i have been writing my dreams down in my little Book of Dreams lately. sometimes i draw pictures to try and convey the imagery of them. they are like elaborate stories in themselves, like mini movies; a creation in themselves. the imagery and atmosphere is always very similar to that in The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. today i realized that i am forever free from the unnecessary curiosity in narcotics, as my dreams are quite trippy enough. i look forward to them now, each night brings a whole different world, and i write them down right away before i forget. in a way, they are like an outlet...their diversity and symbolic relation to thoughts in my psyche are like therapy, because if they don't answer my thoughts, they at least help me cope with them. along with fairytales and stories, dreams are my favorite. they are like fairytales in themselves: they entail a story, life, color, and the whole aspect of wonder is constantly present in the dreamer.. in a way, you are the creator of the world, but at the same time, the audience, hence the wonder.
i've heard the expression that people get lost in their dreams, and that they see it as an escape from reality. maybe it's odd, but i don't get lost in my dreams. i always find something in them. it's kind of hard to put it down, but they're never meaningless or pointless. all of them are just plain funny and bizarre, at least to me, but also personally significant in some moving way.
the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams - eleanor roosevelt
Dreams are part of our heart and soul
Our dreams go to the depths of our thoughts,
Wants, and needs to fulfill our destiny.
if i had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.
I'll admit that no matter how many times I read and re-read the 19th-century-placed novel Little Women, watch the 1994 film, or listen to the latter's soundtrack...it makes me cry, even if just a little. This story by the great American author, Louisa May Alcott reminds me so much of my family in some way. Maybe in part because my mom, sisters, and I have loved the story so much from when we were little and so it was so integrated in our lives. My sisters and I would read Mom's signed hard cover copy from when she was a girl so many times when we were young. We would choke up over it and laugh hysterically every single time we read it, and we could act out the different characters and their roles and personal moments. It moved me so much, it's as if part of my formation as a person has been influenced and deeply founded by that literary work from a very early age. We even used the characters as verbal insults during moments of frustration: Amy was a juicy title to namecall with if someone was disposed to leisure and 'prancing around like a primadonna', or Jo if one was disregarding manners and 'crudely flaunting tomboyish roughness', and so on. We watched the movie every winter together bundled under the blankets with our eyes glued to the screen, eagerly anticipating the next scene although we'd seen the movie a million times before. Perhaps because it's a true story is one of the reasons why it's so dear to my heart; I can relate to it more than any other inspirational or cherished work of literature. Life in the March family's big ol' Orchard House is imperfect, wholesome, tragic, beautiful, joyful, and at all times entertaining. The re-telling of Alcott's childhood and youth naturally facilitates true bonding with the reader. To be honest, the entire story, on all levels, makes me incredibly wistful. And although, as my family is wearily aware of by now, I have always been certain to declare my abhorrence of the dreariness and reality of marriage and family life, being a 'lover' of independence, travel, and personal pursuits (maybe your imagination can stretch as far as to ascertain whose role was Amy March's in our house), I do envy them. secretly I love the old house, and the garden around it, and the girls, and Marmee, and their house with the chimney, and the snow, and the town they live in, and the christmas dances, and their cozy attic that was their "theatre" where they acted out their home-based "plays". It is so beautiful because it's so domestic, and comforting, and traditional! I truly hope someday I have a close family with many children in an old, two-story, cozy house up north where it snows every winter and colors every fall. I'll share with them my love for poetry, and literature, and music, and dance, and I hope they all have a passion for the arts and theatre and aren't ever afraid of pursuing goodness and beauty. I want them to be happy, beloved, and contented, with self-respect and peace.I'll braid their hair every night and read to them in their upstairs bedroom, and try to cook motherly homemade meals, and hopefully church will be close by so we can walk to daily mass. and I'll be sure to tie a wooden rope swing under a tree. These are just some things I've always secretly loved more than anything else in the world and the simple little girl inside me always dreamed about but never shared.
I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens.
A startled or surprised look from one of you when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy.
