any invisible mannequins that might have been there. I let her face fill my field of vision, and felt fear. She was unblinking, despite her feeble nudity and solitude. "I want to dream this mannequin tonight." I did not dream of her.
Labels:
Dreams,
Memoirs and Friends
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Gym regimen - September 2010
4 September, 2010
Ur-Workout: 60+ mins
90kg, BMI 25
0. Warmup: Stretching
1. Bench press: 12, 10, 8, 6 @ 60–75kg
[I held myself back from putting up too much weight. I'm really serious about giving my chest time to develop and catch up with the rest of my physique. I refuse to be in a rush. Interestingly, since I had to work my tris more the last couple weeks to let my strained left pec recover, I can really feel how much a role my tris and lats play in my bench. From what I have read, this is a very good thing, since most lifters place so much emphasis on a "celebrity chest" (with flyes, chest compressions, exercises with truncated range of motion and high pump, etc.) that they actually fail to develop the elements of a strong bench press. I definitely felt more confident and stronger on the bench. 6 reps at 75kg felt very good.]
2. Pullups: 13, 14, 15 @ bodyweight
[I used wrist straps on my last set.]
2a. Lever bench row: ø
3. Barbell military press: 12, 8, 6 @ 35-45kg
[These felt pretty good. I think I'll shoot for 35kg, 45kg, 50kg next time. I raised the front end of a bench up with some planks of wood, so as to keep my hips more tucked under me and curb that unpleasant bowing of my spine.]
4. Barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 35–45kg
[Felt very good. Getting stronger! Patience, Humility, Confidence…]
5. Supine French press: 10, 8, 6 @ 30–40kg
[Very good form on these. Less intense weight than my previous workout, but I'd rather work my triceps up to real strength slowly with better form than yank my way through a few extra kilograms. I will swap them out for elbows-out tricep extensions next time.]
6. Leg extensions: 18, 15, 12 @ 40kg, 50kg, 55kg
[These just aren't as satisfying as the decline leg press, so I'll go back to that beloved exercise next time. In fact, maybe I should do both by dropping the weight on my leg extensions and moving them to my first exercise as a warmup.]
7. Leg curl: 16, 13, 10 @ 35-45kg
[Felt some strain in my right knee on my second set, so I might drop the weight a bit for these on my next workout.]
8. Standing calf raise: ø
9. Kneeling rope pulldown (20 + 10 obliques): 30, 30, 30 @ 35kg, 40kg, 40kg
[I used wrist straps on my last set, since these were just killing my forearms and thus making me lose good form.]
Cooldown: Ski machine and stretching
+++
I had a long nap this afternoon so, while I was a bit sluggish getting out the door and hadn't had lunch or much of a dinner before working out, I felt good tonight. There were very few people at the gym, which might have been due to the light rain, but is probably more due to the fact it was Saturday night. I make a special effort to workout the same time in the future, since not having to deal with other people makes everything smoother and faster.
Speaking of naps, I had a dream this afternoon. I rarely remember my dreams but lately I've been having dreams more frequently. Despite having seen it three times in the theater, I think part of the reason I can't sink my teeth into Inception, like so many other people seem to be doing, is because I can't get into its depiction of "the dream world." On the one hand, its portrayal of dream consciousness just seems fake to me, too smooth, not erratic or creepy or soothing enough––in a word, all too consciously designed. On the other hand, insofar as the characters are supposed to be professional dreamers––masters of lucid dreaming––, while Inception's depiction of that kind of dreaming may be spot-on, it's a kind of dreaming so far removed from my own experience as to seem boring and phony. I had a friend in high school who got very good at lucid dreaming; once, he told me, he flew to school one night to look for a lost textbook of his and found it in the same spot the next day. Props! As for me, I've only had a couple recurring dreams and my total dream catalogue would probably not amount to more than a few hours of "cutting room floor footage" glued together for people with lots of peyote in their bloodstreams.
DiCaprio was in Shutter Island, which came out six months or so before Inception and Shutter Island had the most stunning and believable depiction of dreams I have ever seen. Scorcese nailed what dreams are like: innocuous objects suddenly loom large, backgrounds shift without warning, disturbing symbolic motifs pop out of nowhere, and such events are nearly always taken in stride. I also recently got sucked into "the Primer universe." Primer is a 2004 independent film, by former software engineer and first-time director Shane Carruth, which not only has received high critical acclaim but is also a cult classic. Carruth made the film for US$7000 in five weeks (!) and only hired one professional actor for it, but it really is one of the best SF films ever made, and certainly a contender for the best "time travel" film in history. It is immensely complex, since by the end of the film, we are trying to navigate multiple non-linear timelines, so I ended up watching Primer three times in a row (whilst intermittently reading online "explanations" of it) one day last week. (Hey, it's only 77 minutes.) Primer deals with dreams only circumstantially––apparently, a certain kind of shared dreaming is an effect of the technology used by the characters––but it added to my recent interest in dreaming as such.
It also dawns on me now that there are some long-standing contributing factors to my perplexed, "bystander's" interest in dreams. For one thing, the opening chapter of my favorite book, Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, is a dream sequence. Second, one of my all-time favorite films is The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which, while it focuses on memories, does show how dreams give body to our memories and memories give birth to our dreams. Third, another of my top-favorite films is Blade Runner, which is the film adaptation of Philip K. Dick's novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? And then there's my recent return to Twin Peaks, a TV show that simultaneously intrigued and baffled me as a kid. I believe dreams are very important to David Lynch, since his work is so heavily driven by dreams (for better or worse!). Indeed, Special Agent Cooper's famous dream in "the Red Room" is the (ahem) linchpin to the progress of the series, as he claims he knows who the killer is based on some revelations in the dream which need only be deciphered to crack the case. I suppose it also says something that I've got a "Dreams" category in my blog, which surprised me when I re-realized that fact while writing this post, even though there are only two (now three) posts in that category. I generally find sleep boring since it's unproductive and, more important, I have such a scrawny dreamscape. Yet, dreams seem interesting enough to me that I've made a category for them. Frankly, I wish I enjoyed sleep more, which I think I would if I dreamt more. So….
