Swimming
To dream that you are swimming, suggests that you are exploring aspects of your unconscious mind and emotions. The dream may be a sign that you are seeking some sort of emotional support. It is a common dream image for people going through therapy.
To dream that you are swimming underwater, suggests that you are completely submerged in your own feelings. You are forcing yourself to deal with your emotional difficulties.
City
To see a city in your dream, signifies a sense of community and your social environment. If you dream of a big city, then it suggests that you need to develop closer ties and relationships. You are feeling alienated and alone. To dream that you are in a deserted city, indicates that you feel rejected by those around you.
To dream of a city in ruins, denotes that you are neglecting your social relationships and allowing them to deteriorate.
To dream of an underground or underwater city, represents your unconscious and how through deeper understanding of yourself, you find commonality and shared experiences with others.
It was the most beautiful city I've ever seen, sparkling glass rising from an expanse of crystal blue water, and I was swimming around it, the most serene swim I've ever swum.
Wednesday
Tuesday
i'm bleeding from somewhere
Choosing two images from Berger’s Ways of Seeing is difficult because, as Berger points out, “the relationship between what we see and what we know is never settled.” I believe he emphasizes his claim by condensing some of humanity’s greatest works of art into his cramped, black-and-white reader, which I find frustrating. Recalling Walter Benjamin’s discussion in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, the ritual with which one approaches Manet’s Olympia (1832-1833), for example, is greatly reduced when one finds it tucked away on page 63 of Ways of Seeing. If beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, and Kant might say it is, then even the great nude traditions, which are thoroughly represented here among Berger’s discussion of the objectification of women, cannot compete with and indeed I think are less beautiful than works which are complemented, instead of restricted, by the book’s format. The assignment is to select two images from Ways of Seeing: does this mean two images that I find beautiful within the context of the page, or am I to select two images that are only being represented by Berger, with the full knowledge of, say, the actual presence of Manet’s Le dejeuner sur l’herbe (1832-1833)?
Kant says that the Beautiful pleases universally, so maybe these greater works so subjected to reproduction may be called ‘beautiful’ simply by virtue of their enduring popularity. If that’s the case then one could argue that the Christian works included in Ways of Seeing, many of which predate Manet’s work by several hundred years, are more beautiful, because we’ve kept them around longer. But, perhaps there is something about Manet’s expression that makes his work more instantly recognizable than, for example, the Italian painter Cimabue (1240-1302).
I’m not particularly drawn to most of the images in Ways of Seeing because I find the format discouraging. How can anyone decide if these small, murky images deserve to be called beautiful? If I’d never seen a proper representation of a Manet or a Rembrandt then I would have trouble accepting Berger’s arguments. However, Berger’s subtle manipulation of the book’s layout has produced one notable piece (as Kant might say, notable to me at least), Peasant Boy Leaning on Sill, by Bartolome Murillo (1617-82).
I can’t exactly describe what is beautiful about this portrait. There is an innocence to this child, certainly, which Berger is absolutely intent on transcribing to his readers; otherwise, this picture wouldn’t be so large. In the earlier chapters, which concern the objectification of women, neither the timeless classic paintings or paralleled, contemporary advertisements are treated with this degree of reverence—Berger doesn’t even cite the picture of the peasant boy, because he might distract his reader. The black-and-white also compliment this portrait of a human being, a child whose face, unlike the other portraits in this chapter, isn’t wrinkled or scarred by the degradation of knowledge, experience, and the general stresses of adulthood.
Opposite this painting Berger includes a photograph of a young girl (Sarah Burge, 1883, Dr Barnardo’s Homes, Unknown Photographer). His emphasis here, in a chapter about art and the ranks of the real and common, is on children—children, like empty canvases, are unspoiled and pure. In a discussion about the beautiful, and the imitation of the beautiful, artists can always try to capture and manufacture what they believe is a beautiful image, but as soon as paint touches the white surface the illusion of possibilities is gone; the canvas is marred by a brush stroke.
