All this talk about dreams being in the underworld made me think of the movie Waking Life. For those of you who has not yet been enlightened by this film, a large part of the film has to do with lucid dreaming, which is when you realize you are dreaming and are able to make decisions while in sleep.
One way that the makers of the film suggest you can do this is by flicking light switches on and off during your daylife, because in dreams, you cannot adjust light levels. Therefore, you will get in such a habit of switching switches that when you do it in your dream, you will be able to determine you are dreaming when you are unable to turn the light off and on (this is, of course, assuming your dayworld invades your underworld, which Hillman would disagree with). After you realize you are dreaming, theoretically, you are able to make decisions and do pretty much whatever you like in the dream.
When it comes to Hillman, however, I am not sure how to apply this theory. If the dreams belong in the underworld, are we or can we control them? In class today, we said that dreams are supposed to be where you let go of the real world and let the underworld take over. If we do find a way to become an active role in our dreams, should we? Would Hillman acknowledge this phenomenon of lucid dreaming? Where does lucid dreaming belong in the underworld?
It seems as though, according to Hillman, we should not be able to control our dreams in any facet. If the person is aware enough to know they are dreaming, I wonder if they have even entered the underworld. If you are consciuos enough to make rational decisions, then it would seem as though the dayworld is invading the underworld. This is interesting, because Hillman thus far has only addressed the problems of bringing the underworld into the dayworld after the person has woken up and began to analyze the dream. Where do dreams lie if the dayworld is seeping into the underworld when the person is physically in the state of dreaming? Are they still in the underworld or have they reentered the realm of the dayworld?
This really intrigues me, because in my own experience, I have at times been able to realize I'm dreaming and been able to make decisions. For example, at one point in a dream, I was in the woods and became face-to-face with a tiger. At first, I was understandably frightened for my life. A moment later, I realized I was sleeping and I could fight the tiger. So I fought the tiger and won.
I am not a big fan of being able to control my dreams. My fiance has always been jealous; he's wanted to lucid dream for years and to no avail. I do think I think that dreaming is when the dreamer can let go and let the dream take over. I don't want to be able to make rational decisions; I have enough rational decisions to make in the dayworld.
So am I infringing on the underworld when I realize I am dreaming and decide to take action and possibly change the outcome of the dream? Or am I still in the underworld?
28 February 2007
26 February 2007
550: Response to Michael Earl Craig and Surrealist Poetry
After dating an artist for five years, one would think that I have a firm grasp on the art movements, and in some ways, I do. However, although my significant other has made some surrealist-influenced art (which I may bring pictures in), surrealism has always seemed to slip between my fingers. Even in art history classes and in literature classes that have addressed surrealism, I have had a hard time wrapping my brain around what it all means and how it functions.
Needless to say, when I started reading Michael Earl Craig’s Yes, Master the usual anti-surrealism grunts began to escape my lips. So I forced my fiancé to read some of the poems and show me how and why they are surrealism. I am going to assume that others have had a hard time “getting” surrealism so here are some things that he told me that helped me grasp the idea (kind of…):
• A common surrealist saying is that surrealism is the unexpected meeting of an umbrella and a sewing machine on a dissection table
• Surrealism has to make just enough sense to make sense (it made sense to me when he said it, although writing it out makes it not seem to make sense… maybe that is a surrealist way of explaining surrealism.) For example, it is like saying something smells like purple. It's a fundamental truth that you can only explain in a way that doesn't make sense.
• Surrealism takes you where you least expected to go
With those explanations in mind, I jumped back into Craig, and I think I can now see some of the ways characteristics of surrealist poetry.
“Piece” was one of my favorite Craig poems even without the surrealism explanation. One of my favorite parts is, “After living with it for a short while he had the house removed” (4). Pre-explanation, I thought this was an interesting line, and after talking to Nathan, I realized that this is part of what makes this a surrealist poem: it is unexpected. Who would think that somebody would remove a house from a particular piece of art. From then on, the poem is harder to relate to, because the whole idea of removing a house and just putting pieces of art on the lawn is so far beyond reality. At the same time, however, it still kind of makes sense. It is not so absurd that the reader cannot imagine somebody doing this. The last stanza also seem hard to grasp but a vivid image nonetheless: “Because the neighbors were believers they could say among other things that they saw his strange wheelbarrow parked outside in the snow with its human ankles for handles” (4). In some strange way, this could be real, but it also hard to grasp and vague. What exactly did the neighbors believe in? Is the wheelbarrow part of the art? Are the human ankles the “he” found throughout the poem or are they also part of the artwork? I can almost see the wheelbarrow with the ankle handles and the neighbors peering out through the curtain at it, but I am still unclear as to what it actually is.