Feasting is forestalled and fasting installed for the next forty days!! ...whether you're a Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, or Anglican -- and i hope that through the amelioration of my undertakings and intentions this Lent i grow to love much more by way of prayer, repentance, almsgiving, and self-denial as the traditional purpose of Lent is in the Church. Personally, I think that through fasting, one learns more minuscule and enormous aspects of their soul, than through any other approach to self-denial and meditation. In a way you are learning to die to self, and that's the first step to listening to God. Over spring break I heard an audio retreat by Fr. Larry Richards (i strongly recommend) on an extremely basic subject: the purpose of life. simply and crucially: what we do now determines our eternity. its contents moved me so much and compelled me to think about a lot of things, particularly when he mentioned that prayer is not an opportunity to say "shut up God, I'm talking" but rather "speak Lord, I'm listening". That in itself forced me to stop and realize numerous spiritual chisels on my part. Perhaps this Lent ought to be devoted solely to quiet. in my mind. silence. He knows what I'm thinking already, what's in our minds, there's no need to pester and question and jabber on mentally to Someone who sees, hears, and knows everything before it even happens. There's no cause for noise and a one-way insistence. Nature is the most silent yet musical undertaking, and although I've observed that before, why didn't I apply it to my personal pursuits? I once read that inspiration without application cheats the intention and fans the flames of mediocrity... as Catholics we all know our Faith and the Church's teachings. But what it comes down to is whether you personally know your God. That's how you prove someone's existence. If someone told you your sister didn't exist you would say, "My sister definitely exists, because I've experienced her, I know her, believe me. I can tell you all about her and what we've experienced together" So... do i really know Him? It's a frightening question.
500 Days of Summer, early '60's mod, She&Him, Zooey Deschanel, or Joseph Gordon-Levitt fan? I happen to like all, as well as dancing and the color blue, so this cute video makes my heart smile. voilà! enjoy the class and talent if you will.
and a couple true blue tunes of the folk, guitar picking, rambling musician Ryan Bingham that complete those moments when i'm swinging in a hammock on a hot day and in need of some american harmonica and motivation to saddle em up. btw i'm sold on this bob dylan-ish texan bullrider. his rustic voice can be caught in the soundtrack to Jeff Bridges' (one of this girl's fave actors out there) 2010 alcoholic once-legendary country musician character in Crazy Heart.
and on that note of folksy texan artists, here's another lonestar i heard about. if you like dylan, neil young, tom waits, or john prine, you'll like the bluegrass feel to Danny Schmidt's music. as Sing Out! Magazine says, "his songs are a flood of poetry, mythology, folk wisdom, and surprise."
In Mediaeval Literature with Dr. Williams (excellent, ancient old man with a very traditional old-school method of teaching) we're studying Anglo-Saxon culture and literature, and the last one we read is called The Dream of the Rood. Think Beowulf, and slightly prior to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Pearl, etc. This ancient poem survives in a manuscript called the Vercelli book; the manuscript was written in England in the tenth century but was left in the northern Italian town of Vercelli, which is an important stop on the pilgrimage route from England to Rome. Its one of the earliest poems written during the Anglo-Saxon times and is basically a tale of heroism and spiritual triumph, relating the renowned scene of Jesus of Nazareth’s crucifixion from the standpoint of the cross itself, all of which is perceived by the narrator within a dream and re-told as this poem. A “rood”, presumably seems to be an Old English term for our term “rod”, hence the syntactic relation. Its difficult not to focus on the thought-provoking imagery in this peculiar visualization of the most powerful moment in history, and I've been reading it over and over again, finding more and more things. The cross seemingly plays an important role for the individual poet on a personal level because it observably captivates the dreamer’s awareness and regard for its potent symbolism for mankind. I think this is most likely overlooked by humanity in general from such a detailed and insightful standpoint, and thats what makes this ancient poem so compellingly unique to me. The Dreamer (or the poet) carries us through his most “sweetest dream” of gruesome suffering and triumphant glory, notably beginning with a vision of the cross itself first rather than of Christ Himself, giving the reader a good idea of the key character and focus in this poem. The cross is always described and viewed with the utmost respect, and is even in a close parallel position with the figure of the Christ Himself in several cases. The cross is originally portrayed as a “beacon” adorned in liturgical tradition from centuries of Church custom, and “bedecked with gold” as an object of veneration. Its later depicted as the literal wooden cross: “the savior’s tree…the best of woods…felled from the forest’s edge”. Then later on its referred back to as a liturgical cross after its discovery by St. Helen and its renewed emergence of fame within the Church of whom it was “adorned with gold and silver.” A chief point of eminence on the cross itself, much impressed by the poet, is that the cross is rendered as a symbol of a moment eternally occurring outside of time, meaning it is the essential point of our existence