So I have once again taken up the gauntlet and have begun a dream journal. I've once more taken up trying to read Harary and Weintraub's Lucid Dreams in 30 Days. (Incidentally, this video is a subtly hilarious saga of one man's journey to achieve lucid dreaming in 30 days with the same book!) Keeping a dream journal is one of the core steps in developing higher dream consciousness, since, allegedly, it says to your brain that you are serious about accessing your dreams. Another step is to develop the waking habit of frequently asking (and checking, by various means), "Am I awake right now?" so that, while dreaming, you may reflexively ask the same question and thereby trigger semi-lucid awareness in the dream. Another technique is to write an "A" (for "Awake") on your hand or arm, etc., so that, in the dream, you may recall seeing the "A" and thus wake yourself in the dream. Another technique is to note "dreamlike incidents" during the day, so that you will be more keen at saying to yourself, "This feels like a dream," which may allow you to say the same thing in a dream.
I won't record my recent dreams here, but I do want to record a few dreamlike experiences I've recently had.
1) A few weeks ago at Mass, I was sitting in a pew towards the back of the church. I glanced ahead and seated about twelve pews ahead of me, to my left, was an older woman holding a very large stuffed bear. I couldn't believe my eyes. I visibly squirmed in my seat and stared at her for several moments just to confirm what I was seeing. It was truly unheimlich. (A funny coincidence is that in Lynch's Twin Peaks, there is "the Log Lady," who is also an older woman––remarkably similar in appearance to the woman I saw at Mass––who carries a log with her wherever she goes. I saw "the Bear Lady" weeks before recalling "the Log Lady" by watching clips of Twin Peaks.) It was one of the few times when I could genuinely say, "I feel like I'm in a David Lynch movie." I said that to myself in the Mass, weeks before coming back to Twin Peaks. I saw her again a couple weeks later––with the bear in the crook of her elbow––, so it was not a figment of my imagination. Just that much more unheimlich.
2) A couple nights ago I was sitting talking with someone and there was a pause in the conversation. Suddenly a soft but insistent moaning sound filled the room. It was the tea kettle, in the kitchen, apparently designed to howl gently rather than whistle like conventional teapots. As soon as the sound began, I felt my ears arch back, like a cat's, and my spine stiffened. Again, extremely unheimlich and dreamlike; and again I said to myself, "Am I in a David Lynch movie?"
3) Just this afternoon I was reaching for something on the counter when I accidentally knocked an object into the sink. It gently struck a metal thermos and at the exact same instant my cell phone beeped to alert me to a text message. Certainly it was a trivial and perfectly explicable coincidence, but what made me pause––spine stiffened––was the exact timing and how the tones were in perfect harmony.
The Bible lays a lot of stress on the importance of dreams and in college a friend asked me, "What do you think is the biblical teaching on dreams?" (Apparently, she had a very active dream life and was wondering how to interpret various dreams: from God or just neurological backwash?) I pondered for a moment, trying to devise one of those dense aphorisms I strive for. I said, "Biblically, dreams are either indications of what's going within you or signs of what God is doing around you." That doesn't settle the question of "immanence"––viz., whether a dream is just my subconscious or an actual spiritual disclosure from God––but my point is that that may be a false dichotomy. Biblically, a Christian's entire 'external' life is but a mode of his 'inner' life with God and, more fundamentally, his existence as interiorized in the life of Christ Himself. Hence, if there is anything to the abiding, spiritual, and sacramental bond created between the believer and Christ, what my subconscious is showing me directly bears on what God is showing me, and vice versa.
Here's to praying my aversion to sleep and my scrawny dream life is not a sign of blocking out God or some truths about myself.
Ur-Workout: 60+ mins
90kg, BMI 25
0. Warmup: Stretching
1. Bench press: 12, 10, 8, 6 @ 60–75kg
[I held myself back from putting up too much weight. I'm really serious about giving my chest time to develop and catch up with the rest of my physique. I refuse to be in a rush. Interestingly, since I had to work my tris more the last couple weeks to let my strained left pec recover, I can really feel how much a role my tris and lats play in my bench. From what I have read, this is a very good thing, since most lifters place so much emphasis on a "celebrity chest" (with flyes, chest compressions, exercises with truncated range of motion and high pump, etc.) that they actually fail to develop the elements of a strong bench press. I definitely felt more confident and stronger on the bench. 6 reps at 75kg felt very good.]
2. Pullups: 13, 14, 15 @ bodyweight
[I used wrist straps on my last set.]
2a. Lever bench row: ø
3. Barbell military press: 12, 8, 6 @ 35-45kg
[These felt pretty good. I think I'll shoot for 35kg, 45kg, 50kg next time. I raised the front end of a bench up with some planks of wood, so as to keep my hips more tucked under me and curb that unpleasant bowing of my spine.]
4. Barbell curl: 10, 8, 6 @ 35–45kg
[Felt very good. Getting stronger! Patience, Humility, Confidence…]
5. Supine French press: 10, 8, 6 @ 30–40kg
[Very good form on these. Less intense weight than my previous workout, but I'd rather work my triceps up to real strength slowly with better form than yank my way through a few extra kilograms. I will swap them out for elbows-out tricep extensions next time.]
6. Leg extensions: 18, 15, 12 @ 40kg, 50kg, 55kg
[These just aren't as satisfying as the decline leg press, so I'll go back to that beloved exercise next time. In fact, maybe I should do both by dropping the weight on my leg extensions and moving them to my first exercise as a warmup.]
7. Leg curl: 16, 13, 10 @ 35-45kg
[Felt some strain in my right knee on my second set, so I might drop the weight a bit for these on my next workout.]
8. Standing calf raise: ø
9. Kneeling rope pulldown (20 + 10 obliques): 30, 30, 30 @ 35kg, 40kg, 40kg
[I used wrist straps on my last set, since these were just killing my forearms and thus making me lose good form.]
Cooldown: Ski machine and stretching
I had a long nap this afternoon so, while I was a bit sluggish getting out the door and hadn't had lunch or much of a dinner before working out, I felt good tonight. There were very few people at the gym, which might have been due to the light rain, but is probably more due to the fact it was Saturday night. I make a special effort to workout the same time in the future, since not having to deal with other people makes everything smoother and faster.
