Within, without
Divine, devout
Part of me worries that these words will be taken away from me,
as though I own them;
that someone might even be interested.
Other parts remind me that I am, right now, of course,
a culmination;
information expressing itself, the universe itself posing.
Within, without
Divine, devout
Speak clearly, your voice is fading:
I am not the netherworlds, this is not an empty bar;
people's hands are already upon this -
they may even have grasped it before I even conceived of it.
There is no copyright, only the right to copy.
Paradox: all things are original, yet are necessarily composed of other peoples' works.
Other peoples' works are all original, yet are composed necessarily of other peoples' works.
And so on, ad infinitum.
Paradox number one (of many).
Stealing is a frame of mind.
Within, without
Divine, devout
I am a bundle of information in flux;
I am not an "I", nor is this "I" anything ever - it is always moving;
being is processes and interconnectedness, it does not seem to agree with the verb "is", but my language gives me a hard time sometimes (or maybe it is all those "I"s);
forever moving, we move, and onwards is instilled with value judgments - rather, we just move around, in all directions, constantly, along with everything else that is constantly is-ing, being, moving, whatever.
I already know all I know, which is tentative at least - but keep me posted anyway, there are exhilirating perspectives which I might like to tap into.
It all comes down to *bleep* (insert loop here).
God is not on your side; this way of looking at things is the drool falling from a mentally retarded person's mouth. There is only disrespect here if you see it.
I am divine, THEY are devout;
I am within, THEY are without.
My friend once told me that something that implied we are all Jesus, because we are all gods. Only Jesus told everyone about it, so they crucified him.
Everything said is beyond wrong and right outside of a context, the latter being also within a context, which is within another context, and so on, ad infinitum.
Laugh at funny words, realise that you laughed because you thought they were stupid, and then realise that you are immensely prejudiced. Most people are missing the third step.
Brain damage.
Stomach ulcers.
A dying spirit and existential anxiety.
Name tags.
Within, without
Divine, devout.
Dreamtime.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Chaos Before Order: Some Tentative Thoughts on the Art of Writing
After five years’ worth of courses in the art of writing, I now find myself free from any institutional connections. It is a strange but liberating feeling, which isn’t to say I haven’t learnt a lot. Sitting back, now, I start to think about all those classes: the rules, the standards, the styles, the formats, the variations of the variations of style, and so on and so forth. What do I find? What do we find, if we look at “writing” in general? Arguably, we find a word that has no meaning; only many meanings, none of which is fixed and all of which lack stability. We find an order. In some way, we always find some sort of a coherent assemblage of words, be it an essay, short story, journal article, or what have you. It’s all about order, despite order being inherently disorderly.
What might be wrong with the idea of order, even if it is vague? I thought a lot about this throughout my schooling, and I still do. There may be nothing wrong with it. We need some sort of order to be able to interpret writing; it is the only way writing can be read (a very vague notion, but the author trusts that the reader gets the gist). But something always tugged at my shoulder about this. There was always an itching sensation. Somewhere on my body, every time I was taught any form of standard, would itch unbearably; and it would invariably be one of those hideous blitzkrieg itches which strikes without warning and leaves he or she who experiences it throwing fingernails everywhere in frantic search of the stingy little bastard.
Anyhow, this is sort of how it went, in a far less figurative sort of way. Why should I adhere to any standard? I found myself asking. I’m sure every writer has gone through a similar self-enquiry, a similar self-liberating critique of the entire (god damn) system. It seems reasonable, after all; I mean, we are essentially taught to write innovative, catchy pieces, while at the same time adhering to some form of at least sub-universal guidelines. A short story should be unique, it should be expressive of the individual—but must use tools and styles (and so forth) which are necessarily used by all, in order to be what it is supposed to be. There’s a lot wrong with these ideas, and a lot that is useful.
So far, so good. I can’t really, justifiably anyhow, have problems with what I’ve said so far. There are certainly many hiccups and issues abundant in adhering to standards, especially industry standards (which seem to unequivocally support generic merchandise, at least in a broad sense); but to be able to view something in a mode similar enough to a given author is necessary to communicate anything at all, even if it is absolutely nothing like what the author intended. This latter point cannot be emphasised enough.
So where is the problem?
It lies in the idea of chaos. Of course it does; it makes perfect sense. But how, exactly?
Before we start writing, we necessarily learn language. Language is a huge part of how we view the world, as has been pointed out and thoroughly discussed and debated by many philosophers and thinkers. What can be said simply, without going into the details of linguistic philosophical debates, is that as we learn language we associate linguistic objects and strings of objects with the external world. We wind up, essentially, with a linguistic system which we use to express ourselves vocally about the worlds around us, as well as the worlds within us. Once this system is at least fundamentally established, it becomes a sort of point of reference: we refer to it constantly, and eventually it becomes something we can do “without thinking”.
When it comes to writing (and arguably many other artistic or creative mediums), we necessarily assemble the words we have learnt (including all their extended structures, i.e. sentences, phrases, paragraphs, and so forth) and order them in such a way as to create a form of some kind, often linear though of course not always. This transcription, however, is not so simple.
The way we initially use words—that is, by speaking them—is jumbled and chaotic. Before we become literate, our writing is “all over the shop”; there is little order, repetition, low “standards” of grammar and punctuation, as well as many other incoherencies. It is nearer to chaos than more mature, “professional” writing. We initially write as we see the world intuitively, through our subjective eyes and thus through our immediate first-person experience of the world. It is essentially a chaotic literacy, whereby the way written words are assembled corresponds to a closer degree with what we are directly experiencing, or perhaps more correctly, how we remember ourselves to have experienced things. One is reminded of pieces written in childhood, whereby the rules are clearly not followed (for they are not yet learnt), and where descriptions are wild, fantastic, and even arguably incorporate far more intriguing elements of imagination than the finely tuned passages of “professional” authors.
An example might help here.
This is a passage from a piece of writing I wrote when I was eight years old, titled "The Animal Mask":
One day their was a boy he wanted to buy a animal mask but his mum sed no
so he snook it and suddenly bang he fell out of a tree then he got up and he took off his mask and he was in a animal world and all the birds came to him for some reason wait a miney he said I think this is a animal mask that that goes to a animal world he had a look around but all he could see was trees and animals he met a tolking dog and he could fly too
chapter two the tolking dog
he was very smart and he found aplace for him the next day he went fishing…
And so on.
This is basically a stream of consciousness piece of writing. There is no punctuation, everything is described haphazardly, yet still in a kind of flowing way. Specific things are being described, but you get the feeling that the little author wasn’t really selecting them—they just came to him that way. There was really no scene set, no characters introduced or developed: everything is described directly and without regard to the author’s lack of insight into exactly what is going on. If I had to imitate this style right now, I’d write “typing thinking a computer screen there are some dark windows a guitar next to me what time is it when should I stop this sentence am I getting the point through…” etc.