Throughout the rest of the book I just marked places where there were unexpected turns or lines or stanzas that seemed to come out of nowhere. Here are some of the interesting twists and turns Craig takes us on:
• In “The Interview”: “They make me think of potatoes, it’s the first thing I think of, and they’re in my underpants” (8). Unexpected: takes reader by surprise. Not sure what it means, but it's an amusing stanza
• In “Axiom”: “For who among us has not stood on the bank and thought about it, and wondered about the others? Then a
meteor shower came down and hit the man” (9). This is an unexpected event/turn in the poem.
• In “In the Januaried Mountains”: “I think about how a butterfly, if permitted, will crawl neurotically all over a soldier’s face for half an hour” (11). Well, I guess that could happen, but I never imagined somebody would think this or assume a butterfly would do this.
• The whole poem “Edward” (20) seemed random and didn’t seem to connect, in any obvious way anyway.
• In “Glass of Vodka”: What is the word for when a nun rolls a boulder away from the mouth of a cave or tomb?” (31) Here there is imagery of Jesus’s tomb; however, before Jesus rose, there was no Catholicism and thus no nun to roll away the boulder. Also, there is no word for this, and why would anybody think there would be? At this point in the poem, the person in it is looking at somebody through the bottom of a glass, so I get the feeling that this poem is about distorted imagery (maybe explaining the presence of a nun at Jesus’s tomb).
• In “Albert Often Cracked His Knuckles,” there are a few changes. First, there is a change from third person to first person: “The man on the ground started laughing, which was uncharacteristic for this man, I know because I am him” (34). There is also a change when there is “a knock at the bedroom door” forcing the reader to think this whole thing has been somebody else’s writing. Then the poem ends with “’No, Albert, this isn’t your mother” (35) making the knocking at the door an actual part of the story.
• In “We Picture the President,” Craig describes the president doing very specific things and assuming that everybody pictures him doing this. However, the things are so strange and specific, I doubt anybody besides Craig has thought about it, despite the fact that he seems to assume everybody has thought about it.
I’ll stop here before this paper becomes too long. I did also want to mention that there is a surrealist game called An Exquisite Corpse that is very interesting and actually fun. Let me know if you want to know more about it. We may even be able to play it over blogs.
Here is a picture of one of Nathan's surrealist-inspired sculptures:
Needless to say, when I started reading Michael Earl Craig’s Yes, Master the usual anti-surrealism grunts began to escape my lips. So I forced my fiancé to read some of the poems and show me how and why they are surrealism. I am going to assume that others have had a hard time “getting” surrealism so here are some things that he told me that helped me grasp the idea (kind of…):
• A common surrealist saying is that surrealism is the unexpected meeting of an umbrella and a sewing machine on a dissection table
• Surrealism has to make just enough sense to make sense (it made sense to me when he said it, although writing it out makes it not seem to make sense… maybe that is a surrealist way of explaining surrealism.) For example, it is like saying something smells like purple. It's a fundamental truth that you can only explain in a way that doesn't make sense.
• Surrealism takes you where you least expected to go
With those explanations in mind, I jumped back into Craig, and I think I can now see some of the ways characteristics of surrealist poetry.
