Squidmek

Really enjoyed this, and I will look for the book in its entirety. She has a wonderfully inventive style. Time is somewhat elastic, and she moves the reader back and forth pretty effortlessly. And she always raises some idea that she does not fully expound on, not until its raised again in another section. It drives the narrative really well. I wonder what her background is. You get a real sense of Glick, but it's harder to get a handle on the author herself. I'm sure that happens in the rest of the book, because I did get a real sense of her personality--thoughtful, searching, etc--I just didn't see her face, if that makes any sense.

She mentions the "delicate place between sleep and death." It's a lovely sentence, and also disturbing. Had never truly given that real thought, how we flirt with death each time we sleep. And it has some profound implications when considering our dreams. If sleep is all we know of death, perhaps dreams are all we know of any afterlife. Perhaps, instinctually, dreams were the spark that lit our collective imagination and suggested an afterlife. Because they do imply the possiblity of somehow living (not overtly conscious, maybe conscious in an entirely different way--which I guess is what this class is exploring) while the body itself is just lying there. Dead.

I really enjoyed the movie. From the opening scene to closing. And some of the negative critical attention this film is recieving is so representative of what I despise about so many critics. SO quick to dismiss based on (I believe) a presumption that negativity is percieved as somehow more intellectual than positivity. Reminiscent of what the Prof. talked about in class on Wednesday. The immature notion of the sickly artist that prevailed among the Romantics. Sadly, I don't think this is gone at all. There still exists this entirely self-serving and insular attitude among "artists" (what they call themselves, certainly not what I would call them) that faux-sadness, pale skin and irony are the marks of an artist--a good 1/3 of Williamsburg. AND although this seems to usually shed somehow around thirty, it exists in the adult critic in the form of cynicism. And this cynicsim is presented as if it is the hallmark of intellect. Case in point: Science of Sleep. The chief complaint is that it's formless, "shapeless, with no respect for story" one critic mumbled. Without taking into consideration that the subject matter is dreams--and so the "shapeless" form is quite fitting. Why do I sound so angry? The film reminded me of the humunculus that Prof. Tougaw spoke of.

Amazing when you have experienced something that seems completely unique, something you don't think you can quite adequately describe. And then along comes a precise description of what you have expereinced, AND your not the only one. Kind of ruins it, but then again, it makes it somewhat more frightening too. I used to have these dreams when I was younger, BUT i was convinced that they were real. Still am. I was awake, in bed, but I could not move. Could not speak. Wanted to scream for help, but could not. At one point, actually saw my mother walk into my room, for one reason or another, and I tried with all my might to scream for help--to wake me up. But i could not. MORE frightening, sometimes this would be accompanied by a HUGE looming face, some grotesque version of my dad or a brother right above my chest. And in class on Wed. I realized that this was sleep paralysis. I was not crazy, it did happen. AND the face was an incubus, or the Old Hag that Prof. referred to. Though I wonder why my dad was the Old Hag?

Due to this class, I'm consistantly and pleasantly suprised at how much dreams are present in types of art, especially in work that I was already familiar with. Two examples: a book that was quite popular a few years back, Danielewski's "House of Leaves"--VERY spotty. Some really amatuerish pages, BUT some extraordinarily frightening and beautiful passages as well. The idea however is so dream-like. The book is essentially an attempt at documenting the act of documenting (oh so meta-literary) the discovery of a house that is eternally bigger on the inside than the outside. It's as if the narrator stumbles on to the house that we so often find in our dreams, the one that we get lost in. One door leads to another door, which leads to another...
Example number 2: I almost wish there were a way to post songs on this site, because I'm forever finding songs, entire records! in my collection that I had not before considered to be entirely about sleeping and dreams. A favorite of mine, Sonic Youth--I've been listening to everything of theirs again because their entire catalog seems to be informed by dreams. It's a fascinating way to rediscover their work. For instance, their absolute masterpiece "Daydream Nation," which incidentally was just added to The Library of Congress as a record that most "represents American life in the 20th century", is full of lyrics that reference dreams--not to mention the dreamlike quality of the music.