It isn’t really possible to recreate it genuinely, but the point is that the world being put onto paper by semi-literate beings—those without “knowledge” of the rules—leans more towards the chaotic world that is actually experienced. As we learn the rules of language and even when we begin to manipulate them, our writing becomes far more orderly.
Though of course, not at all completely orderly.
Just as a movie portrays an impossible reality of successive scenes with no temporal regard, so professional or at least coherent writing portrays a neat, aesthetically approachable, but impossible ordering of the world. Both the bulk of movies we watch as well as most pieces of writing we read are mere abstractions from the chaotic world we all experience (the world described by people yet to be conditioned by the systems of written language). This could be applied to other creative areas also—even to speech itself.
Nothing terribly new has been said. There is an awkward sigh from the reader, who wanders where this is all going. And so, a question ensues.
Can order be taught before the chaos from which it is born is acknowledged?
Not an easy one. What is this bundle of words getting at? you might say. Is this where is gets a bit juicier, so I can stop forcing myself to read this?
Hopefully.
Chaos is not taught, generally speaking. We are taught to order most things, not only in writing, but in life. Chaos is what there actually is, as opposed to order, which is what we attempt to create (I am aware that this sentence is loaded with meanings, but hopefully they converge in some general area and help the point along). I have to choose every one of the words I am presently typing—in fact, I just hesitated twice, made a few mistakes, backspaced countless times and am currently rethinking how I should end this sentence, all as I am typing it. I am merely picking pieces from the chaotic world, which is not limited by my objective-subjective worlds, which is in fact not limited at all. For in the chaotic world the subjective and objective are not distinguished; they flow together, always, in a constant stream; and writing is, of course, extracted from this chaotic realm and thus always contains the elements inherent in it: even stream of consciousness styled writing only attempts to tap into the stream. In fact, it is not possible; there are too many things going on at once. Order is essentially an attempt at taming chaos; and in a way, the two lead into one another constantly.
So what if we don’t get taught chaos¬—why should we? It seems a fair question. But in my experience, I have found that the only really fluent, orderly, relatively comprehendible writing I have been able to do has come after accepting and contemplating chaos. And this makes sense to me. How can we go to school and get taught methods of order, when we have not yet grasped the chaos from which we were born and into which we were, and are all constantly, thrust? There is nothing in the lived experience that even remotely resembles the order represented in writing, or media and art of many kinds. To write without realising that one is abstracting from an intensely chaotic experience is akin to smoking without knowing how to inhale: an essential element is missing from the experience.
Before I go on, I have to mention that I am not trying to make any groundbreaking statements about what it is to write and what writing is good or bad or what not. That is subjective and extremely complex. Nor am I trying to say anything terribly concrete about the matter (the tentativeness of all my own assumptions has hopefully been inferred by the reader). What I am trying to get at is likely something already understood by many great writers, perhaps has been understood for a long time; nevertheless, I think it is worth bringing to the surface for those under the impression that the order we are taught in writing is the more important, or essential, aspect. It is commonly known that order and chaos go hand in hand, and to understand one the other must also be understood. In a funny way, they are part and parcel of one ongoing, dynamic process.
I honestly believe I have benefitted from contemplating chaos alongside order, not just in writing either. Industry standards, and any standards enforced and taught in writing, of course have their place; as I mentioned, they are necessary (though potentially evil) in writing. I do not think such standards should be adhered to austerely, or even at all if one feels so inclined (some coherence, even if it is implied or interpreted by the tiniest demographic, does seem appropriate, however—unless one is writing purely for oneself, in which case there are no real rules. In the latter case, personally developed symbols could even be used, interpretable by no one else but the writer). One can easily create a piece which is nearer to chaos than to order, and have it be enjoyed by many readers; in fact, the innovations observable in writing in the modern world seem to be signs of a return to more chaotic styles, as opposed to the more “proper” styles of classical writers (this is arguable, of course, for example if chaos and order are interpreted as relative).
What I have written is itself not intended to be particularly orderly: looking back, it is really a kind of “thinking out loud”. But the urge to expose a general lack of recognition of chaos inspired me to write about it in relation to writing itself. It seems evident that all things “orderly” are put forth in educational institutions, while the chaos from which this order is born, and is inextricably bound to, seems to be, for the most part, ignored. This is perhaps a reflection of a larger lack of recognition, which in turn could be part of something even larger—most likely, many things. Ignoring the chaos in putting down words is directly associated with ignoring the chaos of experience. It must be emphasised that I am not suggesting that to write chaotically is “truer” in any sense, but rather than an appreciation of this chaos seems, at least to me, to be an efficacious way of improving how we portray our various styles of order, or more precisely, our degrees of chaos.
I only know myself as a human body, with arms, legs, a neck, shoulders, and so forth, because I know that I am really none of these things; they are merely name-tags, attached not only to the constantly moving processes which underlay them, but to the indefinable flow beyond¬. Neither could exist, however, without the other.
What might be wrong with the idea of order, even if it is vague? I thought a lot about this throughout my schooling, and I still do. There may be nothing wrong with it. We need some sort of order to be able to interpret writing; it is the only way writing can be read (a very vague notion, but the author trusts that the reader gets the gist). But something always tugged at my shoulder about this. There was always an itching sensation. Somewhere on my body, every time I was taught any form of standard, would itch unbearably; and it would invariably be one of those hideous blitzkrieg itches which strikes without warning and leaves he or she who experiences it throwing fingernails everywhere in frantic search of the stingy little bastard.
Anyhow, this is sort of how it went, in a far less figurative sort of way. Why should I adhere to any standard? I found myself asking. I’m sure every writer has gone through a similar self-enquiry, a similar self-liberating critique of the entire (god damn) system. It seems reasonable, after all; I mean, we are essentially taught to write innovative, catchy pieces, while at the same time adhering to some form of at least sub-universal guidelines. A short story should be unique, it should be expressive of the individual—but must use tools and styles (and so forth) which are necessarily used by all, in order to be what it is supposed to be. There’s a lot wrong with these ideas, and a lot that is useful.
So far, so good. I can’t really, justifiably anyhow, have problems with what I’ve said so far. There are certainly many hiccups and issues abundant in adhering to standards, especially industry standards (which seem to unequivocally support generic merchandise, at least in a broad sense); but to be able to view something in a mode similar enough to a given author is necessary to communicate anything at all, even if it is absolutely nothing like what the author intended. This latter point cannot be emphasised enough.
So where is the problem?
It lies in the idea of chaos. Of course it does; it makes perfect sense. But how, exactly?
Before we start writing, we necessarily learn language. Language is a huge part of how we view the world, as has been pointed out and thoroughly discussed and debated by many philosophers and thinkers. What can be said simply, without going into the details of linguistic philosophical debates, is that as we learn language we associate linguistic objects and strings of objects with the external world. We wind up, essentially, with a linguistic system which we use to express ourselves vocally about the worlds around us, as well as the worlds within us. Once this system is at least fundamentally established, it becomes a sort of point of reference: we refer to it constantly, and eventually it becomes something we can do “without thinking”.
