Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Dream a little dream of me

Every night I welcome what the world of unconsciousness decides to bring.
Dare I say, I look forward to it. Anything can happen in a dream - horrible, magnificent, ridiculous, simple. You could go to class and not have your homework, or you could win the lottery and go on a shopping spree. You could be best friends with a celebrity or run for your life as a serial killer is chasing you.

The best is when you become aware you are dreaming.
"Can I manipulate my unconscious? Can I find a way to make this dream go how I want it to?"

Sometimes. It's rare but sometimes, it works, and those are my favorite. Suddenly you're in control of your own fantasy world, and unlike a daydream, it's damn near real. You can feel and taste things that you would otherwise need an insanely intense imagination to recreate while fully conscious.

Freud may have been full of shit but dreams are still interesting and may say more about you than you think. Sure, they could be the random firing of neurons as your body rests and recuperates from a long day. They could be a random assortment of thoughts and images you've experienced recently. Or it could be your subconscious sorting through issues and uncertainties in a crazy fantasy world it made for this specific purpose. I'm going to discount the random firings, personally, because if it were so completely random, there would be no way for you to control it or to have dreams that follow any sequence that makes sense. Maybe the random firing starts the process, but somewhere along the line the imagery and symbolism takes over.

I love dreaming. As sad as it is, sometimes it is the highlight of my day. The every day gets boring - repetitive and exhausting, it's not really all that fun. Dreams though - you never know what is coming your way, if you'll remember or if you'll control it.

Comfortable bed - check.
Warm comforter - check.
Plush pillows - check.

Ready. Set. Dream.

Monday, March 30, 2009


You sit there, idly fiddling with your hair, twisting it between your fingers not unlike the actions your two-year-old self did years ago. A creature of habit, you regress to these behaviors unconsciously and use them as a pacifier. Calm those twitching nerves, ease that uncomfortable twinge in your stomach.

Don't bother to wonder why you feel this way. Don't ask what could possibly be causing these feelings. That would be too direct, too easy. It would lead to a solution before  ready... if you'll ever be ready. 

You always put things off. Procrastination is key. Why? Though you've never truly failed, you've never truly succeeded. It's done nothing to help you. You use procrastination as a defense. Procrastination takes the form of a safety net, ready to cradle your inevitable fall. You can't truly fail if you never truly tap into that reserve of potential and talent others say you have. If you fail, it's because you didn't use all the power you have. You can't risk failing without that net. The fall would surely be your demise - breaking all your bones and your spirit as well.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Another pick from Plath

I'll have phases where something grabs my attention. It ranges from minor interest to full-blown obsession. Bones would be a full-blown obsession.

Sylvia Plath's work has been something that I kind of fell into in 11th grade and would read once in a while (just her poems though) through now. Last semester during my creative writing class we had to do an imitation poem. Our assignment was to write a poem in a style similar to a famous poet. I picked Sylvia.

I just finished reading The Bell Jar. It was definitely an interesting read. I started it Thursday and finished it today and that was with stuff to do in between. I measure how much I love a book by my inability to put it down. 

One plus side of buying a book - you can write in it. I can mark passages I like or feel especially moved by - something that I might relate to.

From page 77 of The Bell Jar

"I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

That was the part that really resonated - it's the last part of three paragraphs that draw out a metaphor between a her life and a fig tree. Each fig was a different future, a life she could follow and live. 

I just really love the way Sylvia Plath wrote. Even though I have no idea what most of her poems mean, they're beautiful. The language, the images, the sounds they produce - they're brilliant.

Her life was sad. Despite being so talented, driven, and smart, she lived in the bell jar. Girl went crazy.

I kind of wish she was never successful with that suicide. What would have happened had she failed like the previous times? Would she still be as well known as she is today? Or did her sudden and untimely death help push her into the spotlight? 

What would she have written if she had lived? What other pieces of art could she have given us to read?

Next on my list of things to read is the unabridged collection of her journals. It seems like it's such a big invasion of privacy to read someone's journals. Those are rarely, if ever, intended for the public eye. It's not like the world of blogs today. But I'm sure her family signed off on it and thought it would be a good way to honor her.

"For the first time in my life, sitting there in the soundproof heart of the UN building between Constantin who could play tennis as well as simultaneously interpret and the Russian girl who knew so many idioms, I felt dreadfully inadequate. The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it."

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Joining the Craze

Everyone is talking about blogs and what not so here I am.


The name for this blog is from a Sylvia Plath poem - "The Jailor"

I read it the other night and loved this one stanza.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.

Anyhoo - I have more than enough sites to talk about myself. I really don't need another. I'm not sure what I'll use this for. *shrugs*