Lily Briscoetag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//682007-05-25T06:59:51ZDream BlogMovable Type Enterprise 1.02Reflections On the Dream Blogtag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.26572007-05-25T06:49:55Z2007-05-25T06:59:51ZAt first I was pretty apprehensive about posting my dreams online for all to see. My Mom and I talk about our dreams all the time, but other than that, I don’t discuss them. As I was getting ready to...Lily Briscoe
At first I was pretty apprehensive about posting my dreams online for all to see. My Mom and I talk about our dreams all the time, but other than that, I don’t discuss them. As I was getting ready to write my first blog entry, I worried that posting my often turbulent dream experiences would expose me as some sort of a psychotic nut job. Thankfully, by studying various theories and approaches to dreams and reading others’ blogs, I feel more comfortable recounting them. Prior to this class, I would probably have agreed with the Freudian view about how all dreams have a meaning. But now I see the dream as a multi-faceted state; not all dreams have some deeper significance to me anymore. I don’t have to judge my life based on a dream evaluation. It's also made me appreciate the workings of the brain. I probably won't continue to blog my dreams, but I'm definitely going to keep a dream journal by my bedside. I think it will be amusing (and perhaps illuminating) to reread these entries after five or ten years. Well, it's getting late, so I'm gonna get some shut-eye. See you in my dreams!
The Long Way Hometag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.26522007-05-25T06:29:42Z2007-05-25T06:31:42ZI’m sitting in my creative writing class, feeling oddly impatient. The class ends, I gather my books, and head out. I’m not on the QC campus. Rather, after I leave the building I find myself on Roosevelt Avenue underneath the...Lily Briscoe
I’m sitting in my creative writing class, feeling oddly impatient. The class ends, I gather my books, and head out. I’m not on the QC campus. Rather, after I leave the building I find myself on Roosevelt Avenue underneath the #7 elevated train. Instead of hopping on a bus to go home, I decide to take a long walk to clear my head because I’m in a bad mood. After walking for a long time (I can’t remember much about this part), I decide to cross the street and head home.
The bus stop’s glass shelter is so large it’s almost a greenhouse. I walk inside, and find that I’m not the only one waiting for a ride. There is a college class taking place inside. And wouldn’t you know—the course was about dreams! I tell them that I’ve taken a similar course at Queens College. I’m talking excitedly, but none of the students share my enthusiasm. They basically ignore me as their teacher, a large, bald, stocky man, lectures them about how to write in a dream journal. I want to interrupt and regale them with my class’s experiences writing about our dreams. The teacher is really condescending and treating the students as if they are kindergarteners. Unfortunately, the next bus won’t be arriving until 1:00 AM, so I’m stuck.
Finally, the dark bus arrives and I walk up the stairs eagerly, with a fistful of coins for my fare. I’m so anxious to get moving that I end up paying $7 for my fare. But I don’t care. I just want to get home. After the class follows me into the bus, we drive off. It’s dawn.
It's a Gas, Gas, Gastag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.26492007-05-25T06:03:08Z2007-05-25T06:05:10ZMy family and I are staying at a hotel. This is strange, because we’ve stopped having family vacations years ago after we all grew up. Anyway, we’re vacationing in a city that’s being targeted by some unknown enemy (way to...Lily Briscoe
My family and I are staying at a hotel. This is strange, because we’ve stopped having family vacations years ago after we all grew up. Anyway, we’re vacationing in a city that’s being targeted by some unknown enemy (way to pick a vacation spot, huh?).
There have been raids in the past, specifically poison gas attacks, so we’ve all been instructed that when the siren goes off, we are all to vacate our rooms and assemble on the patio outside. Apparently, that will save us from choking to death on the poison fumes. However, you only have thirty seconds to get out.
Sure enough, the siren sounds, and we all scramble out of our rooms. The hallway is much longer than it was before, it seems to lengthen as we pass through it. I’m counting down the seconds as I run through the passage. 19. . . 18 . . . 17. . . 16.. . Then I realize that I’ve not counted fast enough; I’m out of time. I take a huge breath and keep running. Finally, I arrive outside, gasping for air.
One by one, each of my family members makes it out okay. But the family across the hall from us hasn’t come out yet. I take out a telescope with x-ray vision and look through the walls. I see the silhouettes of the other family as they choke and writhe, as if they are drowning.
What I feel is a strange mix of horror and relief. I’m traumatized by what I saw happen, but I’m also feeling satisfied and happy that my family has survived.
Now all we have to do is wait until the all-clear sounds so we can go back to our hotel rooms to sleep.