When it comes to writing (and arguably many other artistic or creative mediums), we necessarily assemble the words we have learnt (including all their extended structures, i.e. sentences, phrases, paragraphs, and so forth) and order them in such a way as to create a form of some kind, often linear though of course not always. This transcription, however, is not so simple.
The way we initially use words—that is, by speaking them—is jumbled and chaotic. Before we become literate, our writing is “all over the shop”; there is little order, repetition, low “standards” of grammar and punctuation, as well as many other incoherencies. It is nearer to chaos than more mature, “professional” writing. We initially write as we see the world intuitively, through our subjective eyes and thus through our immediate first-person experience of the world. It is essentially a chaotic literacy, whereby the way written words are assembled corresponds to a closer degree with what we are directly experiencing, or perhaps more correctly, how we remember ourselves to have experienced things. One is reminded of pieces written in childhood, whereby the rules are clearly not followed (for they are not yet learnt), and where descriptions are wild, fantastic, and even arguably incorporate far more intriguing elements of imagination than the finely tuned passages of “professional” authors.
An example might help here.
This is a passage from a piece of writing I wrote when I was eight years old, titled "The Animal Mask":
One day their was a boy he wanted to buy a animal mask but his mum sed no
so he snook it and suddenly bang he fell out of a tree then he got up and he took off his mask and he was in a animal world and all the birds came to him for some reason wait a miney he said I think this is a animal mask that that goes to a animal world he had a look around but all he could see was trees and animals he met a tolking dog and he could fly too
chapter two the tolking dog
he was very smart and he found aplace for him the next day he went fishing…
And so on.
This is basically a stream of consciousness piece of writing. There is no punctuation, everything is described haphazardly, yet still in a kind of flowing way. Specific things are being described, but you get the feeling that the little author wasn’t really selecting them—they just came to him that way. There was really no scene set, no characters introduced or developed: everything is described directly and without regard to the author’s lack of insight into exactly what is going on. If I had to imitate this style right now, I’d write “typing thinking a computer screen there are some dark windows a guitar next to me what time is it when should I stop this sentence am I getting the point through…” etc.
It isn’t really possible to recreate it genuinely, but the point is that the world being put onto paper by semi-literate beings—those without “knowledge” of the rules—leans more towards the chaotic world that is actually experienced. As we learn the rules of language and even when we begin to manipulate them, our writing becomes far more orderly.
Though of course, not at all completely orderly.
Just as a movie portrays an impossible reality of successive scenes with no temporal regard, so professional or at least coherent writing portrays a neat, aesthetically approachable, but impossible ordering of the world. Both the bulk of movies we watch as well as most pieces of writing we read are mere abstractions from the chaotic world we all experience (the world described by people yet to be conditioned by the systems of written language). This could be applied to other creative areas also—even to speech itself.
Nothing terribly new has been said. There is an awkward sigh from the reader, who wanders where this is all going. And so, a question ensues.
Can order be taught before the chaos from which it is born is acknowledged?
Not an easy one. What is this bundle of words getting at? you might say. Is this where is gets a bit juicier, so I can stop forcing myself to read this?
Hopefully.
Chaos is not taught, generally speaking. We are taught to order most things, not only in writing, but in life. Chaos is what there actually is, as opposed to order, which is what we attempt to create (I am aware that this sentence is loaded with meanings, but hopefully they converge in some general area and help the point along). I have to choose every one of the words I am presently typing—in fact, I just hesitated twice, made a few mistakes, backspaced countless times and am currently rethinking how I should end this sentence, all as I am typing it. I am merely picking pieces from the chaotic world, which is not limited by my objective-subjective worlds, which is in fact not limited at all. For in the chaotic world the subjective and objective are not distinguished; they flow together, always, in a constant stream; and writing is, of course, extracted from this chaotic realm and thus always contains the elements inherent in it: even stream of consciousness styled writing only attempts to tap into the stream. In fact, it is not possible; there are too many things going on at once. Order is essentially an attempt at taming chaos; and in a way, the two lead into one another constantly.
So what if we don’t get taught chaos¬—why should we? It seems a fair question. But in my experience, I have found that the only really fluent, orderly, relatively comprehendible writing I have been able to do has come after accepting and contemplating chaos. And this makes sense to me. How can we go to school and get taught methods of order, when we have not yet grasped the chaos from which we were born and into which we were, and are all constantly, thrust? There is nothing in the lived experience that even remotely resembles the order represented in writing, or media and art of many kinds. To write without realising that one is abstracting from an intensely chaotic experience is akin to smoking without knowing how to inhale: an essential element is missing from the experience.
Before I go on, I have to mention that I am not trying to make any groundbreaking statements about what it is to write and what writing is good or bad or what not. That is subjective and extremely complex. Nor am I trying to say anything terribly concrete about the matter (the tentativeness of all my own assumptions has hopefully been inferred by the reader). What I am trying to get at is likely something already understood by many great writers, perhaps has been understood for a long time; nevertheless, I think it is worth bringing to the surface for those under the impression that the order we are taught in writing is the more important, or essential, aspect. It is commonly known that order and chaos go hand in hand, and to understand one the other must also be understood. In a funny way, they are part and parcel of one ongoing, dynamic process.
I honestly believe I have benefitted from contemplating chaos alongside order, not just in writing either. Industry standards, and any standards enforced and taught in writing, of course have their place; as I mentioned, they are necessary (though potentially evil) in writing. I do not think such standards should be adhered to austerely, or even at all if one feels so inclined (some coherence, even if it is implied or interpreted by the tiniest demographic, does seem appropriate, however—unless one is writing purely for oneself, in which case there are no real rules. In the latter case, personally developed symbols could even be used, interpretable by no one else but the writer). One can easily create a piece which is nearer to chaos than to order, and have it be enjoyed by many readers; in fact, the innovations observable in writing in the modern world seem to be signs of a return to more chaotic styles, as opposed to the more “proper” styles of classical writers (this is arguable, of course, for example if chaos and order are interpreted as relative).
What I have written is itself not intended to be particularly orderly: looking back, it is really a kind of “thinking out loud”. But the urge to expose a general lack of recognition of chaos inspired me to write about it in relation to writing itself. It seems evident that all things “orderly” are put forth in educational institutions, while the chaos from which this order is born, and is inextricably bound to, seems to be, for the most part, ignored. This is perhaps a reflection of a larger lack of recognition, which in turn could be part of something even larger—most likely, many things. Ignoring the chaos in putting down words is directly associated with ignoring the chaos of experience. It must be emphasised that I am not suggesting that to write chaotically is “truer” in any sense, but rather than an appreciation of this chaos seems, at least to me, to be an efficacious way of improving how we portray our various styles of order, or more precisely, our degrees of chaos.