Speaking of naps, I had a dream this afternoon. I rarely remember my dreams but lately I've been having dreams more frequently. Despite having seen it three times in the theater, I think part of the reason I can't sink my teeth into Inception, like so many other people seem to be doing, is because I can't get into its depiction of "the dream world." On the one hand, its portrayal of dream consciousness just seems fake to me, too smooth, not erratic or creepy or soothing enough––in a word, all too consciously designed. On the other hand, insofar as the characters are supposed to be professional dreamers––masters of lucid dreaming––, while Inception's depiction of that kind of dreaming may be spot-on, it's a kind of dreaming so far removed from my own experience as to seem boring and phony. I had a friend in high school who got very good at lucid dreaming; once, he told me, he flew to school one night to look for a lost textbook of his and found it in the same spot the next day. Props! As for me, I've only had a couple recurring dreams and my total dream catalogue would probably not amount to more than a few hours of "cutting room floor footage" glued together for people with lots of peyote in their bloodstreams.
DiCaprio was in Shutter Island, which came out six months or so before Inception and Shutter Island had the most stunning and believable depiction of dreams I have ever seen. Scorcese nailed what dreams are like: innocuous objects suddenly loom large, backgrounds shift without warning, disturbing symbolic motifs pop out of nowhere, and such events are nearly always taken in stride. I also recently got sucked into "the Primer universe." Primer is a 2004 independent film, by former software engineer and first-time director Shane Carruth, which not only has received high critical acclaim but is also a cult classic. Carruth made the film for US$7000 in five weeks (!) and only hired one professional actor for it, but it really is one of the best SF films ever made, and certainly a contender for the best "time travel" film in history. It is immensely complex, since by the end of the film, we are trying to navigate multiple non-linear timelines, so I ended up watching Primer three times in a row (whilst intermittently reading online "explanations" of it) one day last week. (Hey, it's only 77 minutes.) Primer deals with dreams only circumstantially––apparently, a certain kind of shared dreaming is an effect of the technology used by the characters––but it added to my recent interest in dreaming as such.
It also dawns on me now that there are some long-standing contributing factors to my perplexed, "bystander's" interest in dreams. For one thing, the opening chapter of my favorite book, Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, is a dream sequence. Second, one of my all-time favorite films is The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which, while it focuses on memories, does show how dreams give body to our memories and memories give birth to our dreams. Third, another of my top-favorite films is Blade Runner, which is the film adaptation of Philip K. Dick's novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? And then there's my recent return to Twin Peaks, a TV show that simultaneously intrigued and baffled me as a kid. I believe dreams are very important to David Lynch, since his work is so heavily driven by dreams (for better or worse!). Indeed, Special Agent Cooper's famous dream in "the Red Room" is the (ahem) linchpin to the progress of the series, as he claims he knows who the killer is based on some revelations in the dream which need only be deciphered to crack the case. I suppose it also says something that I've got a "Dreams" category in my blog, which surprised me when I re-realized that fact while writing this post, even though there are only two (now three) posts in that category. I generally find sleep boring since it's unproductive and, more important, I have such a scrawny dreamscape. Yet, dreams seem interesting enough to me that I've made a category for them. Frankly, I wish I enjoyed sleep more, which I think I would if I dreamt more. So….
So I have once again taken up the gauntlet and have begun a dream journal. I've once more taken up trying to read Harary and Weintraub's Lucid Dreams in 30 Days. (Incidentally, this video is a subtly hilarious saga of one man's journey to achieve lucid dreaming in 30 days with the same book!) Keeping a dream journal is one of the core steps in developing higher dream consciousness, since, allegedly, it says to your brain that you are serious about accessing your dreams. Another step is to develop the waking habit of frequently asking (and checking, by various means), "Am I awake right now?" so that, while dreaming, you may reflexively ask the same question and thereby trigger semi-lucid awareness in the dream. Another technique is to write an "A" (for "Awake") on your hand or arm, etc., so that, in the dream, you may recall seeing the "A" and thus wake yourself in the dream. Another technique is to note "dreamlike incidents" during the day, so that you will be more keen at saying to yourself, "This feels like a dream," which may allow you to say the same thing in a dream.
I won't record my recent dreams here, but I do want to record a few dreamlike experiences I've recently had.
1) A few weeks ago at Mass, I was sitting in a pew towards the back of the church. I glanced ahead and seated about twelve pews ahead of me, to my left, was an older woman holding a very large stuffed bear. I couldn't believe my eyes. I visibly squirmed in my seat and stared at her for several moments just to confirm what I was seeing. It was truly unheimlich. (A funny coincidence is that in Lynch's Twin Peaks, there is "the Log Lady," who is also an older woman––remarkably similar in appearance to the woman I saw at Mass––who carries a log with her wherever she goes. I saw "the Bear Lady" weeks before recalling "the Log Lady" by watching clips of Twin Peaks.) It was one of the few times when I could genuinely say, "I feel like I'm in a David Lynch movie." I said that to myself in the Mass, weeks before coming back to Twin Peaks. I saw her again a couple weeks later––with the bear in the crook of her elbow––, so it was not a figment of my imagination. Just that much more unheimlich.
2) A couple nights ago I was sitting talking with someone and there was a pause in the conversation. Suddenly a soft but insistent moaning sound filled the room. It was the tea kettle, in the kitchen, apparently designed to howl gently rather than whistle like conventional teapots. As soon as the sound began, I felt my ears arch back, like a cat's, and my spine stiffened. Again, extremely unheimlich and dreamlike; and again I said to myself, "Am I in a David Lynch movie?"
3) Just this afternoon I was reaching for something on the counter when I accidentally knocked an object into the sink. It gently struck a metal thermos and at the exact same instant my cell phone beeped to alert me to a text message. Certainly it was a trivial and perfectly explicable coincidence, but what made me pause––spine stiffened––was the exact timing and how the tones were in perfect harmony.
4) A few days ago I was catching up with a friend in Gmail chat. She told me she'd had a very vivid dream about me and some things in my life. What she told me was very apt. Hearing about her dream didn't seem dreamlike but, obviously, it stoked the flames of my interest. This friend is a very devout Christian and she wanted to encourage me that her dream could very well be a message of encouragement and confirmation from God. I admit it had that effect to some degree.
The Bible lays a lot of stress on the importance of dreams and in college a friend asked me, "What do you think is the biblical teaching on dreams?" (Apparently, she had a very active dream life and was wondering how to interpret various dreams: from God or just neurological backwash?) I pondered for a moment, trying to devise one of those dense aphorisms I strive for. I said, "Biblically, dreams are either indications of what's going within you or signs of what God is doing around you." That doesn't settle the question of "immanence"––viz., whether a dream is just my subconscious or an actual spiritual disclosure from God––but my point is that that may be a false dichotomy. Biblically, a Christian's entire 'external' life is but a mode of his 'inner' life with God and, more fundamentally, his existence as interiorized in the life of Christ Himself. Hence, if there is anything to the abiding, spiritual, and sacramental bond created between the believer and Christ, what my subconscious is showing me directly bears on what God is showing me, and vice versa.