Air Raidtag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.26482007-05-25T05:28:45Z2007-05-25T05:36:06ZBefore 9-11, I used to have strange dreams, but they never really involved anything on a catastrophic level. But since then, I’ve had several dreams that were apocalyptic in nature: bombings, warfare, mass death. Is it just psychological, a reflection...Lily Briscoe
Before 9-11, I used to have strange dreams, but they never really involved anything on a catastrophic level.
But since then, I’ve had several dreams that were apocalyptic in nature: bombings, warfare, mass death. Is it just psychological, a reflection of latent paranoia, or is my brain reacting to what I’ve observed about current violent events by taking the content and images and replaying them during dreams?
Here’s just one example. I’m in bed, trying to get to sleep. Opposite to my bed is a window. The shades are up. In waking life, planes fly over all the time. I’ve lived here most of my life so I’m used to the noise. I can even see the planes through that window sometimes. In the dream, I’m looking out the window when I see a plane approaching. It looks like it’s on a direct course to my window, and as it comes closer and closer I scream because it’s going to crash into the house. But at the last second, the plane flies off. But before I draw a sigh of relief, I see lights in the distance moving steadily towards me. I freak out, because they’re going to crash into the house or drop a bomb on us.
I run downstairs, as if I won’t be hurt if I’m not in my bedroom. After a while downstairs, panicking with the rest of my family, there is a huge explosion. I run upstairs to my room to see what’s happened. My window and part of the wall is completely blown off. Other than that, the damage is minimal. But the explosion has set a fire, which starts to spread rapidly. I grab some of my things and run out.
The rest of my family has already gathered outside. We’re going to get in our car and drive somewhere safe. Our neighbors have already started packing their things and loading them into vehicles.
Say "ahhh!"tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.26472007-05-25T04:50:17Z2007-05-25T04:58:44ZWhat is it about teeth dreams? Why do so many people have them? What’s so damn special about teeth? Why don’t people commonly dream about their eyelids or fingernails? I’ve had my share of teeth dreams. A lot of people...Lily Briscoe
What is it about teeth dreams? Why do so many people have them? What’s so damn special about teeth? Why don’t people commonly dream about their eyelids or fingernails?
I’ve had my share of teeth dreams. A lot of people report that their teeth fall off, but in my dreams, I pull mine out.
Here’s one I had a few days ago:
I feel a dull ache from one of my teeth. My gums are inflamed and sore. The tooth feels chipped and crumbly, so I decide to get it over with and yank it out myself. I tug at my tooth in slow, smooth movements, but it’s not working so well. Finally, after a long time of pulling, the tooth starts to come out. But it’s a lot longer than I thought. When I finally get the tooth out of my aching gums, I realize that it’s the size of a sabretooth!
I stare at it in horror, feeling like a freak and that I’ve disfigured myself. The pain has subsided, but I know that I’ve got to see a dentist and it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg.
Lost Dogtag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.25402007-05-10T15:42:58Z2007-05-10T15:54:10ZOne of my neighbor's dogs, a Yorkshire Terrier named Tequila, has been lost for about a month now. I have a dog of my own, so I know how upset my neighbor must be about it. Anyway, I've been keeping...Lily Briscoe
One of my neighbor's dogs, a Yorkshire Terrier named Tequila, has been lost for about a month now. I have a dog of my own, so I know how upset my neighbor must be about it. Anyway, I've been keeping my eyes peeled for her.
Last week, I dreamed that me and my dog Rocky were playing in the park. For no particular reason, I remembered my neighbor's lost dog, and started to call out her name. "Tequila! Tequila! Where are you?!" This continued for awhile. The park turned into a beach. Then I thought I heard something. I told Rocky to sniff out the little dog. "Come on, boy. You can find her. Use that sniffer of yours. You're a hunting dog."
There were a row of bushes on the boardwalk. I suspected that this might be where Tequila was hiding. "All right, Rocky. Go get her."
And my dog ran off his leash and jumped on a bush. Out scampered the little Yorkie! I cheered and wondered whether I would get a reward for finding the precious pup.
Practice Test #2tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.20512007-04-01T00:26:53Z2007-04-01T00:37:13ZI know I should have written this earlier, but I've been swamped with assignments. Anyway, the second practice exam made me panic a little. I thought the first one was easy, so I was expecting the second one to be...Lily Briscoe
I know I should have written this earlier, but I've been swamped with assignments. Anyway, the second practice exam made me panic a little. I thought the first one was easy, so I was expecting the second one to be likewise, but it was tougher. I realized that I had been overconfident in preparing for the exam so far, and I had to refocus my efforts. In retrospect, I'm glad that the practice test was harder because it pushed me to study more. Now that the honors exam has come and gone, I realize that it was beneficial for me to lose a little confidence.