I only know myself as a human body, with arms, legs, a neck, shoulders, and so forth, because I know that I am really none of these things; they are merely name-tags, attached not only to the constantly moving processes which underlay them, but to the indefinable flow beyond¬. Neither could exist, however, without the other.
Monday, November 14, 2011
The Taboo that is “The Pig People”
There are many taboos in society. They are always changing, I suppose, like everything; and they tend to be centred around real heavy shit—I mean real, heavy, shit. Like sex, like death, like incest and suicide. The kind of stuff you find yourself thinking about with a rapid heart beat, and fifteen minutes later you realise that you’re sweating and have been staring at a wall for the duration of that time, so involved in the terrorising thought of death or sex or (etc.) that you have indeed temporarily ceased to exist as a physical person. You are, rather, for a time, horrifying waves of thought.
Good times, of course (patronising chuckle).
But what about the not-so-wrenching taboos? What about taboos that may not have been discovered yet, or which perhaps exist but have not yet reached the forefront of human fear or thought in general? There are many, to be sure. But one recently arrived at my mental door step, and I could not stop thinking about it: initially, not in fear, but in a more contemplative way which in turn led to theorising which in turn led to—well, yes—to fear. But no such a simple fear, as will be discussed.
At this stage you’re itching to know what the fuck I’m talking about, no doubt. It is worth the wait, I assure you. And here it is.
Pig People.
Purposefully capitalised.
For the Pig People are, in a sense, a people; they are not a clan or a unified group of any sort, but they are a commonly perceived “type”, if you will. What is the author talking about? you find yourself asking ( me too!). But somewhere, I venture to assume, lurking in the back of most minds, is a notion of an archetype that is “the Pig Person”.
What is a Pig Person?
A Pig Person is the title I have chosen to denote the evidently noticeable amount of people in this world who resemble the common farmyard animal mentioned in their very title.
Immediately I cower in fear. There are rocks being thrown at me and people screaming obscenities at just how insensitive I could possibly be. I run and try to hide, but they find me, legions of them, pointing accusingly at the sinner: “How dare you!” they whine, “how dare you propose that there are human beings, human beings, on this earth who you could possibly term ‘Pig People’! Away with you and your esteem-crushing ideas!”
But I have as yet said nothing insulting about these beings. Of course, they are human; of course, they aren’t actually pigs. Both the former and latter suggestions are to me absolutely preposterous, and for that matter, far from the point.
My point is that there are Pig People. Each and every one of us knows it. Even those who chased me just now, threw objects at me in rage and denounced even my mention of such an idea—these people, perhaps, know it most. For in their hasty rage—far too hasty not to be questioned—they give their little secret away. They know, most of all, that the Pig People exist; it is not surprising (perhaps it is even usual) that those who are most afraid of a taboo are the first to pounce on it, sinking their conservative claws into its flesh and essentially doing all they can to prevent its being addressed by anyone ever.
But I have gone off track: a further explanation of the Pig People is due.
We all know them. We see them and we take note of them in our minds, consciously or subconsciously. Some of us may even know a few, be friends with a few—but we do not explicitly mention their appearance in our social groups, of course. The latter would be too daring. It would perhaps be akin to arriving at a table of friends and announcing, without phase, “Hello, my friends! I have decided it best for personal reasons to commit suicide tomorrow at dusk. I have indeed had a grand time with most, though of course not all of you, throughout my mediocre life and wish now to depart on personal grounds which I shall not detail right now—and certainly won’t detail any time after dusk tomorrow morning. (Beat). So…what’s for lunch?” Though this example is but a little ridiculous, I think it perhaps approximates the message I am attempting, very slowly, very dragged-out-edly, to, well, approximate.
The Pig People are, of course, people who resemble pigs in their physical appearance. Having said this, as mentioned before they do not really look like pigs; their features merely resemble pigs: the upturned nose, the characteristic chubbiness of the face and sometimes other parts of the body; and sometimes even the posture. Of course, the first two characteristics mentioned are the cardinal ones. They are what usually, I conjecture, cause one to think to themselves, “My God. This person resembles a pig!”
Immediately, this comes across as an insult. No one would ever, under any circumstances, mention this resemblance to one of the Pig People themselves: for they are, of course, human, and such a remark is certain to crush any human’s self esteem, their physical self awareness, and so forth. I oftentimes wonder whether the Pig People are aware of themselves as resembling pigs. Surely, one would think, these people have some inkling. But this, of course, I cannot say for sure, for I am fairly confident that I am free of all pig-like characteristics, what with my scrawny physique, my large-but-not-upturned nose, and rather drawn, if anything horse-like, face. Hmm.
And so what now? The observation has been made. Many, I’m sure, feel somewhat awkward now, what with being faced with the explicit description of the Pig Person phenomena. It is a strange thing, aye. Indeed. Indubitably. Intuitively. Indelibly.
I have lost my trail of thought, just now, right at this moment…
There it is!
Yes, there is one other thing. The Pig People are necessarily a minority. They are a small group of people, scattered about the Earth, who presumably have not amassed as a distinct sub-culture yet. Maybe they have, I am not of course sure. But they have not, I am sure, amassed in such a way that is as yet identifiable, or particularly evident in the global community (like, say, the radical UFO societies around the globe).
Are the Pig People a threat? Well, if I were one of them, I would want to find others. See, the fact of the matter is that pigs are looked down upon by most humans, like most animals really. They are seen as disgusting because of how they behave, despite that such behaviour is of course relative to the lifestyle of the pig. Of course we find it disgusting, but this is just because we ourselves see rolling around in the hot mud, lazing about and eating profusely, snorting, etc. as disgusting (oddly enough, humans are prone to do pretty much all of those things, with perhaps the exception of…no, wait—we snort, too.). So, really, there is nothing to it. Being deemed a Pig Person is only insulting to the prejudiced masses of this world. But of course, such features are perhaps not seen as physically attractive in the human realm. A problem, to be sure. Undeniably. Indubitably. Indeed. But, there is a solution to this.
Beauty is also relative, and for humans involves also a hugely complex and wide array of emotions and associated phenomena (you could insert a billion words here, but I’ll just stick to these particular approximations, for they approximate what I am ultimately trying to approximate in an approximately approximating way, so as the approximations themselves should become self-evident enough to outline my main approximation—approximately, of course). And so, there really are no reasons to fear these people. They are but people, like you and I; they merely resemble pigs in very vague ways, and are not in any way pigs themselves (unless it is meant metaphorically, in that the particular person is in fact a Pig person whose behaviour resembles that of a pig so emphatically that they are deemed disgusting, unhygienic, or what not, so on and so forth, ad infinitum).