Here's to praying my aversion to sleep and my scrawny dream life is not a sign of blocking out God or some truths about myself.
Labels:
Athletics,
Bodybuilding,
Dreams,
Memoirs and Friends,
Movies
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Dreams of iron and invisible rainbows...
As I may have mentioned before, I don't often dream (as in, sigh, I almost never 'remember' the phenomenal features of neural activity during sleep), but I did want to record just a few recollections from the past few weeks.
Last night I had a dream of violence and anger. I was a surveyor, or maybe a pollster, making rounds to collect data about... well, something. Maybe even doing some recon for making a movie. Hazy. Anyway, I entered a large round-shaped restaurant, nealy all windows, around lunchtime. Despite how luminous and airy it was, the many struts of the building throbbed with a foreboding, iron heaviness. I made my way into the central kitchen/office, where the much of the staff--apparently the owner and some of his kids and friends--were eating and chatting happily. I began to make my inquiry but then felt an increasingly alarmed intuition. Something was not right here. I can't recall if it was the sense that this owner, a large man in a baby-blue two-button shortsleeve shirt, was ominous as a (sexual?) threat to his own children, or if I just previsaged he was an irascible figure to be reckoned with in my own life. As soon as I began speaking, he jeered at me, and led the others on to tease me for my task. I got irritated and told him he could at least be courteous, I wasn't asking for much. Rather than get angry, I pursed my lips and backed down. I told him I would come back to finish my task no matter what he did ("I'll be back"?). For I had been sent by a powerful agency (a movie studio?) and my cog-like role in their endeavor was bigger than him or me; his jeering would not stop me because not even I could stop myself from fulfilling the agency's mission. So I walked outside and headed back to the agency. Apparently, though, this stoic retreat galled the owner, who, I suppose, wanted to show off for his family and friends how macho he was. He followed me out, calling me to stop, to come back and finish it. I kept going. I was just stepping off of the large lawn in front of the restaurant when he finally shouted enough to get me to come back. I realized I should do something to vanquish this oaf and then get on with my task elsewhere, then return when he might be moe compliant. So I turned back and approached him on the lawn. He was smirking, anticipating the tussle to come. I warned him that I was stronger than he realized and he should not go through with this, as it would only embarrass him and slow everything down. Yet he persisted and I decided I might as well really show him up. So I raised my sleeves and opened my collar, approaching him in a stalking judo stance. He was very big, and obviously strong, but I felt a primal confidence in my ability and in my mandate in the field. We locked arms and I quickly brought him to the ground. I then pinned him facedown by locking his arm lengthwise against his neck and face, taking a few heel shots at his belly and rib cage to subdue him. After a few minutes he surrendered and I released him. He was angry but knew not to try attacking me again. He wiped grass from his hair and shirt and made a lot of threatening words about me coming back. I told him I had to come back, so hopefully he would cooperate.
Analysis? I don't always like to think my dreams--the ones I 'remember'--are products of that day's immediate sensations and experiences, since I believe this is too simplistic. After all, if dreams really do stir up our subconscious, who's to say dreams don't express old and obscure data that have nothing to do with the day's experiences? Basically, I think we should be trepidatious about 'interpreting' our dreams and leave a very broad range of contextual options open to their meaning as we reflect on them for a while. That's the only view of dreams that justifies treating them as significant insights into ourselves. For if dreams really are just the backwash from each day's sensory input, why should we be fascinated by them as signs about our larger lives?
Nonetheless, I grant that many details in my 'dremories' stem directly from the day's experiences. For instance, last night I was (wonder of wonders!) studying Chinese, making a few more note cards, and at one point I was reading an entry about three easily confused fo2 words. (This was in a fascinating Analytical Dictionary of Lexical Differences [my own translation for the Mandarin title, which I might add to this post when I get on my Macbook] which I came across not too long ago.) One of the uses of fo2 is in the phrase "to raise one's sleeves and go" []**, which is one of my favorite Chinese idioms, not only because it hearkens to a time when people wore long-sleeve robes, but also because it is so dramatic, sort of like snapping one's lapels or one's shirt collar and storming out in a huff. Presumably this phrase triggered my dreaming about rolling up my sleeves to fight the oaf. I was also listening to some De La Soul last night, and "Millie Pulled a Pistol on Santa Claus" from De La Soul is Dead always grabs me. It's a song about a sexually abusive father and his daughter, Millie. Clearly, this could have figured into my intuition about the oaf's malfeasance.
Another element which I think figured into the dream, is how distorted my sense of physical strength has become by teaching small children. No matter how many times you do it, there's still someting uncanny about 'being able to lift a person' or seeing their hands deflected so easily when being playful, or seeing how ineffectually they try to pry an object from just a few clenched fingers. What I mean is that, to the brain, it must be slightly incongruous to combine "attack" and "defend" impulses with such comically tiny sensory input. I remind myself I'm "not actually that strong" just because I can lift kids up or hold crayons from them. And yet... it also sometimes dawns on me just how strong I am that I can lift kid after kid over my head, and so on. Just yesterday, to be exact, I had swung one kid past me as she jumped up for a hug/attack and I was stunned to realize my stomach was like an iron board. I know it sounds silly and I'm not trying to boast--I well realize how vastly weaker I am than many truly strong people--but I think what appeals to me about gongfu is how it trains one in meekness, or "strength under wraps." So even though I exercise regularly and am stronger than people usually perceive, I enjoy the feeling of restraining my power with children. Maybe that is what surfaced in the dream: a chance to "flex" my strength for real with an opponent rather than just with my weights and ropes. (I guess I need to get back into judo!)
As for the dream's larger significance, I think it conveys something of my inner determination to overcome some obstacles I have faced in the past year and more. I have great confidence in my 'mandate' to overcome them and 'redeem the past' but I also realize how hostile and tiresome the terrain ahead is. It would take me more time than I have right now to list all the sources of inspiration I've catalogued within to inspire me to "Never Give Up" and the like. Suffice to say that in my "heart of hearts" I, apparently, have no other choice than to give everything I can to resolving and restoring what I value most, conflicted though it may be.