of which we eternally partake and behold, and this is most thoroughly expressed when all creation looked on “fair through all eternity”. The cross is depicted also as an angel, which is interesting; a symbolic messenger of God to humanity in this same aforementioned passage, an angel of the Lord. Also at the end of the poem when the dreamer desires the “cross of the lord”, rather than the scriptural representation of an angel, to “fetch” him and bear him to “great bliss, joy in heaven.” There's a sense of transmogrification as the tree is one with Christ in a way, as is seen when the cross “bleeds from the right side.” Also when the cross is left “standing drenched in blood. All shot through with arrows” and then when the tree speaks: “Easily I might have felled all those enemies, and yet I stood fast.” expressing a sense of intentional endurance of harm; he is an agent to his tormentors, yet they aren't the ones with the ultimate control. “They drove dark nails through me…They mocked us both together; I was all drenched with blood…Much have I endured on that hill of hostile fates.” They have suffered together, and the cross is the closest to Christ physically, which makes it “all beset with sorrow.” He isn't merely a witness to this gruesome scene but is a victim of evil, indeed a very martyr. The cross bears the weight and suffering of his Master, and suffers almost the same pains as Him. He is willing to endure his duty as a cross for the crucified, and in a noble manner, much like how Jesus approaches his duty as the crucified on the cross. This connection is noted when the cross “dared not bow down or break, against the lord’s word.” and when “the young hero made ready…strong and resolute; he ascended…brave…when he wanted to.” Another interesting point is when the poet gives a certain respective relationship of Mary to the cross when he says that after the crucifixion God honored him over all the trees of the forest, just as he has also honored His mother, Mary herself over all womankind. This gives a deep sense of honor to the cross itself, as it has shared a martyr-venerated connection with Mary the Mother of God, and Jesus Christ Himself. The tree reassures mankind that no one need be afraid of damnation who has borne in his breast the best of beacons, meaning himself, the cross of the crucified Lord. The intense attachment of cross’ purpose in relation to Jesus, and even Mary within this poem, gives it a much more dignified and laudable existence, than mere rods of wood, as the poet gives it life in recognizing and enduring its significantly fateful purpose. The poem concludes with the dreamer in a much more happy state than originally when he lamented his sinful state, but after this dreamt vision he is now longing to attain Paradise moreso and he eagerly prays to the cross to aid him en route for eternal salvation. This shift of the dreamer’s outlook and feelings towards the virtue-like bearer of Christ’s sufferings and its mission has a profound effect on the reader. The dreamer now has a sense of contemptuous mundi, and he yearns for eternal bliss. Likewise the dreamer’s expressions of sorrow of self-sinfulness can very much be a reflection of the reader’s state, and his change of heart towards passionately desiring Paradise can indeed be an insightful route for the reader as a truly effective approach to self-meditation.
tonight i will touch upon the world of "Faërie", as Tolkien would put it, and my intimacy with it on a personal level. Fairy tales have always been my favorite category of literature, from my very initial introduction to the imaginatory realm by my mother. Well, first it was the stories in scripture translated to a toddler's level, but right beside scripture i listened in a state of lull to her voice enlighten my mind's eye on folklore, i.e., fairytales, myths, and fables. These are my earliest and consequently my most relished memories; listening to mom read and then scrabbling my paper and crayons together to color the story that was still living in my limitedly acute mind. Although the latter was an exceedingly frustrating effort for a three year old to undertake; striving to convey to mommy on paper what i saw so vividly in my captivated imagination, it definitely had a lasting effect on my psyche. Perhaps why literature plays such an important role in my life is due to the encouragement of it in my very preliminary stages. I think that children's imaginations, although diminutive are the most dynamic and acute of human beings, it's just their limitations in expression and articulation that withhold the inner recesses of their ingenuity. Tolkien called fairytales "sub-creation", that is, creating a secondary world, of which entails the "inner consistency of reality". That being said, here's to folklore and the youth of this world who still have an ardent admiration and wonder for the ancient tales of heroism, purity, evil, adventures, tragedies, virtues, vices, etcetera etcetera...
"The consolation of fairy stories, the joy of the happy ending; or more correctly, the good catastrophe, the sudden, joyous "turn" (for there is no true end to a fairy tale); this joy, which is one of the things that fairy stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially escapist or fugitive. In it's fairy tale or other world setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace, never to be counted on to reoccur. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, or sorrow and failure, the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance. It denies, (in the face of much evidence if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief." --Tolkien.
"I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which 'Escape' is now so often used. Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls?" --Tolkien.