The only real fear we have is of the Pig People becoming fearful themselves. We cannot afford for this to happen. If they become too self-conscious about the way others perceive them—that is, as Pig People—then they will form minorities and they will eventually unite, perhaps even march the Earth in an advance of war. This sounds farfetched, but if they begin to feel themselves to be outcasts, to be looked upon as repulsive and even as lower forms of being (even worse, as inhuman), then a counter-culture is sure to ensue.
This is, perhaps, preventable, if we just give them a little mud to wallow in, and some mounds of food.
Just kidding!
The moral of this story: Don’t write a piece describing Pig People which concludes with a prescription not to point out Pig People in order to prevent such people becoming fearful and thus forging armies that march the Earth in some whacky form of the End of Days.
END.
Good times, of course (patronising chuckle).
But what about the not-so-wrenching taboos? What about taboos that may not have been discovered yet, or which perhaps exist but have not yet reached the forefront of human fear or thought in general? There are many, to be sure. But one recently arrived at my mental door step, and I could not stop thinking about it: initially, not in fear, but in a more contemplative way which in turn led to theorising which in turn led to—well, yes—to fear. But no such a simple fear, as will be discussed.
At this stage you’re itching to know what the fuck I’m talking about, no doubt. It is worth the wait, I assure you. And here it is.
Pig People.
Purposefully capitalised.
For the Pig People are, in a sense, a people; they are not a clan or a unified group of any sort, but they are a commonly perceived “type”, if you will. What is the author talking about? you find yourself asking ( me too!). But somewhere, I venture to assume, lurking in the back of most minds, is a notion of an archetype that is “the Pig Person”.
What is a Pig Person?
A Pig Person is the title I have chosen to denote the evidently noticeable amount of people in this world who resemble the common farmyard animal mentioned in their very title.
Immediately I cower in fear. There are rocks being thrown at me and people screaming obscenities at just how insensitive I could possibly be. I run and try to hide, but they find me, legions of them, pointing accusingly at the sinner: “How dare you!” they whine, “how dare you propose that there are human beings, human beings, on this earth who you could possibly term ‘Pig People’! Away with you and your esteem-crushing ideas!”
But I have as yet said nothing insulting about these beings. Of course, they are human; of course, they aren’t actually pigs. Both the former and latter suggestions are to me absolutely preposterous, and for that matter, far from the point.
My point is that there are Pig People. Each and every one of us knows it. Even those who chased me just now, threw objects at me in rage and denounced even my mention of such an idea—these people, perhaps, know it most. For in their hasty rage—far too hasty not to be questioned—they give their little secret away. They know, most of all, that the Pig People exist; it is not surprising (perhaps it is even usual) that those who are most afraid of a taboo are the first to pounce on it, sinking their conservative claws into its flesh and essentially doing all they can to prevent its being addressed by anyone ever.
But I have gone off track: a further explanation of the Pig People is due.
We all know them. We see them and we take note of them in our minds, consciously or subconsciously. Some of us may even know a few, be friends with a few—but we do not explicitly mention their appearance in our social groups, of course. The latter would be too daring. It would perhaps be akin to arriving at a table of friends and announcing, without phase, “Hello, my friends! I have decided it best for personal reasons to commit suicide tomorrow at dusk. I have indeed had a grand time with most, though of course not all of you, throughout my mediocre life and wish now to depart on personal grounds which I shall not detail right now—and certainly won’t detail any time after dusk tomorrow morning. (Beat). So…what’s for lunch?” Though this example is but a little ridiculous, I think it perhaps approximates the message I am attempting, very slowly, very dragged-out-edly, to, well, approximate.
The Pig People are, of course, people who resemble pigs in their physical appearance. Having said this, as mentioned before they do not really look like pigs; their features merely resemble pigs: the upturned nose, the characteristic chubbiness of the face and sometimes other parts of the body; and sometimes even the posture. Of course, the first two characteristics mentioned are the cardinal ones. They are what usually, I conjecture, cause one to think to themselves, “My God. This person resembles a pig!”
Immediately, this comes across as an insult. No one would ever, under any circumstances, mention this resemblance to one of the Pig People themselves: for they are, of course, human, and such a remark is certain to crush any human’s self esteem, their physical self awareness, and so forth. I oftentimes wonder whether the Pig People are aware of themselves as resembling pigs. Surely, one would think, these people have some inkling. But this, of course, I cannot say for sure, for I am fairly confident that I am free of all pig-like characteristics, what with my scrawny physique, my large-but-not-upturned nose, and rather drawn, if anything horse-like, face. Hmm.
And so what now? The observation has been made. Many, I’m sure, feel somewhat awkward now, what with being faced with the explicit description of the Pig Person phenomena. It is a strange thing, aye. Indeed. Indubitably. Intuitively. Indelibly.
I have lost my trail of thought, just now, right at this moment…
There it is!
Yes, there is one other thing. The Pig People are necessarily a minority. They are a small group of people, scattered about the Earth, who presumably have not amassed as a distinct sub-culture yet. Maybe they have, I am not of course sure. But they have not, I am sure, amassed in such a way that is as yet identifiable, or particularly evident in the global community (like, say, the radical UFO societies around the globe).
Are the Pig People a threat? Well, if I were one of them, I would want to find others. See, the fact of the matter is that pigs are looked down upon by most humans, like most animals really. They are seen as disgusting because of how they behave, despite that such behaviour is of course relative to the lifestyle of the pig. Of course we find it disgusting, but this is just because we ourselves see rolling around in the hot mud, lazing about and eating profusely, snorting, etc. as disgusting (oddly enough, humans are prone to do pretty much all of those things, with perhaps the exception of…no, wait—we snort, too.). So, really, there is nothing to it. Being deemed a Pig Person is only insulting to the prejudiced masses of this world. But of course, such features are perhaps not seen as physically attractive in the human realm. A problem, to be sure. Undeniably. Indubitably. Indeed. But, there is a solution to this.
Beauty is also relative, and for humans involves also a hugely complex and wide array of emotions and associated phenomena (you could insert a billion words here, but I’ll just stick to these particular approximations, for they approximate what I am ultimately trying to approximate in an approximately approximating way, so as the approximations themselves should become self-evident enough to outline my main approximation—approximately, of course). And so, there really are no reasons to fear these people. They are but people, like you and I; they merely resemble pigs in very vague ways, and are not in any way pigs themselves (unless it is meant metaphorically, in that the particular person is in fact a Pig person whose behaviour resembles that of a pig so emphatically that they are deemed disgusting, unhygienic, or what not, so on and so forth, ad infinitum).
The only real fear we have is of the Pig People becoming fearful themselves. We cannot afford for this to happen. If they become too self-conscious about the way others perceive them—that is, as Pig People—then they will form minorities and they will eventually unite, perhaps even march the Earth in an advance of war. This sounds farfetched, but if they begin to feel themselves to be outcasts, to be looked upon as repulsive and even as lower forms of being (even worse, as inhuman), then a counter-culture is sure to ensue.