Another dream I had, weeks ago, was about me pulling into a gigantic parking lot at a restaurant at the foot of some small mountains in central Taiwan. It was a rustic teahouse-style restaurant, with a basement section for cooler, quieter eating, an open ground floor level with the grass prairie, and a second floor looking out at the creek cutting through the valley. I exited the car and inhaled the crisp air as I beheld the mountains. Then I made my way into the restaurant. I can't rememeber if I was with someone, whom I'll call Esther, or if she was already inside with her family. In any case, I met them at their table on the ground floor. It was about 11 AM and the sunlight was dully fluorescent due to the fog and tree cover. Very vital and serene. This Esther's brothers and parents were already perusing the menu when I joined them, and we exchanged warm greetings. I wasn't sure where Esther had come from, but all of us were very happy. Not a lot of talking, which is part of why things were so amicable. Acceptance. A peace without words. "That's what was missing all along," I said to myself (my dream-self to my sleeping-self?). "This is how it could have been. This is how it still could be. So simple. Why didn't I see it before?" While I was thinking all this to myself, Esther and her family had finished eating, so they got up and went out to ride their bikes in the mountains. I bid them farewell and was left to myself. I made my way outside and breathed deeply as I beheld the scenery again. "This is good and it should be." Alas, while it was a rainbow that had always glimmered there, I had never seen with my waking eyes. Or maybe once.
I have heard the big music
And I'll never be the same
Something so pure
Hey!
Just called my name
I have drowned in the big sea
Now I find I'm still alive
And I'm comin' up for ever
Hey!
Shadows all behind me
Ecstasy to come
I have
Climbed the big tree
Touched the big sky
I just stuck my hand up in the air
And everything came into colour
Like Jazz Manna
from sweet sweet chariots
I have seen the big mountain
And I swear I'm half way there
(You'll never get there, you'll never get there,
You'll never get there)
But I will
I will always climb the mountain
Because
I have heard the big music
And I'll never be the same
Something so pure
Hey!
Has called
My
Name!
Last night I had a dream of violence and anger. I was a surveyor, or maybe a pollster, making rounds to collect data about... well, something. Maybe even doing some recon for making a movie. Hazy. Anyway, I entered a large round-shaped restaurant, nealy all windows, around lunchtime. Despite how luminous and airy it was, the many struts of the building throbbed with a foreboding, iron heaviness. I made my way into the central kitchen/office, where the much of the staff--apparently the owner and some of his kids and friends--were eating and chatting happily. I began to make my inquiry but then felt an increasingly alarmed intuition. Something was not right here. I can't recall if it was the sense that this owner, a large man in a baby-blue two-button shortsleeve shirt, was ominous as a (sexual?) threat to his own children, or if I just previsaged he was an irascible figure to be reckoned with in my own life. As soon as I began speaking, he jeered at me, and led the others on to tease me for my task. I got irritated and told him he could at least be courteous, I wasn't asking for much. Rather than get angry, I pursed my lips and backed down. I told him I would come back to finish my task no matter what he did ("I'll be back"?). For I had been sent by a powerful agency (a movie studio?) and my cog-like role in their endeavor was bigger than him or me; his jeering would not stop me because not even I could stop myself from fulfilling the agency's mission. So I walked outside and headed back to the agency. Apparently, though, this stoic retreat galled the owner, who, I suppose, wanted to show off for his family and friends how macho he was. He followed me out, calling me to stop, to come back and finish it. I kept going. I was just stepping off of the large lawn in front of the restaurant when he finally shouted enough to get me to come back. I realized I should do something to vanquish this oaf and then get on with my task elsewhere, then return when he might be moe compliant. So I turned back and approached him on the lawn. He was smirking, anticipating the tussle to come. I warned him that I was stronger than he realized and he should not go through with this, as it would only embarrass him and slow everything down. Yet he persisted and I decided I might as well really show him up. So I raised my sleeves and opened my collar, approaching him in a stalking judo stance. He was very big, and obviously strong, but I felt a primal confidence in my ability and in my mandate in the field. We locked arms and I quickly brought him to the ground. I then pinned him facedown by locking his arm lengthwise against his neck and face, taking a few heel shots at his belly and rib cage to subdue him. After a few minutes he surrendered and I released him. He was angry but knew not to try attacking me again. He wiped grass from his hair and shirt and made a lot of threatening words about me coming back. I told him I had to come back, so hopefully he would cooperate.
Analysis? I don't always like to think my dreams--the ones I 'remember'--are products of that day's immediate sensations and experiences, since I believe this is too simplistic. After all, if dreams really do stir up our subconscious, who's to say dreams don't express old and obscure data that have nothing to do with the day's experiences? Basically, I think we should be trepidatious about 'interpreting' our dreams and leave a very broad range of contextual options open to their meaning as we reflect on them for a while. That's the only view of dreams that justifies treating them as significant insights into ourselves. For if dreams really are just the backwash from each day's sensory input, why should we be fascinated by them as signs about our larger lives?
Nonetheless, I grant that many details in my 'dremories' stem directly from the day's experiences. For instance, last night I was (wonder of wonders!) studying Chinese, making a few more note cards, and at one point I was reading an entry about three easily confused fo2 words. (This was in a fascinating Analytical Dictionary of Lexical Differences [my own translation for the Mandarin title, which I might add to this post when I get on my Macbook] which I came across not too long ago.) One of the uses of fo2 is in the phrase "to raise one's sleeves and go" []**, which is one of my favorite Chinese idioms, not only because it hearkens to a time when people wore long-sleeve robes, but also because it is so dramatic, sort of like snapping one's lapels or one's shirt collar and storming out in a huff. Presumably this phrase triggered my dreaming about rolling up my sleeves to fight the oaf. I was also listening to some De La Soul last night, and "Millie Pulled a Pistol on Santa Claus" from De La Soul is Dead always grabs me. It's a song about a sexually abusive father and his daughter, Millie. Clearly, this could have figured into my intuition about the oaf's malfeasance.