I hate to sound too romantic, but Hobson kind of kills the party. BUT the reading is fascinating, nonetheless. AND no more is THIS more evident then in Hobson: a writer must have his own voice. Though, considering Hobson, it need not be a friendly one.

"A friend" of mine would have previously argued that things seen under the influence of hallucinatory substances must in some way be present. Turns out that need not be the case. Most fascinating: "Why would anyone want to cultivate the symptoms of mental illness?"; and, "Human beings are never satisfied with things as they are." Giving this alot of thought. There is something profound buried within it. I know that I can speak for "my friend," that there is some attempt at transcendence when it comes to drugs, any drug, not just hallucinogens. This implies some appetite for soemthing spiritual--whatever that might mean. I think that this can apply to most adults (I'm not speaking of sofa bound teenagers with the munchies). Does this then imply that a hunger for something else--not simple dissatisfaction (entirely human and, I would guess, unanimous)-- and an actual attempt to find it, for instance, by way of drugs, is symptomatic of a mental disorder? If that's the case then, this could easily implicate religion as well. Symptomatic of some mental illness. I might very well draw some nasty reaction to this, I hope not, and I write this with absolutely no intention of degrading anyone--and an equal amount of respect for my own dilemma which is just as well, then, suspect--but it does seem to make sense.

Very odd. I dreamt that I was getting married. I seemed to have a plastic smile on my face, as if it could be removed and placed flat on a table. The marraige ceremony, and the grounds on which it took place--much like a farm--resembled my brother's marraige ceremony which took place only weeks ago. I seemed to be in charge of the wedding as well, the wedding co-ordinator. I was lost, trying to give directions, obviously not knowing what I was doing. All of a sudden, I was at the alter. I turned toward my wife-to-be, and found--not my wife--I found standing there my first wife, from whom I am long divorced. And she looks so happy. She reaches for me, and I pull away and wake.

I am in a restaurant, having dinner with my wife and Tom Calicchio, the host of Top Chef. Somehow I am the waiter as well, although I don't believe at any point I served myself. I am very angry with Tom, who is behaving terribly. He is rude to the busboys, rude to the bartender. Very demanding, and, ultimately, very insulting. At some time I feel he has insulted the restaurant so much that I lose my temper. I stand and say, my finger pointing at him very dramatically, "You, sir, are nothing like the nice man you play on TV." I then approach the table, dressed like the manager, and ask if there is a problem. I the say that "the food is ready--is everyone ready?" Tom says yes, and as I turn he gets up and leaves. Another waiter comes with a tremendous silver bowl on wheels. He lifts the cover and says, "who has the chicken?" Kate says, "I do." He then dips in a spoon, a tremendous wooden spoon--like the decorative ones they hang on walls-- and fills it with a huge mound of gray slop. He walks backward and then with a running start runs toward Kate and flings the slop toward her. It all magicall lands on her plate and suddenly resembles chicken. The entire restaurant stands and applauds. I am very worried that Tom will not return before his steak gets cold.

Still not quite sure what a "mimesis of givenness" means.

I love the idea, although I wonder if she's pushing it a bit too far. I wonder if her analogy of the writer as Anacreon and the reader as Hephaestus makes the reader more god-like than the writer (the more orthodox approach)? I attempted her daydreaming experiment at home, on my own--not entirely succesfull. However, in class, having the Professor instruct us regarding the imagined scene was almost completely succesful. Seems to actually support her thesis, although she claims that she can do it on her own. Not sure what that adds. I do wonder how effective this would be as a deliberate approach to writing. I don't imagine it would be very helpful at all, somewhat like drawing back the curtain on the wizard, only to find him less than impressive.

