Day: February 28, 2017

Categories
Blog

Attending to that Collection of Old Writing

Is it a good idea to post a bunch of rambling old freewritings that I wrote last year? Or even further back?

Why do I keep remembering “l’enfer, c’est les autres” (Sartre: Hell is other people)?

Lately, had thoughts about the respect for attention — what it means to intentionally call attention to something negative, perhaps something painful but unchangeable, some old scar or another. Lord, how I find my experience of Facebook to be increasingly terrible and confusing. Why do I keep coming back, then? It fills small gaps of time where I’d not otherwise be doing something productive with my life — caring about the lives of others and keeping up with them is the selling point, sure. But lordy, how little I can help, the problems I see there, the focus and training I’ve had to resolve those conflicted feelings, yet I know they come back. Longing for greater affection, but necessity of only stepping in where it seems wise. Perhaps my social network is too wide for my life now. Perhaps being physically separated for too long unmoors me from what I liked about them in the first place. Maybe they changed, or were never like that to begin with. Maybe Facebook weirds human relationships.

The problem, too, is that I think posting old stuff with unclear expectations is a problem. This project is an ongoing one, and the point is it’ll never be “complete”. But it’s also worthwhile to think about you, dear reader — hi future Orin! As you’re probably aware, the writer always reads their words most. And I hope reading these brings you a certain delight, and commiseration, a recognition, although I’m honestly not sure why… except perhaps you remember/imagine being chilly, sitting on the Munchery parking lot stairs, wanting to organize your thoughts, to see them click together with the click of the keys, wondering if you successfully shoehorned enough evocative descriptions of your setting to ground in that “real world” we’re always hearing about.

Is it a good idea to post a rambling new freewriting that I wrote… just now?

(Sure! Fuck it, dude. The privacy setting that matters most is “hope you should know”.)

Categories
Dream Journal

Collected Dreams from the Past Week

In the dream I’m blogging — here, on ori.nz — and see that the URL permalink reads 10-2. I have an intense come-up feeling as I become something like lucid.

Pax Imperia, little cute solar systems. I see my homeslice Mickey B. I’d later realize this dream was very close to a ninth-grade fantasy I’d had while first starting to lucid dream, that we’d be able to play realistic space games together while we slept.

Dressed in a pair of tiny cute skivvies, I’m hopping from boat to boat in a crowded harbor marina. I get inside a spacious empty ferryboat filled with rows of low-slung benches, the windows and walls are clear plastic. Jumping from public bathroom to plain basic houseboat, battening the hatches. Off in the distance there’s a massive wave, a wave the size of a mountain. Later, I’d recall another dream of being in that massive wave — no sign of a harbor in that dream. Also, another dream many years ago where I scubaed alongside a whale.

J’aime Andrade, a member of color guard in my high school marching band, showed up in cool convertible with a few of her friends. Post-gothy aesthetic. They were having a blast and lifted my spirits.

(this night I meditated in bed before sleep for an hour…)

  • I’m on the phone, giving my friend Reecy directions while she’s in Germany
  • Lorelei is having a second baby, I’m very happy for her but unfortunately it wasn’t her life plan. Later I’m walking along the outside of a rounded fence near an abandoned area, I accidentally re-dial her and am embarrassed.
  • A biplane crashes just outside the Fartpartment, it’s an excuse for me to leave and wander the streets, and become lucid.
  • I stare at the beautiful horizon, receding infinitely into the distance, lucid but unimpressed with reality and the dream. It’s unimportant to me.

In a darkened apartment I’m with an elegant Greco-Roman topless statue of Sabrina W. Who should wander in, but Sabrina! She makes a show of approving of the work, and I find myself speechless (once again) in her presence.

Last day: I run into my nana under my apartment stairs, she finds me hiding a water bottle. Somehow that bottle is evidence of murder, but not one I had anything to do with — I just don’t want the creepy water bottle anymore. My nana gets me to put it someplace it could be found later, in the basement.