Another element which I think figured into the dream, is how distorted my sense of physical strength has become by teaching small children. No matter how many times you do it, there's still someting uncanny about 'being able to lift a person' or seeing their hands deflected so easily when being playful, or seeing how ineffectually they try to pry an object from just a few clenched fingers. What I mean is that, to the brain, it must be slightly incongruous to combine "attack" and "defend" impulses with such comically tiny sensory input. I remind myself I'm "not actually that strong" just because I can lift kids up or hold crayons from them. And yet... it also sometimes dawns on me just how strong I am that I can lift kid after kid over my head, and so on. Just yesterday, to be exact, I had swung one kid past me as she jumped up for a hug/attack and I was stunned to realize my stomach was like an iron board. I know it sounds silly and I'm not trying to boast--I well realize how vastly weaker I am than many truly strong people--but I think what appeals to me about gongfu is how it trains one in meekness, or "strength under wraps." So even though I exercise regularly and am stronger than people usually perceive, I enjoy the feeling of restraining my power with children. Maybe that is what surfaced in the dream: a chance to "flex" my strength for real with an opponent rather than just with my weights and ropes. (I guess I need to get back into judo!)
As for the dream's larger significance, I think it conveys something of my inner determination to overcome some obstacles I have faced in the past year and more. I have great confidence in my 'mandate' to overcome them and 'redeem the past' but I also realize how hostile and tiresome the terrain ahead is. It would take me more time than I have right now to list all the sources of inspiration I've catalogued within to inspire me to "Never Give Up" and the like. Suffice to say that in my "heart of hearts" I, apparently, have no other choice than to give everything I can to resolving and restoring what I value most, conflicted though it may be.
+++
Another dream I had, weeks ago, was about me pulling into a gigantic parking lot at a restaurant at the foot of some small mountains in central Taiwan. It was a rustic teahouse-style restaurant, with a basement section for cooler, quieter eating, an open ground floor level with the grass prairie, and a second floor looking out at the creek cutting through the valley. I exited the car and inhaled the crisp air as I beheld the mountains. Then I made my way into the restaurant. I can't rememeber if I was with someone, whom I'll call Esther, or if she was already inside with her family. In any case, I met them at their table on the ground floor. It was about 11 AM and the sunlight was dully fluorescent due to the fog and tree cover. Very vital and serene. This Esther's brothers and parents were already perusing the menu when I joined them, and we exchanged warm greetings. I wasn't sure where Esther had come from, but all of us were very happy. Not a lot of talking, which is part of why things were so amicable. Acceptance. A peace without words. "That's what was missing all along," I said to myself (my dream-self to my sleeping-self?). "This is how it could have been. This is how it still could be. So simple. Why didn't I see it before?" While I was thinking all this to myself, Esther and her family had finished eating, so they got up and went out to ride their bikes in the mountains. I bid them farewell and was left to myself. I made my way outside and breathed deeply as I beheld the scenery again. "This is good and it should be." Alas, while it was a rainbow that had always glimmered there, I had never seen with my waking eyes. Or maybe once.
I have heard the big music
And I'll never be the same
Something so pure
Hey!
Just called my name
I have drowned in the big sea
Now I find I'm still alive
And I'm comin' up for ever
Hey!
Shadows all behind me
Ecstasy to come
I have
Climbed the big tree
Touched the big sky
I just stuck my hand up in the air
And everything came into colour
Like Jazz Manna
from sweet sweet chariots
I have seen the big mountain
And I swear I'm half way there
(You'll never get there, you'll never get there,
You'll never get there)
But I will
I will always climb the mountain
Because
I have heard the big music
And I'll never be the same
Something so pure
Hey!
Has called
My
Name!
Labels:
Dreams,
Memoirs and Friends
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Do Freudians know that I don't dream of electric sheep?
Weird. Had a dream last night.
That's weird enough on its own. I don't normally dream. (And, yes, look, I know the old debate too well, whether I actually DO dream and just don't "remember" it or if I don't actually dream, since an unperceived, unremembered dream is not really a dream. Can it for now.)
My actually-remembered-dream was about me wearing my famous bee shirt. This is a black-and-yellow striped long-sleeve Polo-style shirt I bought a couple years ago at a night market in Changhua. It's a famous shirt for me since, one, I almost never wear long sleeve shirts and, two, it never fails that as soon as my students see me, one or two of them, at least, will drone, "Beee!" (Mad skillz: I never stop teaching, see?)
Anyway, I guess my recent sleep cycle has messed with my head––up too late, up too early––so I dreamt last night. There I was walking around in my bee shirt. It was a fuzzy, but not warm, day: the light was warm but the air wasn't, like the downy lighting in the finale of The Return of the King. (But no, not everything was in giddy slow motion and there wasn't all that homoeroticism either.)
Anyway, there I was walking through a garden attached to a mini-Versailles. By my side was the garble-faced woman of my dreams, scrambled unrecognizable by the aimless refracting of my memories and the instinctual urge to get the dream over with before I woke up. Blue was the color of her dress, then velvet… well, actually, Mr. Mingus, it was only maroon silk. What kept happening, though, was that, every time we ran into a group of other guests (at this large wedding in a mini-mansion), we chatted a few minutes before noticing that at least one other person, and usually many others, were also wearing my bee shirt. It was a hoot, me pointing my finger-gun at others in my shirt, and others shooting finger-bullets back at me, all of us chirping and clicking and buzzing and chuckling from the corner of our mouths. In bee shirts.
This went on for who knows how dream-long, until, I guess, the dream-plot started in. I found myself, with my scramble-faced beloved, standing around a pit, eight-feet deep, full of, well– let me start again. We walked away from the incessant others in bee shirts and I found myself––literally, I found myself, and my beloved, in multiple copies, milling around an eight-foot deep pit. Mini-Versailles buzzed on obliviously.
At that point, I was coming in and out of consciousness, over and under the sheet of dream dust. So I was really trying to hang on to my vision of my dream. I kept lunging back at the pit for a better look. And, lo––the edges of the pit were crumbling inward clump by chunk by lump. I and my beloved were being buried alive, moment by moment. Imperceptibly we descended, or rather, were descended, in mound after surreptitious mound of soggy earth. Slow enough that we didn't, apparently, all mind staying in there, but steady enough to keep us from clambering out when we wanted. Multiple copies, I realize, meant all possible probability lines (hat tip to Sergei Lukyanenko) sketching how we might make it out of such a pit, were being systematically interred. Me and her in Taiwan. Me and her in Florida. Me and her in New Yawk. Me and her, me and me and her and her, and me, and her and her, and me again, and her. And nada.
Looking down I could now see her face clearly, as well as the her at my side. In time, as the mud clumps climbed, it became evident that, while she and I could climb down into the pit to rescue one of our alternate selves, we could not ourselves climb back out. Indeed, she at my side could descend the pit and hand me a new her so that I could go on my, our, way. On the other hand, I could descend the pit and hand up a different me for my own her to enjoy back in the shade of mini-Versailles. Either way, one of us would have to lose the other, or we'd both have to lose our odds of lasting together: perpetual unity in the shrinking pit or perpetual disunity in the gardens.