Maybe the Beautiful is about possibilities, and not certainties.
Kant says that the Beautiful pleases universally, so maybe these greater works so subjected to reproduction may be called ‘beautiful’ simply by virtue of their enduring popularity. If that’s the case then one could argue that the Christian works included in Ways of Seeing, many of which predate Manet’s work by several hundred years, are more beautiful, because we’ve kept them around longer. But, perhaps there is something about Manet’s expression that makes his work more instantly recognizable than, for example, the Italian painter Cimabue (1240-1302).
I’m not particularly drawn to most of the images in Ways of Seeing because I find the format discouraging. How can anyone decide if these small, murky images deserve to be called beautiful? If I’d never seen a proper representation of a Manet or a Rembrandt then I would have trouble accepting Berger’s arguments. However, Berger’s subtle manipulation of the book’s layout has produced one notable piece (as Kant might say, notable to me at least), Peasant Boy Leaning on Sill, by Bartolome Murillo (1617-82).
I can’t exactly describe what is beautiful about this portrait. There is an innocence to this child, certainly, which Berger is absolutely intent on transcribing to his readers; otherwise, this picture wouldn’t be so large. In the earlier chapters, which concern the objectification of women, neither the timeless classic paintings or paralleled, contemporary advertisements are treated with this degree of reverence—Berger doesn’t even cite the picture of the peasant boy, because he might distract his reader. The black-and-white also compliment this portrait of a human being, a child whose face, unlike the other portraits in this chapter, isn’t wrinkled or scarred by the degradation of knowledge, experience, and the general stresses of adulthood.
Opposite this painting Berger includes a photograph of a young girl (Sarah Burge, 1883, Dr Barnardo’s Homes, Unknown Photographer). His emphasis here, in a chapter about art and the ranks of the real and common, is on children—children, like empty canvases, are unspoiled and pure. In a discussion about the beautiful, and the imitation of the beautiful, artists can always try to capture and manufacture what they believe is a beautiful image, but as soon as paint touches the white surface the illusion of possibilities is gone; the canvas is marred by a brush stroke.
Maybe the Beautiful is about possibilities, and not certainties.
Monday
That reminds me...
Beatrice is playing Pokemon now. His levels of pure inactivity and insatiable boredom have probably reached an all-time low.
I'd be angrier about it if I weren't jealous.
I'd be angrier about it if I weren't jealous.
NATIONALIST ASSOCIATION: "William I, regent since 1857, may we borrow your army to defeat the Austrians in a battle and finally establish the se...."
"...cond Reich?"
"But I want to modernize the Prussian army!"
"Please?"
"First, Prussian Parliament, may I have money in order to modernize my Prussian army?"
"Only if you earn it."
"Rats."
*
I'm taking a German history class to pad my credits this term. While I find it to be absolutely *fascinating*, the room is a little hot and the professor is not exactly the most engaging. So I've taken to taking my notes in singing cartoons and short dialogues. Read:
"Hey, it's 1870 and those Austrians are negotiating with France for an alliance against Prussia and the northern German states!"
"Let's kick France's ass first. Punks."
And so begins a beautiful friendship. I had a dark realization during class, though, that the German states spent the nineteenth century fighting for political, economic, and social stability in the guise of unification, only to have the dream stripped away in the 1940s and finally, fully realized in 1989...can you imagine over a hundred and fifty years striving for the unity of you and your kind? Granted, the Germans did get a little sidetracked, but still...I realized for the first time just how significant the fall of the Berlin Wall really must have been.
Mad's taken my hat and if I don't get it back the Phillies may never win again. During their last three losses I did not have it, and the scores for the last two games, after she had already kidnapped it, were bad enough for me to suspect I have a measure of psychic influence over the team's performance. Must get it back now, must. I wish she wasn't so pissed at me, again.
What else, not much? Um...nope. Ciao.
¡Mi lavaplatos me deja, ah cómo el corazón rompe!