This is, perhaps, preventable, if we just give them a little mud to wallow in, and some mounds of food.
Just kidding!
The moral of this story: Don’t write a piece describing Pig People which concludes with a prescription not to point out Pig People in order to prevent such people becoming fearful and thus forging armies that march the Earth in some whacky form of the End of Days.
END.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Dream Reflection: Exploring the Dreamscape and its Figures (the Dreamer)
A few nights ago I dreamt that I was a little boy again. I was on a large sports field, which seemed to be surrounded by other fields beyond which I think was a forest, or at least many trees. As a little boy in the dream (first-person), I had a friend with me on the field—a little girl. We were the only two people present.
Everything I have thought about since the dream has probably reshaped my recollection, that is, changed the way I presently look at it (as opposed to the way I first experienced it); though I hope enough of its essential features remain for a relatively honest, in-depth reflection, which I will now write.
I remember next to nothing about this dream other than the aforementioned dreamscape, the fact that there was a little girl there with me, and perhaps most importantly the intense feelings I experienced both during the dream as well as retrospectively, concerning the figure of the girl and the environment. I was very fond of the girl; she was extremely benevolent in ways I cannot describe through any of her actions, seeing as there were no such actions— at least any which were retained in my memory upon waking. There was something pure and fascinating about her; she seemed to emanate, evoking feeling from me without really doing anything. The fact that I somehow knew I was a little boy again in the dream, as opposed to the adolescent I am in waking life, makes this facet of the dream even more enigmatic.
I’m fairly sure the dream came to me in first-person, i.e. through my own eyes as a little boy in the dream. The girl was sitting somewhere around the middle of the field, I think. I am unsure whether any contact was made at all, really; but the impressions I received from the girl were strong both during the dream and when I awoke, and remain with me even now. She was a force I could trust; a guiding and benevolent figure, there to let me know that things were alright and that there was nothing to worry about (“benevolent” is the word that came to mind immediately after recalling the dream, and so will be used inordinately throughout this reflection). There isn’t much more I can write about her exact character, as there isn’t much other than how I felt. With this in mind, I came to look at the little girl as some aspect of myself, seeing as her presence alone evoked such intense and unambiguous impressions from both the little me in the dream as well as from my waking, reflective self. For that matter, the “little me” in the dream can also be viewed as an aspect, too, as will be later speculated.
It can only be assumed that this figure, the little girl, is, in some sense, a part of me; obviously a product of my mind. This is more or less undeniable, even under paradigms like Jung’s where the collective unconscious can produce archetypal dream figures, common the world over. The latter are still products of one’s own psyche; they merely contain ubiquitous archetypes which fit into collective templates, which relate to the individual in important ways anyway. Anyhow, I think it is fair to say that, at least for the purposes of this reflection, the girl was indeed some amplified aspect of myself (or more than one, combined?)—and that this also applies to the child version of me, through whose eyes I experienced the dream. (What I think is contentious is exactly what “an aspect” of oneself is; the idea is widely interpretable, and so a lengthy discussion on this notion will, for now at least, be avoided. Hopefully the way the idea is used in context here will give an idea of what such an aspect could possibly be).
So, in this light, who really is the little girl and what does she symbolise? I was interacting with an angelic, amorous, utterly benevolent and benign figure in this dream, who made me feel safe in some very intense way, even in waking life (the feelings, like many dreams, emanated into my waking life, and even now I can incite a nostalgic, peaceful feeling, just by recalling the dream and, particularly, the figure of the little girl).
In Jung’s paradigm, the function of dreams is compensation; that is, dreams compensate for psychical forces which lack in waking life, forces which work to bring equilibrium to the psyche, or healing (much like a wound works at healing itself after the damage has been done). Generally speaking, the little girl could represent some part of myself that is lacking, which, in this case, would seem to be a benevolence towards others, or perhaps even a benevolent attitude toward something within myself. It could indeed be that I lack a certain benevolence towards others, which in turn suggests a lack of benevolence towards myself which I merely project onto others.
But of course, there is more to be observed here, and even such speculative conclusions might be a little premature (but interesting, nonetheless).
The dream, first of all, takes place in a vast green sports field—rectangular, if I remember correctly (which is now almost impossible to say for sure). I get the feeling there may have even been soccer goals at each end (the idea of competition?). Anyhow, this vast, green expanse was surrounded by other vast, green expanses. So, it can perhaps be said that we—the little girl and my “little self”—are “out in the open”. We are exposed and visible. There is nowhere to hide, because even the thresholds of the outer fields are quite far away; and beyond them, of course, are the “dark woods” (the trees, of course; but for the sake of speculation and reflection, they can be seen to represent the archetypal, ubiquitous forest: the unlit, unknown region of oneself). I name them so certainly due to my influences from dream interpretation literature (notably and obviously Jung), but also because I am convinced of the idea that dark forests, in some sense, appear ubiquitously as “nether-regions”; places where people are generally frightened to go and where, in myth, folklore, etc., very mysterious and strange things happen, which of course reflect something deeper than that observed on the surface-level. This is a very widely-made observation, which doesn’t necessarily make it unquestionable but, again for the purposes of this reflection, the general assumption will be made.
So, there I was: a little boy, exposed in an open field, with this wondrous little girl; and beyond us, far away and thus not immanently threatening, laid the darkness.
Without any remembered interaction, or any action at all for that matter, it is admittedly quite difficult to speculate as to what this dream could be saying, or what it could have been showing me about myself (or even if, as the extreme skeptic says, the dream has anything to express at all). As such, I will venture to interpret it based on the reasonably clear imagery and feelings which I do possess. Nothing conclusive will appear, however, and none of the aforementioned should be considered in any way concrete.
With the malevolent forces so far beyond us (the girl and I), the feeling of being safe and warm comes as no surprise. There is simply nothing immediately threatening here; it is far away; though, I think importantly, it is still there. The fact that we are both young—somewhere between five and ten would be my estimate—suggests a certain type of innocence. We are far from the darkness, perhaps, because we are still so young: at such an age, there is little concern for “serious” matters, nor is there any of the existential anxiety which I assume, based solely on my own casual observations, tends to spawn and proliferate during adolescence. Generally speaking, at this age kids are still enveloped in the simple and innocent joys and thrills of childhood. Perhaps—as so crucially emphasised in Freudian theory—the underlying developments in this stage of life are pivotal in determining one’s being in future years; but nonetheless, there remains that purity, that ignorance of the anxieties of life and of its pressures, hardships, etc., which come about at the onset of adolescence. (The vagueness of terms like “puberty” and “adolescence” are to be noted. I dislike using the terms in any concrete sense, so bear in mind that I try to use them in a very general, non-concrete sense; that is, they tend to cover so much ground that any fixed conception of them does not do justice to the complexities of individuals. Furthermore, the diversities which such terms signify are themselves constantly in flux.).