Despite how grim it may sound, this really wasn't a nightmare. The me-her exchange was more of a clownish what-in-tarnation circus rehearsal. Pathos, in dreams, is no more perceptible an obstruction than light and time and gravity.
And then I awoke, alone, free from the pit and free from any of her. But not free from the expectations that all vivid dreams entail. What did it mean? What does it mean? Who was who and why was what what? The conscious mind demands order over the disorder of the unconscious mind, in a way similar to the need our unconscious mind has for pruning and rearranging the accrued burrs of the sensory flowers we trample through each day.
So I set upon this dream like latex-gloved hands over the rubbery corpse of a Roswell alien on X-Files. (Did I just write that? I must have been distracted by my dream.) Obviously my dream means that I grieve the loss of my beloved and I feel incapable of salvaging the damage. I could "let her go" but then "we" would be buried; or I could stick with her and ride the whole enchilada down into the pits of zero probability.
But what if I'm wrong? What if my dream actually doesn't mean anything? What if it is really just a rare glimpse into the way my brain rearranges its recent sensory contents? What if any dream is just one part of my brain––say the limbic system––'peeking at' another part of my brain during cognitive inventory and housekeeping? What if, in other words, my dream was merely an elaborate neural misfire? What if it didn't refer to anything concrete or even intelligible in the world I occupy, but was merely "what brains do at night"?
This is hardly a mere academic musing. On certain theories of mind, the workings of the brain are radically distinct from the abstract contents to which they "correspond." Just as the only red in a rose is put there by the neural confabulation of our own brains, so the only reason a cat is called a "cat" is because one group of brains (in a strange synchronic and diachronic semantic tradition) utter that phoneme when triggered (?) by that organism. There is nothing, however, about the cat itself which bears or produces a meaningful, real link between its existence and our calling it a "cat." The materialistic world of physical matter is deaf, dumb, colorless, seamless, odorless, flavorless, and lifeless. In a word, meaningless.
Hence, for all his materialism, Freud ought have realized there is no way to "interpret" the "meaning" of blind neural processes in deterministic skinbags on Viennese recliners, since whatever his clients were claiming or denying was but the epiphenomenal midden pile being steadily bilged out by a brain enslaved in a strict deterministic causal chain. The meaning of the words on their lips was strictly subservient to the chemical entailments in their brains, and therefore causally irrelevant to a materialist. There being adequate physical grounds for certain brain processes doesn't, as C. S. Lewis notes well in Miracles, mean there are really good reasons for the effects caused by those brain processes. I might be able to explain the grounds for you saying what you said or feeling how you feel, but that "real" explanation will have nothing to do with the reasons you give for what you say and how you feel. Brain effluvia are no more to be interpreted than entrails on the altar. There is no patient behind the psychosis, no mind behind the brain.
Now magnify this problem to literally cosmic proportions. Now imagine that the cosmos itself has no Mind behind its Matter (e.g., in this postling from unBeguiled). Now, whatever we may say about the universe––its laws, its structure, its components, its relations, its beginning and end––are only so many anthropocentric impositions on an otherwise amorphous, unintelligible surd. There is no Intelligence running the show, so there is not actually even a Show. "The tale (mythos)," writes Aristotle in his Poetics 1450a38, "is the soul of the drama." By soul (morphe), of course, Aristotle (…as a good Aristotelian) means the "inherent organizing principle" of something in nature or art. All tales are, necessarily, intelligible wholes made up of otherwise unintelligible parts, organized around the author's "point" and motivated by the tale's "end." To lack an ending, much less an author, is utterly to lack a tale. And a tale with an audience is as nonsensical as an audience without a tale. So, if there is not really any Mind or Moral behind the great cosmic show, can we really be said to be observers? If the Universe, like our brain tissue, does not intrinsically mean anything or have some higher organizing sense, then how can we make sense of it? To make sense of the nonsensical is to make nonsense of making sense. Poetically speaking, our only hope of watching the show on earth is by believing the script is in heaven.
The reason we remain an attentive audience, despite our critical reviews of the nonexistent Author, is that His own voice is as inscribed in the shtuff of quarks as it is in the matter of our minds. We see the wisdom of God in the co-viewing of our brains as they perceive the world. We don't see the world only, as if were a detached immaterial intelligence, but see ourselves as observers watching the world. The brain emerges from the world, and therefore makes a kind of sense to us, its intra-users--but only if the world itself makes sense in the first place. We know by nature that the world is worth watching, because we know we are by nature actors in a drama at play.
That's weird enough on its own. I don't normally dream. (And, yes, look, I know the old debate too well, whether I actually DO dream and just don't "remember" it or if I don't actually dream, since an unperceived, unremembered dream is not really a dream. Can it for now.)
My actually-remembered-dream was about me wearing my famous bee shirt. This is a black-and-yellow striped long-sleeve Polo-style shirt I bought a couple years ago at a night market in Changhua. It's a famous shirt for me since, one, I almost never wear long sleeve shirts and, two, it never fails that as soon as my students see me, one or two of them, at least, will drone, "Beee!" (Mad skillz: I never stop teaching, see?)
Anyway, I guess my recent sleep cycle has messed with my head––up too late, up too early––so I dreamt last night. There I was walking around in my bee shirt. It was a fuzzy, but not warm, day: the light was warm but the air wasn't, like the downy lighting in the finale of The Return of the King. (But no, not everything was in giddy slow motion and there wasn't all that homoeroticism either.)
Anyway, there I was walking through a garden attached to a mini-Versailles. By my side was the garble-faced woman of my dreams, scrambled unrecognizable by the aimless refracting of my memories and the instinctual urge to get the dream over with before I woke up. Blue was the color of her dress, then velvet… well, actually, Mr. Mingus, it was only maroon silk. What kept happening, though, was that, every time we ran into a group of other guests (at this large wedding in a mini-mansion), we chatted a few minutes before noticing that at least one other person, and usually many others, were also wearing my bee shirt. It was a hoot, me pointing my finger-gun at others in my shirt, and others shooting finger-bullets back at me, all of us chirping and clicking and buzzing and chuckling from the corner of our mouths. In bee shirts.