"But I want to modernize the Prussian army!"
"Please?"
"First, Prussian Parliament, may I have money in order to modernize my Prussian army?"
"Only if you earn it."
"Rats."
*
I'm taking a German history class to pad my credits this term. While I find it to be absolutely *fascinating*, the room is a little hot and the professor is not exactly the most engaging. So I've taken to taking my notes in singing cartoons and short dialogues. Read:
"Hey, it's 1870 and those Austrians are negotiating with France for an alliance against Prussia and the northern German states!"
"Let's kick France's ass first. Punks."
And so begins a beautiful friendship. I had a dark realization during class, though, that the German states spent the nineteenth century fighting for political, economic, and social stability in the guise of unification, only to have the dream stripped away in the 1940s and finally, fully realized in 1989...can you imagine over a hundred and fifty years striving for the unity of you and your kind? Granted, the Germans did get a little sidetracked, but still...I realized for the first time just how significant the fall of the Berlin Wall really must have been.
Mad's taken my hat and if I don't get it back the Phillies may never win again. During their last three losses I did not have it, and the scores for the last two games, after she had already kidnapped it, were bad enough for me to suspect I have a measure of psychic influence over the team's performance. Must get it back now, must. I wish she wasn't so pissed at me, again.
What else, not much? Um...nope. Ciao.
¡Mi lavaplatos me deja, ah cómo el corazón rompe!
Sunday
mad's back in town and it's cold here.
I started to write this a few days ago, thinking she was asleep, but she happened in on me so I shut it down. Want Something Else to be a secret as long as I can keep it one.
I don't remember what I was trying to write about that night, must have been a Saturday, but I was strained for inspiration. Sunday, however, was a great night. I opened the bar and made forty dollars, quite unremarkable, but I followed my nose to a nearby bar to help see off an old workfriend, who's leaving Philadelphia for the last time. Her name is Colts, and she had a bad habit of working at the Chain whenever she was in town studying. Colts, her roommate, and B and I hopped from one bar to the next while the Flyers secured a playoff seat. We ended up at Scarlett's, which has a great deal on Yuengling pitchers and had an open pool table, which we put to use for three hours, playing doubles. I spent every dollar I made that morning on beer that night, and had one of the more memorable sunny afternoons I've had in a long time. Colts and I agree that the table we occupied, right next to the pool table, with warm, gentle breezes blowing in from the tall, old-fashioned windows, is one of the best seats this side of the river on a Sunday afternoon.
I played myself sober later that night in a game of tackle football with B and a few of his sporty companions. I'm still sore two days later, and it feels great. He's a big guy, though I think I impressed him. B taught me a few of his tricks when I started serving, and now I'm watching my trainer slide behind the bar to join me in the great ranks of the beer tap-handlers.
The lesson for today is that an afternoon shooting shit, and then a little sweat, can relax a lingering sore throat right out of you. I'm so glad I finally got away from the rigors of a static evening in front of the damned television, mired in the throes of my roommates' insatiable want to pass the time.
We asked a question in class today, one I want to ponder on and maybe try to answer in a later post: Where are all the great women artists?
I don't remember what I was trying to write about that night, must have been a Saturday, but I was strained for inspiration. Sunday, however, was a great night. I opened the bar and made forty dollars, quite unremarkable, but I followed my nose to a nearby bar to help see off an old workfriend, who's leaving Philadelphia for the last time. Her name is Colts, and she had a bad habit of working at the Chain whenever she was in town studying. Colts, her roommate, and B and I hopped from one bar to the next while the Flyers secured a playoff seat. We ended up at Scarlett's, which has a great deal on Yuengling pitchers and had an open pool table, which we put to use for three hours, playing doubles. I spent every dollar I made that morning on beer that night, and had one of the more memorable sunny afternoons I've had in a long time. Colts and I agree that the table we occupied, right next to the pool table, with warm, gentle breezes blowing in from the tall, old-fashioned windows, is one of the best seats this side of the river on a Sunday afternoon.