Thouroughly enjoyed richardson, though it was about halfway that I understood his thesis. Though that just speaks well of him as a writer, because I enjoyed the ride. Really enjoyed his little elbow-asides to Hobson, teasing him just a bit. I imagined Hobson sitting in a stiff backed chair, smoking a pipe, and scrunching his forhead, wincing, every time he came across one of these. ALSO couldn't help but think how he must have loved the quote from Harry Hunt: "left-lateral stroke patients with language difficulties also have considerable difficulty executing hand and arm movements of a novel [he means 'not automatic'] sort." I don't think anyone reading this would have assumed use of the noun form of the word "novel." By drawing attention to it he actually uses it in his arguement. It's subtle, but I swear it was intentional.

I'm still on the fence with Jane Eyre, though I'm the first to admit I approach it with a prejudice. Or maybe more acurately, a fear of Victorian literature. Wide Sargasso Sea was just a pleasure to read, but I do wonder what the experience must be like to read it without the helpful notes (regarding narrators, etc...). Even more dreamlike, I imagine.

Wide Sargaso Sea Pg 111: "That was the last time I had my dream." Very strange. The use of the past tense completely disorients the reader. Especially at the beginning of a new section. Is she referring to what is about to take place, the fire-dream? Or the evening before when she attacks her brother? Either way, she refers to it as "my dream," undoubtedly linking it to the other two dreams that hinge on a man and the forest. Neither of which seem to have anything to do with this moment. Unless she believes she is in the forest. Interesting that this final scene feels so dream-like and real at the same time. In Jane Eyre we have no real visual, yet we feel it is entirely real, no question. Yet in Sargasso Sea, Rhys acheives a surreal effect through a highly detaled scene, a concrete visual. I think Scarry may be of use here. The last two pages have an inordinate amount of "instructions" for the reader, grounding us in some reality, while the time signatures seem to drift--"that was" ; "I know now" ; then "I heard" ; "someone screamed" ; "why did I scream"--and there are the condensations that seem to work in a dream-like way, while still maintaining a reality for the reader: "I walked as though I were flying" ; "It was then I saw her... surrounded by a gilt frame but I knew her." ; "Someone screamed and I thought , why did i scream?"

This is a great image by Marcantonio Raimondi, from aprox. 1508. --The Dream Of Raphael. Full of so many strange details. Note the strange Bosch-like creatures at their feet. Are they the same woman? And note the figures in the windows and doors of the city om fire. Durer accused Raimondi of plagiarism, of simply taking what he liked from various other atists and incorporating them in to one piece.

Dream of the Magi, Master Gislebertus, 1120-30, Stone Cathedral of Saint-Lazare

It's interesting how dreams were so often considered divine. The New Ofxord text reads, "And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road." No mention that it was from an angel, yet it' sdepicted as such. Note the star, and how the angel has opened the eyes of one while the other two sleep.

Daniel Maclise, The Disenchantment of Bottom (1832).

This is a fanatstic and frightening image, of Bottom waking, rather than under the spell. From the little I read about the painting: "on his knee sits a small figure reading over his script for Pyramus and Thisbe."

I had one too many scotches two nights ago--something one should not do when cooking. I forgot to use a towel when I grabbed the roasting pan, and burned my right hand like hell. I wrapped my hand in ice and tried to ignore the pain, sat for an hour till I got tired. I tried to sleep but the pain was too great, and I couldn't very well sleep with my hand on ice--equally uncomfortable. Soon enough, I drifted off and dreamt of my hand on ice--submerged in an ice bucket--and slept really quite well. I believe that the dream of ice gave real relief to my hand, allowing me to sleep, because when I awoke the next morning it hurt like hell once again.

biblestudying.net/ill-statue.html

I chose this image because I think it's fascinating how these dreams continue to captivate so many minds, both religious and secular. In this case, this was one of the few attempts I found at conveying a Biblical dream with modern technology. There seems to be something missing. There is a disagreeable tension between the content, spiritual by way of its religous nature--not to mention the ethereal subject matter of dreaming--and the very precise and almost antispetic medium of the computer graphic. It just doesn't work.