“Piece” was one of my favorite Craig poems even without the surrealism explanation. One of my favorite parts is, “After living with it for a short while he had the house removed” (4). Pre-explanation, I thought this was an interesting line, and after talking to Nathan, I realized that this is part of what makes this a surrealist poem: it is unexpected. Who would think that somebody would remove a house from a particular piece of art. From then on, the poem is harder to relate to, because the whole idea of removing a house and just putting pieces of art on the lawn is so far beyond reality. At the same time, however, it still kind of makes sense. It is not so absurd that the reader cannot imagine somebody doing this. The last stanza also seem hard to grasp but a vivid image nonetheless: “Because the neighbors were believers they could say among other things that they saw his strange wheelbarrow parked outside in the snow with its human ankles for handles” (4). In some strange way, this could be real, but it also hard to grasp and vague. What exactly did the neighbors believe in? Is the wheelbarrow part of the art? Are the human ankles the “he” found throughout the poem or are they also part of the artwork? I can almost see the wheelbarrow with the ankle handles and the neighbors peering out through the curtain at it, but I am still unclear as to what it actually is.
Throughout the rest of the book I just marked places where there were unexpected turns or lines or stanzas that seemed to come out of nowhere. Here are some of the interesting twists and turns Craig takes us on:
• In “The Interview”: “They make me think of potatoes, it’s the first thing I think of, and they’re in my underpants” (8). Unexpected: takes reader by surprise. Not sure what it means, but it's an amusing stanza
• In “Axiom”: “For who among us has not stood on the bank and thought about it, and wondered about the others? Then a
meteor shower came down and hit the man” (9). This is an unexpected event/turn in the poem.
• In “In the Januaried Mountains”: “I think about how a butterfly, if permitted, will crawl neurotically all over a soldier’s face for half an hour” (11). Well, I guess that could happen, but I never imagined somebody would think this or assume a butterfly would do this.
• The whole poem “Edward” (20) seemed random and didn’t seem to connect, in any obvious way anyway.
• In “Glass of Vodka”: What is the word for when a nun rolls a boulder away from the mouth of a cave or tomb?” (31) Here there is imagery of Jesus’s tomb; however, before Jesus rose, there was no Catholicism and thus no nun to roll away the boulder. Also, there is no word for this, and why would anybody think there would be? At this point in the poem, the person in it is looking at somebody through the bottom of a glass, so I get the feeling that this poem is about distorted imagery (maybe explaining the presence of a nun at Jesus’s tomb).
• In “Albert Often Cracked His Knuckles,” there are a few changes. First, there is a change from third person to first person: “The man on the ground started laughing, which was uncharacteristic for this man, I know because I am him” (34). There is also a change when there is “a knock at the bedroom door” forcing the reader to think this whole thing has been somebody else’s writing. Then the poem ends with “’No, Albert, this isn’t your mother” (35) making the knocking at the door an actual part of the story.
• In “We Picture the President,” Craig describes the president doing very specific things and assuming that everybody pictures him doing this. However, the things are so strange and specific, I doubt anybody besides Craig has thought about it, despite the fact that he seems to assume everybody has thought about it.
I’ll stop here before this paper becomes too long. I did also want to mention that there is a surrealist game called An Exquisite Corpse that is very interesting and actually fun. Let me know if you want to know more about it. We may even be able to play it over blogs.
Here is a picture of one of Nathan's surrealist-inspired sculptures:
23 February 2007
510: Thoughts on oceans
After having water dreams for years and giving a presentation on water in class, I have become fascinated by the idea of water being the image-soul’s delight in death and the ego-soul’s fear of drowning. I still haven’t wrapped my brain around it completely, but hopefully after more research and exploration into theories on water and water in literature, I will understand it more completely. Here are my thoughts thus far:Hillman expressed the importance in looking at the type of water that is in the dream. For example, a river has the ability to suck you down whereas a vast deep lake has the ability to hold you up and allow you to float. My fascination lies in the ocean, not only because of my big waves dream but also because of the vastness. The ocean seems to contain aspects of rivers and lakes: at times it is placid and could allow you to float but at other times, the waves are large and it then has the ability to suck you in deeper than a river would. The ocean is unpredictable.
I have also thought about literature and real life stories that have portrayed men and women who travel across oceans. It seems as though people who go out seeking new land may in fact delight in the possibility of death. As I’ve already stated, the ocean is unpredictable, and nobody can know when a storm will be so bad to sink a ship. Or the explorer could have placid seas throughout the trip. They don’t know; they are going out into the unknown knowingly risking life and limb.
I still need to do a lot more pondering and research on the subject. Any suggestions of places to look/books to consider are more than welcome.