I played myself sober later that night in a game of tackle football with B and a few of his sporty companions. I'm still sore two days later, and it feels great. He's a big guy, though I think I impressed him. B taught me a few of his tricks when I started serving, and now I'm watching my trainer slide behind the bar to join me in the great ranks of the beer tap-handlers.
The lesson for today is that an afternoon shooting shit, and then a little sweat, can relax a lingering sore throat right out of you. I'm so glad I finally got away from the rigors of a static evening in front of the damned television, mired in the throes of my roommates' insatiable want to pass the time.
We asked a question in class today, one I want to ponder on and maybe try to answer in a later post: Where are all the great women artists?
Friday
Rise
PiL is going to be in Atlantic City within the next two months and I'm torn over whether it's worth the effort to see Mr. Lydon in person. I don't like Rise, which is the only PiL song I've ever heard, but I also don't dislike it. Of course I won't see them, Atlantic City is so far away and the tickets will be expensive. Still, it would be something to etch my eyes into the ranks of Mr. Lydon's live audience. Especially after an eighteen-year hiatus. No, the tickets will be too expensive.
The Buzzcocks play here, too, halfway through May, and they're probably a better show. Speaking of, the Psychedelic Furs are playing at the Cube in the coming weeks. It's really a tiny little venue for such a reputable act and I'm not sure how the show is going to play out. The Cube may actually be in for it this time. I'm more worried that they won't let me in after I get off of work, I suspect security will be pretty tight. We'll just have to walk a block or so more to get to another bar...
Baseball season started again, let's go, let's go. Phillies are up two games and down one, the sons of bitches. It's only the Nationals!
I want to write something smart or insightful now, something inspired, to get away from the dumb problems that affect my life, the same problems you have, and give somebody a real reason to check this page every few days. That's what we all want, though, isn't it? Validation...
In class last term, The Philosophy of Sex and Love, one of the concepts that we discussed that I've become quite taken by is the idea of existential crisis, call it Soble's Existential Crisis; the idea that we are more than comfortably aware of how fragile our mortality is becoming. We live day-to-day, sure, but in the shadow of this naggy little feeling somewhere in our head that the present is tainted by the terminal of the future. That's one thing I've really come to hate about college, is how irrelevant the process seems to be becoming, and how expensive it's finally going to be. It's an STD.
But, about the terminal of the future. Of course, this has really always been a problem with the human condition, but the technology of our age has done two things to complicate how we console ourselves each and every one, both mentally and emotionally. Hence, a short list of generalized solutions to cope with EXISTENTIAL ANGST. A thousand years ago, with the golden age of human civilization swept well under a thick rug of strict monotheism, certain widespread mortal crises like, I dunno, Feudalism, and the Plague, were most simply countered theocratically, which is why all of the art from the time is such a drag. Religion was one self-definition that made the mortal coil tolerable. I'd say that the Military was another, which explains a lot arbitrary war decisions made at the time--seriously, the Crusades?
Of course, in the last three hundred years the Enlightenment has made short work of spirituality, and now it takes a certain mentality to put so much unemaciated faith into a singular, greater power. For some people, religion still works.
One modern complication on the crisis of Existential Angst is the lack of any relative manifestation. Plague is plague: you're surrounded by it, your friends and family are falling to it, and either you are or you aren't. You rely on your God to spare you or hightail it away to somewhere else, likely following a trail of enlistment papers, assuming your government and culture consider you of a proper genealogy to fight. Since the fifties, we haven't been able to keep such a close watch on the things that threaten to end our lives HERE and NOW: the Bomb, particularly, but AIDS too, remain distant and/or microscopic. An exception, maybe, is the FOX news network.