"I am half sick of shadows" --The Lady of Shallot
"My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure." --Sir Galahad
ever wonder what the more filtered Grimm fairytales were like in original form? (these are the ones i was raised on) check it out at this cute website... http://www.nationalgeographic.com/grimm and heads up: they're not as pretty as they're commercially depicted! there's almost no eucatastrophic element at all in these ones, its no wonder they were softened over time.
college has taken me away from dance, and i am missing it more than ever. it seems school has encouraged me to resort to personal poetry, but part of my new year's resolution this year will be to embrace poetry in motion back into my life!
my perception of insane control, precision, strength, grace, poise = Daniil Simkin. this intense young prodigy gives me a headache he's so phenomenal.
and fin with a fave classic -nouvelle vague- with a fave classic -bande a part-
heard about this band from my friend jonah, and the more i listen to them, the more their sound grows on me. indie, peaceful, quirky. also makes me want to wear glasses.
i've been meaning to read a certain masterpiece in Russian literature: The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy... about life, death, fear, epiphanies of reality. as Tolstoy said in his own words, "Ivan Ilyich's life had been...most ordinary and therefore most terrible." note to self: READ IT.
heads up if you like sufjan stevens, bon iver, postal service, gorky's aygotic mynci, paul simon, the mountains goats, or animal collective. heard about this bandradical glorywho is very similar to these artists. i love his obsession with houses, the diverse stories they retain; what has happened in them over the years. this is what his new album ghost is ideally based upon. each song in this album is a story itself and some of the stories are told from the house's point of view. also what's super cool about this guy (ben cooper) is that most of his work was conducted in an old tool shed behind his house. another awesome fact... he's from good ol' cracker country, my floridian home
it's windy and chilly outside finally, oh happy day. i'm admiring some of my baby sister's photography... good job, bridgette! makes me miss home. also some random photog after.
In Oscar Wilde’s Humanitad he describes anarchy as “freedom's own Judas, the vile prodigal licence who steals the gold of Liberty and yet has nothing…” The Man Who Was Thursday has a dreamlike quality in effect, and indeed throughout this nightmarish reality, anarchy, or more rather the appearance of it runs rampage. Gabriel Syme, the poetical artist, is thrown into a mad-gash psychological hurricane and with diligent valor strives to conquer this anarchical movement in which he finds himself involved. Chapter Twelve “The Earth in Anarchy” aptly describes the reader’s impression of the world during the majority of the novel. In Syme’s mad - and I use that word lightly - pursuit of Sunday he finds himself repeatedly under hilariously stressful situations and immediately following discovers his concern and efforts were wholly superfluous. He has many successive experiences like these: intense stress, confusion, frustration, embarrassment, humiliation, immense relief, and so on. He learns from these that nothing is as bad as it looks, the first message of the novel: “Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos had turned exactly upside down…he only knew the happy and silly fact that the shadow which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of peril was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up…he knew simultaneously that he was a fool and a free man.” However, as Syme realizes that his supposed enemies are in reality his friends, he continues to pursue Sunday, the supposed awful cause of Syme’s utter confusion and terror. The nightmarish story builds more and more pressure and ascends to its peak towards the finish when Sunday, the ultimate enigma, reveals himself as God Himself. Syme’s world has now been turned upside down and in this phenomenal conversion he no longer takes life seriously, or in a grave manner. Having seen God and survived, he now has the peace of God and is no longer threatened by nihilism, blasphemous ideology, or anarchism. He now knows that God is so much bigger than all these things and because he takes himself so lightly and experiences an “unnatural buoyancy” and a “crystal simplicity” he sees all else as triviality. Through him the novel’s observable second message is expressed: he now puts his trust entirely in God. In the beginning of and during the story Syme appears to be the courageous hero, but ends with the revelation of his complete silly blindness. Contrastingly, Sunday in the beginning and throughout appears to be quite beneath a hero, and ends up being ultimately above and beyond a mere hero. Sunday presumably can be said to signify Nature, a complete and indifferently beautiful enigma, but when the mask is torn off he shines forth as Divinity Himself, an even more beautiful enigma. As Nature he is the artistic mask, the skeleton of reality that holds up and mirrors the True Artist. Gregory, the real anarchist, questions and challenges Sunday and expresses his anger that a distant and insufferable god that is indeed insufferable. But Sunday’s reply is an ineffable verity that to know, to be, to live is to suffer, and with the acuity of such comes understanding. The dream and waking up experience for Syme strikes his whole being indelibly that we live in the best of all impossible worlds, that truly the only explanation for our world is a miracle. Though the story starts out and unfolds as a sort of desperate and despairing nightmare with limiting human collisions, it concludes with a revelation, a poignant birth of a poetic soul, and a waking up to the tremendous paradox that reality, for us, is too Good to be True.
I've been hop hop hoping to this masterpiece of haecceitas inscape and paradoxical irony: The Man Who Was Thursday <---- a must read!!
"the dream reveals the reality, which conception lags behind. that is the horror of life - the terror of art." -kafka
don't be scared of the night...
"yeah i have seen it too, just a little different from how you do"... a little beauty from the lips of augie march
"we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear...." -chesterton
today's study break = browsing thru some of my art and photography faves. made me want to start wearing purple