But what could all this point to, if it indeed points to anything at all? Perhaps the dream is showing me my still-innocent, unexposed aspect; the side of me that remains far, far away from danger—from my “unenlightened” aspects. But why the benevolent little girl, intuited as a guiding-type spirit? Even now I can recall her as a guiding force, a playful but comforting figure, there as my companion, friend and perhaps even caretaker. Could this girl be the babysitter for the part of myself which chooses not to go forth into the darkness; the part which now stands alone on the playing field, having removed all other players, both friends and rivals, out of fear or personal insecurity of some kind—who needlessly chooses to wander alone before the darkness? She is there to help me, but she does not force me or even urge me to do anything; she merely tends to me in this no-man’s-land (the field).
The little boy in the dream suggests to me a blissful quasi-ignorance; a knowing, but choosing not to face just yet—and this latter idea is, as well as being fairly plausible, perhaps not as ominous as it appears. I felt no pressure of any kind in the dream or in recalling it; only peace and calm. The little girl, as guide, does not tell me that I have to, but rather takes care of me presently, exposed as I am in the open sports field which is, presumably, where I have chosen to be; and chosen, notably, to be alone. It is just me and my helper, who is in essence a part of me, thus deeming me in a sense completely isolated from others.
It cannot be emphasised enough that what has been said thus far is but one possible interpretation—and a biased one, at that, for I am undeniably free to extrapolate from my own self-knowledge, for good or for worse. Nor is it comprehensive, but rather looks at the salient parts of the dream and tries humbly to interpret them.
So, in sum:
There is within me, in some sense, a still-ignorant childlike aspect—an attitude of willing naivety—which chooses to lurk around, out in the open, rather than facing up to certain things (the distant, not-yet-threatening darkness) which are at very least known, but perhaps not fully grasped. It—the journeying aspect—has chosen, for complex reasons, to do this alone. This part of myself is not forced into doing anything; it is childlike and treated as such in that it can roam about playfully, lovingly and with a caretaker, without feeling forced to take a peak into the darker regions just yet. This could suggest immaturity, or being ill-prepared for such things presently. The girl is another part of myself, who in an explicit way explains the “little me”’s unequivocal comfort and contentedness. She is feminine, which suggests that she might be from the darkness (in the Jungian sense that every male contains an often neglected feminine side, which, being that which remains unseen, resides in “the darkness”). If this were so, she might be a peaceful taste of what’s to come: a figure who the little boy obviously has no reason to fear; in fact, quite the opposite: she makes the little boy feel safe, tells him that everything is okay and that right there and then, they are far enough away from the darkness not to have to care too much about it at present. Importantly, the little boy might not know that she is from the darkness; perhaps the peace he is experiencing is a taste of what the darkness has to offer. It is noteworthy to repeat that there are no others present; to me, this suggests that, despite not even facing up to the darkness, the “little me” has chosen to go it alone, to neglect the need for others in this particular quest (whatever it may be…).
But before this goes too far, it must be restrained; for these are, of course, speculations built upon many other speculations, and to go so far and perhaps even as far as I have at all, other dreams are needed as well as a deeper understanding of and exposition of my personality and life-situation. For now, despite it appearing to be an interpretation cut short, I will rest content in having reflected on and explored the dream as far as I have been presently able, and hopefully offered the reader some kind of insight into the possible ways of looking at and reflecting on the dream-world.
All speculation is tentative, and where conviction seems evident I urge the reader to disregard this impression. Beliefs are not my concern and this reflection is merely an attempt at divulging my personal interpretations, not an attempt to put forth fixed ways of looking at dreams. The latter, as Carl Jung pointed out, is not possible; each dream must be recognised as inextricably linked with the complex life of the individual who dreams it. This is, I think, common even to popular ideas on dreams, and I hope the above reflection has made this point self-evident.
Everything I have thought about since the dream has probably reshaped my recollection, that is, changed the way I presently look at it (as opposed to the way I first experienced it); though I hope enough of its essential features remain for a relatively honest, in-depth reflection, which I will now write.
I remember next to nothing about this dream other than the aforementioned dreamscape, the fact that there was a little girl there with me, and perhaps most importantly the intense feelings I experienced both during the dream as well as retrospectively, concerning the figure of the girl and the environment. I was very fond of the girl; she was extremely benevolent in ways I cannot describe through any of her actions, seeing as there were no such actions— at least any which were retained in my memory upon waking. There was something pure and fascinating about her; she seemed to emanate, evoking feeling from me without really doing anything. The fact that I somehow knew I was a little boy again in the dream, as opposed to the adolescent I am in waking life, makes this facet of the dream even more enigmatic.
I’m fairly sure the dream came to me in first-person, i.e. through my own eyes as a little boy in the dream. The girl was sitting somewhere around the middle of the field, I think. I am unsure whether any contact was made at all, really; but the impressions I received from the girl were strong both during the dream and when I awoke, and remain with me even now. She was a force I could trust; a guiding and benevolent figure, there to let me know that things were alright and that there was nothing to worry about (“benevolent” is the word that came to mind immediately after recalling the dream, and so will be used inordinately throughout this reflection). There isn’t much more I can write about her exact character, as there isn’t much other than how I felt. With this in mind, I came to look at the little girl as some aspect of myself, seeing as her presence alone evoked such intense and unambiguous impressions from both the little me in the dream as well as from my waking, reflective self. For that matter, the “little me” in the dream can also be viewed as an aspect, too, as will be later speculated.
It can only be assumed that this figure, the little girl, is, in some sense, a part of me; obviously a product of my mind. This is more or less undeniable, even under paradigms like Jung’s where the collective unconscious can produce archetypal dream figures, common the world over. The latter are still products of one’s own psyche; they merely contain ubiquitous archetypes which fit into collective templates, which relate to the individual in important ways anyway. Anyhow, I think it is fair to say that, at least for the purposes of this reflection, the girl was indeed some amplified aspect of myself (or more than one, combined?)—and that this also applies to the child version of me, through whose eyes I experienced the dream. (What I think is contentious is exactly what “an aspect” of oneself is; the idea is widely interpretable, and so a lengthy discussion on this notion will, for now at least, be avoided. Hopefully the way the idea is used in context here will give an idea of what such an aspect could possibly be).
So, in this light, who really is the little girl and what does she symbolise? I was interacting with an angelic, amorous, utterly benevolent and benign figure in this dream, who made me feel safe in some very intense way, even in waking life (the feelings, like many dreams, emanated into my waking life, and even now I can incite a nostalgic, peaceful feeling, just by recalling the dream and, particularly, the figure of the little girl).
In Jung’s paradigm, the function of dreams is compensation; that is, dreams compensate for psychical forces which lack in waking life, forces which work to bring equilibrium to the psyche, or healing (much like a wound works at healing itself after the damage has been done). Generally speaking, the little girl could represent some part of myself that is lacking, which, in this case, would seem to be a benevolence towards others, or perhaps even a benevolent attitude toward something within myself. It could indeed be that I lack a certain benevolence towards others, which in turn suggests a lack of benevolence towards myself which I merely project onto others.