Another complication is the future we don't really seem to have. Between Soylent Green and Idiocracy there are a number of imaginatively stark portrayals of a time-to-be where ignorance and inactivity have pigeonholed the human race into a bleak, meaningless existence. Soble cited Rachel Carson's work, which ignited a race of environmental activists who were just as irritating then as they are now. Of course, they're right in what they do, and we ignore them because we simply don't enjoy being reminded of how irresponsible we're being. And, we don't need to worry about the future now because people years from now will have plenty of time to do it then, and all the more need. The American Forefathers, as they were drafting the Constitution, decided to sidestep the issue of Slavey and Slave Ownership--we all know how cleanly and nonconfrontationally the deciding generation handled that. Philosophers Stone and Parker treat the idea well in their chapter on "Goobacks".
Essentially, we wander about our days waiting for an unexpected nuclear attack to completely annihilate life as we know it, so we don't worry so much about the future, which is also shaping up to suck pretty royally. We want a shoulder to cry on, but the consolatory methods of religion and militarism have become archaic compared to the accessibility of what's available NOW: Drugs and Sex. And, these feel much better compared to the flagellations of the former. Thank you, '67. But, drugs and sex render irresponsible followers (read: most of them) quite useless, for reasons that should be pretty clear.
In class we also discussed Love as a reaction to Existential Angst and this of course made all kinds of sense. The discussion is deep, complicated, and philosophical, and can be tied up on one end as the pursuit of immortality. There are a lot of different ends, of course.
Immortality is achieved, most literally, in the conception of offspring, which carry your blood through the generations. For some Lovers this is not a biologically viable option, but the Greeks were creative: they endorsed art for just the occasion.
I'm reading Please Kill Me, an oral history of the World's most misunderstood Pop movement, and Ron Asheton, the recently-deceased Stooge, quite accurately sums up the Artist's condition: he's a lazy son-of-a-bitch who doesn't want to do anything. Of course, he's got to make his way through the world, which he does, like all successful artists, by convincing every body else that his contributions possess meaning. Meaning which deserves financial reward, naturally.
*
This post is scatterbrained and loaded. In the last month I've been home, done this and that. I'm flirting dangerously with my school status. I want to quit, but know damned well if I do that I'll regret it sometime in the next two to twenty years.
But, bitching about my life when I want to be taken seriously is no way to convince the rest of you that my contributions possess meaning, is it? I'm facing my own Existential Crisis, though--To be or not to be--
I remember this exchange every time I don't want to want direction, it's a few of my favorite lines ever written:
"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.
"I don't much care where –" said Alice.
"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat.
"– so long as I get somewhere," Alice added as an explanation.
"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."
Just keep walking, I guess.
V'had loads of great dreams, so those will be up here pretty soon. Let's start with that.
The Buzzcocks play here, too, halfway through May, and they're probably a better show. Speaking of, the Psychedelic Furs are playing at the Cube in the coming weeks. It's really a tiny little venue for such a reputable act and I'm not sure how the show is going to play out. The Cube may actually be in for it this time. I'm more worried that they won't let me in after I get off of work, I suspect security will be pretty tight. We'll just have to walk a block or so more to get to another bar...
Baseball season started again, let's go, let's go. Phillies are up two games and down one, the sons of bitches. It's only the Nationals!
I want to write something smart or insightful now, something inspired, to get away from the dumb problems that affect my life, the same problems you have, and give somebody a real reason to check this page every few days. That's what we all want, though, isn't it? Validation...
In class last term, The Philosophy of Sex and Love, one of the concepts that we discussed that I've become quite taken by is the idea of existential crisis, call it Soble's Existential Crisis; the idea that we are more than comfortably aware of how fragile our mortality is becoming. We live day-to-day, sure, but in the shadow of this naggy little feeling somewhere in our head that the present is tainted by the terminal of the future. That's one thing I've really come to hate about college, is how irrelevant the process seems to be becoming, and how expensive it's finally going to be. It's an STD.
