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Friday, July 19, 2013


“Dream Lover Where Are You…”
Hearing accounts of other people’s dreams is about as tasty as eating cheap mozzarella. They may intrigue, exhilarate, perturb or cause great distress to those who experience them but today’s listener generally remains turned off  by the telling – unless s/he is some kind of eager interpreter. Those who, like myself, find them uncannily redolent of parallel worlds, may have been influenced by Jung’s great work, Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Every primitive culture accords the dream with significance. In the so-called sophisticated west we have generally forgotten – or deny – their importance in our lives. While science attempts a rational explanation of the brain’s machinations while we sleep, it is their very irrationality which links us to a kind of other-worldliness.  Waking up out of a dream state is like emerging from an underwater swim and finding life above its surface momentarily foreign. The dream, still clinging wetly to us, then falls away in droplets as we transit from one world to the other until. When we are dry again, we have divested it from our consciousness.
Maybe like you, I sometimes wake with such a sense of yearning for what I am leaving and a rejection of what I am re-entering that an angst stays with me as a dull ache all morning. It may have been a landscape or some other aspect of nature which I discovered like an intrepid  explorer or a realization that I was in an ongoing, deep and intimate relationship with people in a world far removed from my usual conscious one.  At times, when this sensation of having enjoyed another life with an individual or network of people is especially strong, I am convinced that it is the world into which I have woken that is the fraudulent one, the illusion, the true dream state. I feel absolute despair at not being able to continue my life with them.
After one particular event in which it seemed as though I loved, to my core, a woman who bore no likeness to anyone I have ever met, I started writing what turned out to be a novella called Through a Mirror Clear: a Gothic Love Story. The narrative plays with the notion described above: which is the more authentic reality, the conscious one or the unconscious alternative?
@profjacksanger for tweets


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