This went on for who knows how dream-long, until, I guess, the dream-plot started in. I found myself, with my scramble-faced beloved, standing around a pit, eight-feet deep, full of, well– let me start again. We walked away from the incessant others in bee shirts and I found myself––literally, I found myself, and my beloved, in multiple copies, milling around an eight-foot deep pit. Mini-Versailles buzzed on obliviously.
At that point, I was coming in and out of consciousness, over and under the sheet of dream dust. So I was really trying to hang on to my vision of my dream. I kept lunging back at the pit for a better look. And, lo––the edges of the pit were crumbling inward clump by chunk by lump. I and my beloved were being buried alive, moment by moment. Imperceptibly we descended, or rather, were descended, in mound after surreptitious mound of soggy earth. Slow enough that we didn't, apparently, all mind staying in there, but steady enough to keep us from clambering out when we wanted. Multiple copies, I realize, meant all possible probability lines (hat tip to Sergei Lukyanenko) sketching how we might make it out of such a pit, were being systematically interred. Me and her in Taiwan. Me and her in Florida. Me and her in New Yawk. Me and her, me and me and her and her, and me, and her and her, and me again, and her. And nada.
Looking down I could now see her face clearly, as well as the her at my side. In time, as the mud clumps climbed, it became evident that, while she and I could climb down into the pit to rescue one of our alternate selves, we could not ourselves climb back out. Indeed, she at my side could descend the pit and hand me a new her so that I could go on my, our, way. On the other hand, I could descend the pit and hand up a different me for my own her to enjoy back in the shade of mini-Versailles. Either way, one of us would have to lose the other, or we'd both have to lose our odds of lasting together: perpetual unity in the shrinking pit or perpetual disunity in the gardens.
Despite how grim it may sound, this really wasn't a nightmare. The me-her exchange was more of a clownish what-in-tarnation circus rehearsal. Pathos, in dreams, is no more perceptible an obstruction than light and time and gravity.
* * *
"Quantum particles: the dreams that stuff is made of."
–– David Moser, as cited in Ray Kurzweil's The Singularity Is Near (1999), p. 110.
And then I awoke, alone, free from the pit and free from any of her. But not free from the expectations that all vivid dreams entail. What did it mean? What does it mean? Who was who and why was what what? The conscious mind demands order over the disorder of the unconscious mind, in a way similar to the need our unconscious mind has for pruning and rearranging the accrued burrs of the sensory flowers we trample through each day.
So I set upon this dream like latex-gloved hands over the rubbery corpse of a Roswell alien on X-Files. (Did I just write that? I must have been distracted by my dream.) Obviously my dream means that I grieve the loss of my beloved and I feel incapable of salvaging the damage. I could "let her go" but then "we" would be buried; or I could stick with her and ride the whole enchilada down into the pits of zero probability.
But what if I'm wrong? What if my dream actually doesn't mean anything? What if it is really just a rare glimpse into the way my brain rearranges its recent sensory contents? What if any dream is just one part of my brain––say the limbic system––'peeking at' another part of my brain during cognitive inventory and housekeeping? What if, in other words, my dream was merely an elaborate neural misfire? What if it didn't refer to anything concrete or even intelligible in the world I occupy, but was merely "what brains do at night"?
This is hardly a mere academic musing. On certain theories of mind, the workings of the brain are radically distinct from the abstract contents to which they "correspond." Just as the only red in a rose is put there by the neural confabulation of our own brains, so the only reason a cat is called a "cat" is because one group of brains (in a strange synchronic and diachronic semantic tradition) utter that phoneme when triggered (?) by that organism. There is nothing, however, about the cat itself which bears or produces a meaningful, real link between its existence and our calling it a "cat." The materialistic world of physical matter is deaf, dumb, colorless, seamless, odorless, flavorless, and lifeless. In a word, meaningless.
Hence, for all his materialism, Freud ought have realized there is no way to "interpret" the "meaning" of blind neural processes in deterministic skinbags on Viennese recliners, since whatever his clients were claiming or denying was but the epiphenomenal midden pile being steadily bilged out by a brain enslaved in a strict deterministic causal chain. The meaning of the words on their lips was strictly subservient to the chemical entailments in their brains, and therefore causally irrelevant to a materialist. There being adequate physical grounds for certain brain processes doesn't, as C. S. Lewis notes well in Miracles, mean there are really good reasons for the effects caused by those brain processes. I might be able to explain the grounds for you saying what you said or feeling how you feel, but that "real" explanation will have nothing to do with the reasons you give for what you say and how you feel. Brain effluvia are no more to be interpreted than entrails on the altar. There is no patient behind the psychosis, no mind behind the brain.
Now magnify this problem to literally cosmic proportions. Now imagine that the cosmos itself has no Mind behind its Matter (e.g., in this postling from unBeguiled). Now, whatever we may say about the universe––its laws, its structure, its components, its relations, its beginning and end––are only so many anthropocentric impositions on an otherwise amorphous, unintelligible surd. There is no Intelligence running the show, so there is not actually even a Show. "The tale (mythos)," writes Aristotle in his Poetics 1450a38, "is the soul of the drama." By soul (morphe), of course, Aristotle (…as a good Aristotelian) means the "inherent organizing principle" of something in nature or art. All tales are, necessarily, intelligible wholes made up of otherwise unintelligible parts, organized around the author's "point" and motivated by the tale's "end." To lack an ending, much less an author, is utterly to lack a tale. And a tale with an audience is as nonsensical as an audience without a tale. So, if there is not really any Mind or Moral behind the great cosmic show, can we really be said to be observers? If the Universe, like our brain tissue, does not intrinsically mean anything or have some higher organizing sense, then how can we make sense of it? To make sense of the nonsensical is to make nonsense of making sense. Poetically speaking, our only hope of watching the show on earth is by believing the script is in heaven.
The reason we remain an attentive audience, despite our critical reviews of the nonexistent Author, is that His own voice is as inscribed in the shtuff of quarks as it is in the matter of our minds. We see the wisdom of God in the co-viewing of our brains as they perceive the world. We don't see the world only, as if were a detached immaterial intelligence, but see ourselves as observers watching the world. The brain emerges from the world, and therefore makes a kind of sense to us, its intra-users--but only if the world itself makes sense in the first place. We know by nature that the world is worth watching, because we know we are by nature actors in a drama at play.
Labels:
Anthropology,
Cognitive Studies,
Dreams,
Memoirs and Friends,
Philosophy
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