And in today's blog I shall be engaging in the pursuit of examining last night's dream. And to stave off the boredom I shall be delving into the investigation of the residual latent late night imagery of the dreams of nights, and any nights, I may be able to remember.
But first there is a curious anomaly of the imagination which I wish to relate, personable to myself in particular, and particular to an experience that I had a little earlier on in the day.
In fact, it was in the afternoon and, having awoken at an early enough time that, by twelve midday, I needed a nap. And so I lay down, and was relaxing in the weariness of the morning's work, and was drifting with the feeling of thoughts. It was such a feeling, that I noticed, that the experience of my thoughts was not so much an intuition of inner awareness, of some self-luminated observation, yet it was a feeling of the feeling of my thoughts - that is, the way the thoughts were structed in the biophysical structure of what I know as my brain. Thoughts would come, yes, but I was concentrating (in so many ways) on the perception of the constructs of thought, rather than the thoughts themselves. I enjoyed such an endeavour. Effectively, the content of the thoughts was lost, yet I felt that a self-illumined presence of light could be physically felt somewhere at the top of my head. Such was the subtle pleasure of the feeling, that in some nebulous state of half-consciousness, I began to visualise the sense in which my eyes were not closed, and could begin to see myself, still laying in my bed, yet in the light of day, as if my eyes were still open.
I have fears, and am most concerned, that one day I will transition from the happy vestibule that is my own physical body, and into another mind, and hence will surely know my own death. Such is the legacy of my deceased acquaintances (hello uncle mick). Hence, I shook lightly out from the phase, and yet kept my eyes closed, and I was able to be refreshed within twenty minutes and no more. Therein lies the tale!
However, last nights dreaming can be approached in discussion by the inclusion of a memory of a lane, and one which led to the house - somewhere far away, perhaps in Greece, or Saint Lucia - that belongs to the father of my good friend Adam, and he drove there in his good Mercedes, and it was a fine house.
There is a nuance of a Miss Piggy type female, largely like unto that porcine version of a female acquaintance, Aoutif, upon whose large bosom was written some paragraph in some gothic, or other style of academic writing.
Yet, I am failing to recall these reflections at the current time.
Yet, I am at Glastonbury, and have gone there with Richard and Rob, two friends with very different characters. The former is a medical doctor, and the latter is an IT technician with musical sensibilities, and yet they had similar stature within the dream. Coffee is served at one of the festival's tented cafeterias, and I can hear the festival booming in the background, and I am now alone, and this is about hash. It is a lovely plan to visit Amsterdam, and the famous coffee shops there, and I am playing cards, and that is a dreamscape. We traipse across fields, and at once a boat can take us across some field, and I fell into the water, and was pitied by both the doctor and the technician. Yet the field is vast, and tractors and trees and worn paths draw my attention to something else, so far away.
There is a building. Or, there are buildings, and there is a causeway, a canal, a bridge, art museums. It is London.
I am glad I have quit recreational drugs. There are remnants of my druggy past in dreams, but now, and even in those, I am aware that I have fully come off them. The traversal around festival sites is now still nebulous, but grainy, and bitty, and with pixelated luminance. Sometimes I cannot tell the difference between dreams and reality. And I enjoy my thoughts. I suppose many people do. I enjoy the thinking styles, and the exploration of time and consciousness. I watch a central light. And sometimes I engage in the avoidance of the light, and other times I engage in the light fully. I was once enamoured with language and its games, and yet now I am more natural and more concerned with expressing momentary observations, within the limits of my own learned moral rules.
Sometimes I have good days, and other times I have bad days. I feel I have learned a modicum of control I once never had. You have to have a certain amount of pain to know your limitations. Some of my behaviour has often led to painful experiences, and I feel this is a natural impression of ethical law making, by the intuition itself. I feel settled into life now, and I hope it remains like this. I am lucky in this sense.
In the dream of Adam's father I felt as though he was of a mind to consider me troublesome. I would like to know to what degree he actually thinks this way, it being the case that I haven't seen David in many years, yet have recently had good conversations with his son.
I daresay it is hardly worth pursuing the psychology of logic, yet it is tempting.
I am afraid my endeavour has not been a success. I cannot remember my dreams. All I can remember are country pathways, and routes past tractors and haybales, going towards a distant compound, enclosed by fences, and I know this is a contained unit within which I envisage a perfect white woman, all brunette and full of druggy fun. There she is. I can see a festival, and these places are my most exhilarating environments.
There is a machine, all cogged and churning. And there is a field. That is the entirety of the recollection.
Dreams and nothing more
Hi, how's it going?