But of course, there is more to be observed here, and even such speculative conclusions might be a little premature (but interesting, nonetheless).
The dream, first of all, takes place in a vast green sports field—rectangular, if I remember correctly (which is now almost impossible to say for sure). I get the feeling there may have even been soccer goals at each end (the idea of competition?). Anyhow, this vast, green expanse was surrounded by other vast, green expanses. So, it can perhaps be said that we—the little girl and my “little self”—are “out in the open”. We are exposed and visible. There is nowhere to hide, because even the thresholds of the outer fields are quite far away; and beyond them, of course, are the “dark woods” (the trees, of course; but for the sake of speculation and reflection, they can be seen to represent the archetypal, ubiquitous forest: the unlit, unknown region of oneself). I name them so certainly due to my influences from dream interpretation literature (notably and obviously Jung), but also because I am convinced of the idea that dark forests, in some sense, appear ubiquitously as “nether-regions”; places where people are generally frightened to go and where, in myth, folklore, etc., very mysterious and strange things happen, which of course reflect something deeper than that observed on the surface-level. This is a very widely-made observation, which doesn’t necessarily make it unquestionable but, again for the purposes of this reflection, the general assumption will be made.
So, there I was: a little boy, exposed in an open field, with this wondrous little girl; and beyond us, far away and thus not immanently threatening, laid the darkness.
Without any remembered interaction, or any action at all for that matter, it is admittedly quite difficult to speculate as to what this dream could be saying, or what it could have been showing me about myself (or even if, as the extreme skeptic says, the dream has anything to express at all). As such, I will venture to interpret it based on the reasonably clear imagery and feelings which I do possess. Nothing conclusive will appear, however, and none of the aforementioned should be considered in any way concrete.
With the malevolent forces so far beyond us (the girl and I), the feeling of being safe and warm comes as no surprise. There is simply nothing immediately threatening here; it is far away; though, I think importantly, it is still there. The fact that we are both young—somewhere between five and ten would be my estimate—suggests a certain type of innocence. We are far from the darkness, perhaps, because we are still so young: at such an age, there is little concern for “serious” matters, nor is there any of the existential anxiety which I assume, based solely on my own casual observations, tends to spawn and proliferate during adolescence. Generally speaking, at this age kids are still enveloped in the simple and innocent joys and thrills of childhood. Perhaps—as so crucially emphasised in Freudian theory—the underlying developments in this stage of life are pivotal in determining one’s being in future years; but nonetheless, there remains that purity, that ignorance of the anxieties of life and of its pressures, hardships, etc., which come about at the onset of adolescence. (The vagueness of terms like “puberty” and “adolescence” are to be noted. I dislike using the terms in any concrete sense, so bear in mind that I try to use them in a very general, non-concrete sense; that is, they tend to cover so much ground that any fixed conception of them does not do justice to the complexities of individuals. Furthermore, the diversities which such terms signify are themselves constantly in flux.).
But what could all this point to, if it indeed points to anything at all? Perhaps the dream is showing me my still-innocent, unexposed aspect; the side of me that remains far, far away from danger—from my “unenlightened” aspects. But why the benevolent little girl, intuited as a guiding-type spirit? Even now I can recall her as a guiding force, a playful but comforting figure, there as my companion, friend and perhaps even caretaker. Could this girl be the babysitter for the part of myself which chooses not to go forth into the darkness; the part which now stands alone on the playing field, having removed all other players, both friends and rivals, out of fear or personal insecurity of some kind—who needlessly chooses to wander alone before the darkness? She is there to help me, but she does not force me or even urge me to do anything; she merely tends to me in this no-man’s-land (the field).
The little boy in the dream suggests to me a blissful quasi-ignorance; a knowing, but choosing not to face just yet—and this latter idea is, as well as being fairly plausible, perhaps not as ominous as it appears. I felt no pressure of any kind in the dream or in recalling it; only peace and calm. The little girl, as guide, does not tell me that I have to, but rather takes care of me presently, exposed as I am in the open sports field which is, presumably, where I have chosen to be; and chosen, notably, to be alone. It is just me and my helper, who is in essence a part of me, thus deeming me in a sense completely isolated from others.
It cannot be emphasised enough that what has been said thus far is but one possible interpretation—and a biased one, at that, for I am undeniably free to extrapolate from my own self-knowledge, for good or for worse. Nor is it comprehensive, but rather looks at the salient parts of the dream and tries humbly to interpret them.
So, in sum:
There is within me, in some sense, a still-ignorant childlike aspect—an attitude of willing naivety—which chooses to lurk around, out in the open, rather than facing up to certain things (the distant, not-yet-threatening darkness) which are at very least known, but perhaps not fully grasped. It—the journeying aspect—has chosen, for complex reasons, to do this alone. This part of myself is not forced into doing anything; it is childlike and treated as such in that it can roam about playfully, lovingly and with a caretaker, without feeling forced to take a peak into the darker regions just yet. This could suggest immaturity, or being ill-prepared for such things presently. The girl is another part of myself, who in an explicit way explains the “little me”’s unequivocal comfort and contentedness. She is feminine, which suggests that she might be from the darkness (in the Jungian sense that every male contains an often neglected feminine side, which, being that which remains unseen, resides in “the darkness”). If this were so, she might be a peaceful taste of what’s to come: a figure who the little boy obviously has no reason to fear; in fact, quite the opposite: she makes the little boy feel safe, tells him that everything is okay and that right there and then, they are far enough away from the darkness not to have to care too much about it at present. Importantly, the little boy might not know that she is from the darkness; perhaps the peace he is experiencing is a taste of what the darkness has to offer. It is noteworthy to repeat that there are no others present; to me, this suggests that, despite not even facing up to the darkness, the “little me” has chosen to go it alone, to neglect the need for others in this particular quest (whatever it may be…).
But before this goes too far, it must be restrained; for these are, of course, speculations built upon many other speculations, and to go so far and perhaps even as far as I have at all, other dreams are needed as well as a deeper understanding of and exposition of my personality and life-situation. For now, despite it appearing to be an interpretation cut short, I will rest content in having reflected on and explored the dream as far as I have been presently able, and hopefully offered the reader some kind of insight into the possible ways of looking at and reflecting on the dream-world.
All speculation is tentative, and where conviction seems evident I urge the reader to disregard this impression. Beliefs are not my concern and this reflection is merely an attempt at divulging my personal interpretations, not an attempt to put forth fixed ways of looking at dreams. The latter, as Carl Jung pointed out, is not possible; each dream must be recognised as inextricably linked with the complex life of the individual who dreams it. This is, I think, common even to popular ideas on dreams, and I hope the above reflection has made this point self-evident.
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