21 February 2007
510: Dream
In the dream my parent's Jack Russell terrier, Dozer, had taken to chewing tobacco. He was walking around the living room gnawing on a clump of tobacco, and since he lacks control of his lips, yellow liquid seeped out of his mouth and onto the floor. My nana commented on how disgusting it was and asked us why we let him continue with such a "nasty habit." My dad started to explain how we let him do as he chooses, and if wanted to chew tobacco, he could chew tobacco.
20 February 2007
510: Dream
The whole dream takes place in a courtroom. I arrive and find out that Luke has been arrested and is not on trial for murder. I instantly feel bad because Luke had called me earlier and I failed to answer it and call him back. I am sure he called to let me know about his situation. All of the graduate students and teaching assistants are there to support Luke during the trial. I wake up before the trial actually begins.
19 February 2007
550: Valparaiso-inspired poems
After having trouble doing a formalist poem, I decided to find another poem to replicate. The poem "Going Blind" really hit home with me. My father started to lose his hearing when he was in the Air Force based in Okinawa during the Vietnam War, so throughout my life I have seen the progression and the way the hearing goes and the way people try to make up for the loss. I was a little hesitant about writing it about such a similar thing, but the idea came as soon as I read "Going Blind" and I was inspired.
GOING BLIND
What happens is that one eye loses interest.
His children's faces look like painted plates.
His wife walks into the wallpaper and the cat
disappears completely.
He doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't complain.
He calls it his bad eye and gets used to it.
The other eye sees better than before.
Nothing is difficult.
When he sees nothing with the eye he closes it
to watch the shapes that float behind shut lids.
Still there a candle in the window lightning over water.
His talent is for special effects.
He quits his job and seldom leaves the house.
The good eye shifts to heroic scale.
Each day he wakes to catch a different scene.
The patterns are landscapes unpeopled and remote
places he has never seen. These are the hills of Samarkand
he thinks the Costa Brava Patagonia
there is so much to see.
He can easily ignore three whiskers thick as broomsticks
and his own life-sized reflection in the closing green ellipse
pleading Feed me. Feed me.
© by Annette Basalyga
So I attempted to replicate it:
GOING DEAF
First, it is just an added hum.
The hum overshadows other sounds:
The shouts of the children are mere words
thrown at one another, the wife’s dialogue
is blocked out by the uncontrollable hum.
He shrugs it off. It’s just the way things go,
he tells himself. The other ear will just work overtime.
Everything is normal.
When the audio from the television miss the ear,
the hand rises, scooping up the noise
like one scoops up water from a river to drink.
Social gatherings are harder, with noise attacking the one ear
from every direction, while the other continues on with it’s vacation.
The excuses start. Why leave the house
when we have invigorating company right here?
The right ear trundles on.
The hearing becomes selective.
The left ear learns when to tune in
and when to carry on in its own thoughts.
The ear hears what it wants to hear.
Regular conversations would sound like shouting matches
to anyone outside the house.
Repetition becomes a way of life.
The right ear begs the left ear to pay attention,
but the left ear is gone.
Like Melanie, I also had a hard time to find a poem I didn't like, so did Ed's poem choice for last week, "34-Counter" (no offense Ed). I chose it because I really dislike football for several reasons and therefore dislike most things dealing with it. Here is that poem:
34-COUNTER
There is something in the silence
between huddle and the line.
Somewhere between tickling sweat
trickling down the plinko-board hair
on our arms, the dog breath panting through
full-caged masks, the calls of eagles, audibles
of confusion, some place where within this war
there is a much needed turning point.
There is no cold, no numb, no pain, no guilt;
in the silence exists just grass, lines, us
and the enemy. The trick lies in not leaning
when pulling, to play it bluffed, and when
the cadence beats, the hike comes, the steamroll takes
hold, guard and tackle, foot-for-foot, toe-to-heel,
belly out the war cry of the single greatest
tool in ground-to-ground warfare.
© by Jason Huskey
Here is my parody:
34 – COUNTER
(Whatever that means)
There is something in writing poems
among sports fans.
Somewhere between references
that go over some people’s heads
who do not enjoy the sport, the language
of the sport that some people may not
pick up on, some place within this poem
there is a much needed explanation.