But, about the terminal of the future. Of course, this has really always been a problem with the human condition, but the technology of our age has done two things to complicate how we console ourselves each and every one, both mentally and emotionally. Hence, a short list of generalized solutions to cope with EXISTENTIAL ANGST. A thousand years ago, with the golden age of human civilization swept well under a thick rug of strict monotheism, certain widespread mortal crises like, I dunno, Feudalism, and the Plague, were most simply countered theocratically, which is why all of the art from the time is such a drag. Religion was one self-definition that made the mortal coil tolerable. I'd say that the Military was another, which explains a lot arbitrary war decisions made at the time--seriously, the Crusades?
Of course, in the last three hundred years the Enlightenment has made short work of spirituality, and now it takes a certain mentality to put so much unemaciated faith into a singular, greater power. For some people, religion still works.
One modern complication on the crisis of Existential Angst is the lack of any relative manifestation. Plague is plague: you're surrounded by it, your friends and family are falling to it, and either you are or you aren't. You rely on your God to spare you or hightail it away to somewhere else, likely following a trail of enlistment papers, assuming your government and culture consider you of a proper genealogy to fight. Since the fifties, we haven't been able to keep such a close watch on the things that threaten to end our lives HERE and NOW: the Bomb, particularly, but AIDS too, remain distant and/or microscopic. An exception, maybe, is the FOX news network.
Another complication is the future we don't really seem to have. Between Soylent Green and Idiocracy there are a number of imaginatively stark portrayals of a time-to-be where ignorance and inactivity have pigeonholed the human race into a bleak, meaningless existence. Soble cited Rachel Carson's work, which ignited a race of environmental activists who were just as irritating then as they are now. Of course, they're right in what they do, and we ignore them because we simply don't enjoy being reminded of how irresponsible we're being. And, we don't need to worry about the future now because people years from now will have plenty of time to do it then, and all the more need. The American Forefathers, as they were drafting the Constitution, decided to sidestep the issue of Slavey and Slave Ownership--we all know how cleanly and nonconfrontationally the deciding generation handled that. Philosophers Stone and Parker treat the idea well in their chapter on "Goobacks".
Essentially, we wander about our days waiting for an unexpected nuclear attack to completely annihilate life as we know it, so we don't worry so much about the future, which is also shaping up to suck pretty royally. We want a shoulder to cry on, but the consolatory methods of religion and militarism have become archaic compared to the accessibility of what's available NOW: Drugs and Sex. And, these feel much better compared to the flagellations of the former. Thank you, '67. But, drugs and sex render irresponsible followers (read: most of them) quite useless, for reasons that should be pretty clear.
In class we also discussed Love as a reaction to Existential Angst and this of course made all kinds of sense. The discussion is deep, complicated, and philosophical, and can be tied up on one end as the pursuit of immortality. There are a lot of different ends, of course.
Immortality is achieved, most literally, in the conception of offspring, which carry your blood through the generations. For some Lovers this is not a biologically viable option, but the Greeks were creative: they endorsed art for just the occasion.
I'm reading Please Kill Me, an oral history of the World's most misunderstood Pop movement, and Ron Asheton, the recently-deceased Stooge, quite accurately sums up the Artist's condition: he's a lazy son-of-a-bitch who doesn't want to do anything. Of course, he's got to make his way through the world, which he does, like all successful artists, by convincing every body else that his contributions possess meaning. Meaning which deserves financial reward, naturally.
*
This post is scatterbrained and loaded. In the last month I've been home, done this and that. I'm flirting dangerously with my school status. I want to quit, but know damned well if I do that I'll regret it sometime in the next two to twenty years.
But, bitching about my life when I want to be taken seriously is no way to convince the rest of you that my contributions possess meaning, is it? I'm facing my own Existential Crisis, though--To be or not to be--
I remember this exchange every time I don't want to want direction, it's a few of my favorite lines ever written:
"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.
"I don't much care where –" said Alice.
"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat.
"– so long as I get somewhere," Alice added as an explanation.
"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."
Just keep walking, I guess.
V'had loads of great dreams, so those will be up here pretty soon. Let's start with that.
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