The Deadtag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18882007-03-13T14:47:25Z2007-03-13T14:56:33ZOkay, I hope this doesn't freak anybody out, but last night I had a dream that someone in our class died. I don't want to say who, because that would just make that person uncomfortable. Anyway, I dreamed that I...Lily Briscoe
Okay, I hope this doesn't freak anybody out, but last night I had a dream that someone in our class died. I don't want to say who, because that would just make that person uncomfortable. Anyway, I dreamed that I was on the blogs when I read a posting that this person died. I was completely shocked and saddened. Everyone was posting comments about how he or she would be missed and how awful the whole situation was. I don't recall exactly how this person died, but someone on the blog mentioned that he or she had a smoking habit. Another blogger said something about our honors exam: "We shouldn't postpone the honors exam. He/She would have wanted us to move forward." In waking life, I do wish that the honors exam would be moved to a later date. That's what I really think the dream is about. It is less about a classmate dying and more about how the honors exam is causing me anxiety.
Dancing Disastertag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18482007-03-10T03:27:04Z2007-03-10T03:37:30ZI took ballet classes when I was twelve. It was my first experience with ballet dancing, and I was a horrible dancer. Even so, I attended every class and performed in the year-end recital. Needless to say, I didn't return...Lily Briscoe
I took ballet classes when I was twelve. It was my first experience with ballet dancing, and I was a horrible dancer. Even so, I attended every class and performed in the year-end recital. Needless to say, I didn't return the following year. Anyway, I've had a couple of dreams that I'm back in ballet class. These dreams always seem to involve a long complicated dance routine that my class and I are performing in front of a large audience. I am the only dancer that is messing up. I trip over my feet, wobble, and fall on my ass time after time, but no one seems to notice. I can hardly remember a single step of the routine, so I'm just copying the others. I feel so embarassed and humiliated, but I keep on dancing. I know I have to finish the routine for the recital.
Writing About Poetrytag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18472007-03-10T03:22:40Z2007-03-10T03:25:02ZWhen I was in high school, poetry terrified me because I did not know how to talk about it. I was too scared to try to interpret a poem because I was worried that I would be way off. Now...Lily Briscoe
When I was in high school, poetry terrified me because I did not know how to talk about it. I was too scared to try to interpret a poem because I was worried that I would be way off. Now that I know that meaning is just one element of a poem, I have more confidence in writing about it. I find it so much easier to write about poetry now that I know how to analyze a poem’s form and style. Maybe I’m in the minority here, but I’m good at scansion. I like to look at a poem piece by piece, structure by structure to apreciate the poet’s artistry. The power of a poem is more than its meaning. It’s in each individual carefully-selected word. I think that when writing about poetry, it helps to be patient. Don’t try to rush into it; let the ideas mingle in your mind for a bit before you start making judgments. And above all, don’t be afraid. I’ve learned that if you feel like poetry is intimidating, that it’s some sublime, untouchable piece of genius, you’ll never feel comfortable with analyzing or writing about it.
In the Station of the Metrotag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18462007-03-10T03:00:21Z2007-03-10T03:01:23ZProbably because the subway is my most frequent mode of transportation, I have had many dreams about trains. I’ve had dreams where the platforms move and shift and I have to keep my balance or fall into the tracks. One...Lily Briscoe
Probably because the subway is my most frequent mode of transportation, I have had many dreams about trains. I’ve had dreams where the platforms move and shift and I have to keep my balance or fall into the tracks. One time I had to jump from one platform to another to get to the right train. In other dreams I don’t even get to the train, because I keep walking down these neverending long dark staircases to get to the subway station, almost as if I’m descending into the underworld. But mostly my train dreams consist of me just missing trains and getting on the wrong one and ending up in the middle of nowhere.
Next time on an all-new Oprah . . . tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18452007-03-10T02:32:46Z2007-03-10T02:43:28Z This dream is about Oprah Winfrey and her best friend Gayle King. I was watching television when I saw an Oprah promo that announced that Gayle had suddenly died. This shocked and saddened me. I felt so bad that...Lily Briscoe
This dream is about Oprah Winfrey and her best friend Gayle King. I was watching television when I saw an Oprah promo that announced that Gayle had suddenly died. This shocked and saddened me. I felt so bad that Oprah lost her. For a while I didn’t know how she died, then my mom said something like “woman cancer.” I guessed that it was ovarian. Later, I found out on the news that they had discovered Gayle’s dead body in her study. Apparently, no one was aware that she was ill.