There is no point, no goal, no deeper meaning;
in the poem exists just references, sports analogies,
that are only useful to people who are in-the-know.
The trick is to possibly lead the unaware reader
that they’re reading about something else,
and when a sports fan reads it, the explanation comes.
The realization takes hold, wonderment and astonishment.
Belly out the frustration of the single greatest
agony of reading a poem about football.
And here is my attempt to replicate it:
PHILLIPS
There is something in the silence
in the moments before mounting the beam.
Somewhere between the butterflies
fluttering next to the stomach lining,
the shaking hands that in moments will need
to be still, the sound of judges announcing
previous scores, some place where in the body
something needs to take control.
There is no time to worry, no time to feel previous pains;
in the silence exists just the beam, the chalk,
and me. The trick lies in not just leaping on
when the salute is given, to take that extra moment, and when
the footsteps beat against the mat, the mount arrives, the control takes
hold, flip and leap, hand over head, feet pointed always,
belly out the sigh of relief of sticking the mount
and saluting the judges before the shaking returns.
GOING BLIND
What happens is that one eye loses interest.
His children's faces look like painted plates.
His wife walks into the wallpaper and the cat
disappears completely.
He doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't complain.
He calls it his bad eye and gets used to it.
The other eye sees better than before.
Nothing is difficult.
When he sees nothing with the eye he closes it
to watch the shapes that float behind shut lids.
Still there a candle in the window lightning over water.
His talent is for special effects.
He quits his job and seldom leaves the house.
The good eye shifts to heroic scale.
Each day he wakes to catch a different scene.
The patterns are landscapes unpeopled and remote
places he has never seen. These are the hills of Samarkand
he thinks the Costa Brava Patagonia
there is so much to see.
He can easily ignore three whiskers thick as broomsticks
and his own life-sized reflection in the closing green ellipse
pleading Feed me. Feed me.
© by Annette Basalyga
So I attempted to replicate it:
GOING DEAF
First, it is just an added hum.
The hum overshadows other sounds:
The shouts of the children are mere words
thrown at one another, the wife’s dialogue
is blocked out by the uncontrollable hum.
He shrugs it off. It’s just the way things go,
he tells himself. The other ear will just work overtime.
Everything is normal.
When the audio from the television miss the ear,
the hand rises, scooping up the noise
like one scoops up water from a river to drink.
Social gatherings are harder, with noise attacking the one ear
from every direction, while the other continues on with it’s vacation.
The excuses start. Why leave the house
when we have invigorating company right here?
The right ear trundles on.
The hearing becomes selective.
The left ear learns when to tune in
and when to carry on in its own thoughts.
The ear hears what it wants to hear.
Regular conversations would sound like shouting matches
to anyone outside the house.
Repetition becomes a way of life.
The right ear begs the left ear to pay attention,
but the left ear is gone.
Like Melanie, I also had a hard time to find a poem I didn't like, so did Ed's poem choice for last week, "34-Counter" (no offense Ed). I chose it because I really dislike football for several reasons and therefore dislike most things dealing with it. Here is that poem:
34-COUNTER
There is something in the silence
between huddle and the line.
Somewhere between tickling sweat
trickling down the plinko-board hair
on our arms, the dog breath panting through
full-caged masks, the calls of eagles, audibles
of confusion, some place where within this war
there is a much needed turning point.
There is no cold, no numb, no pain, no guilt;
in the silence exists just grass, lines, us
and the enemy. The trick lies in not leaning
when pulling, to play it bluffed, and when
the cadence beats, the hike comes, the steamroll takes
hold, guard and tackle, foot-for-foot, toe-to-heel,
belly out the war cry of the single greatest
tool in ground-to-ground warfare.
© by Jason Huskey
Here is my parody:
34 – COUNTER
(Whatever that means)
There is something in writing poems
among sports fans.
Somewhere between references
that go over some people’s heads
who do not enjoy the sport, the language
of the sport that some people may not
pick up on, some place within this poem
there is a much needed explanation.
There is no point, no goal, no deeper meaning;
in the poem exists just references, sports analogies,
that are only useful to people who are in-the-know.
The trick is to possibly lead the unaware reader
that they’re reading about something else,
and when a sports fan reads it, the explanation comes.