And in today's blog I shall be engaging in the pursuit of examining last night's dream. And to stave off the boredom I shall be delving into the investigation of the residual latent late night imagery of the dreams of nights, and any nights, I may be able to remember.
But first there is a curious anomaly of the imagination which I wish to relate, personable to myself in particular, and particular to an experience that I had a little earlier on in the day.
In fact, it was in the afternoon and, having awoken at an early enough time that, by twelve midday, I needed a nap. And so I lay down, and was relaxing in the weariness of the morning's work, and was drifting with the feeling of thoughts. It was such a feeling, that I noticed, that the experience of my thoughts was not so much an intuition of inner awareness, of some self-luminated observation, yet it was a feeling of the feeling of my thoughts - that is, the way the thoughts were structed in the biophysical structure of what I know as my brain. Thoughts would come, yes, but I was concentrating (in so many ways) on the perception of the constructs of thought, rather than the thoughts themselves. I enjoyed such an endeavour. Effectively, the content of the thoughts was lost, yet I felt that a self-illumined presence of light could be physically felt somewhere at the top of my head. Such was the subtle pleasure of the feeling, that in some nebulous state of half-consciousness, I began to visualise the sense in which my eyes were not closed, and could begin to see myself, still laying in my bed, yet in the light of day, as if my eyes were still open.
I have fears, and am most concerned, that one day I will transition from the happy vestibule that is my own physical body, and into another mind, and hence will surely know my own death. Such is the legacy of my deceased acquaintances (hello uncle mick). Hence, I shook lightly out from the phase, and yet kept my eyes closed, and I was able to be refreshed within twenty minutes and no more. Therein lies the tale!
However, last nights dreaming can be approached in discussion by the inclusion of a memory of a lane, and one which led to the house - somewhere far away, perhaps in Greece, or Saint Lucia - that belongs to the father of my good friend Adam, and he drove there in his good Mercedes, and it was a fine house.
There is a nuance of a Miss Piggy type female, largely like unto that porcine version of a female acquaintance, Aoutif, upon whose large bosom was written some paragraph in some gothic, or other style of academic writing.
Yet, I am failing to recall these reflections at the current time.
Yet, I am at Glastonbury, and have gone there with Richard and Rob, two friends with very different characters. The former is a medical doctor, and the latter is an IT technician with musical sensibilities, and yet they had similar stature within the dream. Coffee is served at one of the festival's tented cafeterias, and I can hear the festival booming in the background, and I am now alone, and this is about hash. It is a lovely plan to visit Amsterdam, and the famous coffee shops there, and I am playing cards, and that is a dreamscape. We traipse across fields, and at once a boat can take us across some field, and I fell into the water, and was pitied by both the doctor and the technician. Yet the field is vast, and tractors and trees and worn paths draw my attention to something else, so far away.
There is a building. Or, there are buildings, and there is a causeway, a canal, a bridge, art museums. It is London.
I am glad I have quit recreational drugs. There are remnants of my druggy past in dreams, but now, and even in those, I am aware that I have fully come off them. The traversal around festival sites is now still nebulous, but grainy, and bitty, and with pixelated luminance. Sometimes I cannot tell the difference between dreams and reality. And I enjoy my thoughts. I suppose many people do. I enjoy the thinking styles, and the exploration of time and consciousness. I watch a central light. And sometimes I engage in the avoidance of the light, and other times I engage in the light fully. I was once enamoured with language and its games, and yet now I am more natural and more concerned with expressing momentary observations, within the limits of my own learned moral rules.
Sometimes I have good days, and other times I have bad days. I feel I have learned a modicum of control I once never had. You have to have a certain amount of pain to know your limitations. Some of my behaviour has often led to painful experiences, and I feel this is a natural impression of ethical law making, by the intuition itself. I feel settled into life now, and I hope it remains like this. I am lucky in this sense.
In the dream of Adam's father I felt as though he was of a mind to consider me troublesome. I would like to know to what degree he actually thinks this way, it being the case that I haven't seen David in many years, yet have recently had good conversations with his son.
I daresay it is hardly worth pursuing the psychology of logic, yet it is tempting.
I am afraid my endeavour has not been a success. I cannot remember my dreams. All I can remember are country pathways, and routes past tractors and haybales, going towards a distant compound, enclosed by fences, and I know this is a contained unit within which I envisage a perfect white woman, all brunette and full of druggy fun. There she is. I can see a festival, and these places are my most exhilarating environments.
There is a machine, all cogged and churning. And there is a field. That is the entirety of the recollection.
I have nothing more to add.
Daniel
x