For some crazy reason, I ended up coming face-to-face with Oprah. I tried to come up with something to comfort her without sounding cliched. I think I mumbled something about remembering the good times (the biggest cliché), but Oprah seemed not to have heard me. Then she looked up and started to stare into the distance. Oprah quietly said, “She is my soul and I am hers.” I was moved by this deeply intimate statement. Then Oprah walked away. I heard from somewhere (I can’t remember) that Gayle had written a diary. Oprah and her people were planning to publish it. I can’t remember the title, but it was funny and poignant at the same time.
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Captivitytag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18442007-03-10T02:24:16Z2007-03-10T02:27:57ZMe, a blond guy with a titanium skeleton like Wolverine and a kangeroo man—half man, half kangeroo—are being held prisoners by a creepy cult. Apparently they don’t want us to expose their shadowy organization’s crazy medical experiments. Now that we...Lily Briscoe
Me, a blond guy with a titanium skeleton like Wolverine and a kangeroo man—half man, half kangeroo—are being held prisoners by a creepy cult. Apparently they don’t want us to expose their shadowy organization’s crazy medical experiments. Now that we are captured, they want to inject some kind of virus into our veins. The cult doctors approach our cage with a huge syringe. Kangeroo Man starts to have a panic attack. At first, I am defiant—“So what? Give me your damn injection!”—but then I realize that if I want to survive and have a chance at escaping, I have to develop a rapport with our captors. Fortunately, after my fellow prisoners and I calm down, they put away the syringe. They throw Blondie and Kangeroo Man in small padded cells (solitary confinement, I guess). Then they hand me a mop and order me to do their housework since I am a girl.
The cult’s house has a computer, and strangely enough, they allow me to use the Internet. Unfortunately, it is impossible to communicate with the outside world. One of the cult members gushes about the organization’s web site. After I type in the web address, a screen comes up, showing an image of twenty playing cards face down. I click one of the cards and it flips over to reveal a gruesome image of a child’s corpse. I click one after another, and each one shows a dead kid lying in a coffin. I muffle my shrieks. I feel like I’m going to faint or vomit. Now I’m even more desperate to escape. I figure that my best chance is to get in the good graces of the cult’s charismatic leader who’s been leering at me while I’ve been vacuuming.
I follow him into the kitchen and start to make some fruit salad. I try to make small talk to distract from the fact that I am cutting the fruit with a large knife. I hope that he doesn’t notice, because this knife is going to be my ticket out of here. All I need is for him to get a little closer so I can grab him and place a knife next to his throat. Before I know it though, he’s started kissing me, and I’m not fighting back because my body is paralyzed. All I can do is just stand there hopelessly, with a knife in my hand while he kisses me.
The Mystical Deertag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18432007-03-10T01:27:01Z2007-03-10T01:39:17ZI’m in a forest at night. Several other people are wandering through the trees carrying small lanterns to light the way. I stand on the bank of a small stream. Suddenly, a large ashy white tree trunk floats by. The...Lily Briscoe
I’m in a forest at night. Several other people are wandering through the trees carrying small lanterns to light the way. I stand on the bank of a small stream. Suddenly, a large ashy white tree trunk floats by. The head of a deer is attached to the trunk. There are no branches, but the roots are still attached. The deer has antlers and a soft, gentle wisdom about him. After the white tree passes, I speak to some of the other people in the woods about it. “Did you see it? What does it mean? Where did it come from?” I don't really listen to their replies, because I become so entranced by their appearances. I notice that everyone I talk to has a similar face like the deer. Something about their serene eyes and expressions. I feel that something magical and mystical has happened and I wonder whether my own face has changed as well. I approach the stream so I can look at my reflection, but I wake up before I have the opportunity. Why do my dreams always end at the most important parts? Is my inner censor (as Freud would put it) trying to keep me from some sort of a realization or epiphany?
Practice Examtag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0906N_1432/019//68.18422007-03-10T01:02:39Z2007-03-10T01:19:02ZI think I did pretty well on the practice test, considering that I didn't really study for it and I suck at remembering dates. I do have a pretty good memory at remembering character names, plot details, and themes, so...Lily Briscoe
I think I did pretty well on the practice test, considering that I didn't really study for it and I suck at remembering dates. I do have a pretty good memory at remembering character names, plot details, and themes, so it wasn't hard for me to identify almost all of the fiction passages. But I was mostly unsure about the poetry and historical documents. Now I know what I need to concentrate on the most. Also, I need to review the style and techniques of each historical period so I can more effectively explain my answers. It's one thing to know what the passage is and who wrote it; it's another to know why it exemplifies a certain literary period. I guess I'll be hitting the books pretty hard from now until the 23rd.