The realization takes hold, wonderment and astonishment.
Belly out the frustration of the single greatest
agony of reading a poem about football.
And here is my attempt to replicate it:
PHILLIPS
There is something in the silence
in the moments before mounting the beam.
Somewhere between the butterflies
fluttering next to the stomach lining,
the shaking hands that in moments will need
to be still, the sound of judges announcing
previous scores, some place where in the body
something needs to take control.
There is no time to worry, no time to feel previous pains;
in the silence exists just the beam, the chalk,
and me. The trick lies in not just leaping on
when the salute is given, to take that extra moment, and when
the footsteps beat against the mat, the mount arrives, the control takes
hold, flip and leap, hand over head, feet pointed always,
belly out the sigh of relief of sticking the mount
and saluting the judges before the shaking returns.
15 February 2007
510: Plagiarized dream
Yes, it is true. Last night I stole my fiance's dream. Yesterday morning he told me about his dream, and then last night I had almost the exact same dream. I wonder what that means.... Here it is:
I was at a high school, although I didn't recognize it as being any high school that I've been at before. Somehow I knew I was still in Bozeman. Whatever event I had been at had just finished and it was time to go home. Instead of driving home, however, everybody started getting on planes that would take them to their neighborhood. When I sat down, Sue sat next to me and Melanie was in a seat across the aisle. I don't know where they were at the time, but I knew that my mom, my little sister, Nina, and Nathan were there. We took off smoothly, but after a few minutes in the air, the pilot started to veer the plane to the left, a soft turn at first but a sharper turn as time went on. Sue started asking what on Earth the pilot was doing, because it was obvious that we were now going in the wrong direction. As we kept turning, we noticed that we were also getting lower and lower to the ground and that we were no longer over the town but over red, rocky terrain. Sue became upset and started shouting out that the pilot was attempting to make an emergency landing. As we turned and sank, I looked out the window as I frantically put on my unlatched seatbelt. We seemed to be going in slow motion, almost like on some circular slide slowly taking us down to the ground. Eventually, the ground rushed up to meet us, and the plane skidded on the side. I was pressed against the side of the plane and could feel rocks and dirt grind up against the plane as though the side consisted of a tarp. After we stopped, everybody got off of the plane. I met up with my mom, my sister, and Nathan. When we got outside, everybody was crowded around the nose of the plane. As I got closer, I noticed small hole near the windshield (is it called a windshield?) of the plane. Everybody then took out their cell phones and started taking pictures of the hole.
On another note, I've been worried about coming up with a topic for the upcoming paper. I really have no idea where to begin coming up with a topic. Any suggestions?
I was at a high school, although I didn't recognize it as being any high school that I've been at before. Somehow I knew I was still in Bozeman. Whatever event I had been at had just finished and it was time to go home. Instead of driving home, however, everybody started getting on planes that would take them to their neighborhood. When I sat down, Sue sat next to me and Melanie was in a seat across the aisle. I don't know where they were at the time, but I knew that my mom, my little sister, Nina, and Nathan were there. We took off smoothly, but after a few minutes in the air, the pilot started to veer the plane to the left, a soft turn at first but a sharper turn as time went on. Sue started asking what on Earth the pilot was doing, because it was obvious that we were now going in the wrong direction. As we kept turning, we noticed that we were also getting lower and lower to the ground and that we were no longer over the town but over red, rocky terrain. Sue became upset and started shouting out that the pilot was attempting to make an emergency landing. As we turned and sank, I looked out the window as I frantically put on my unlatched seatbelt. We seemed to be going in slow motion, almost like on some circular slide slowly taking us down to the ground. Eventually, the ground rushed up to meet us, and the plane skidded on the side. I was pressed against the side of the plane and could feel rocks and dirt grind up against the plane as though the side consisted of a tarp. After we stopped, everybody got off of the plane. I met up with my mom, my sister, and Nathan. When we got outside, everybody was crowded around the nose of the plane. As I got closer, I noticed small hole near the windshield (is it called a windshield?) of the plane. Everybody then took out their cell phones and started taking pictures of the hole.
On another note, I've been worried about coming up with a topic for the upcoming paper. I really have no idea where to begin coming up with a topic. Any suggestions?
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