When I was 5, some financial things happened, and I moved seven times in a year. We moved from apartment to apartment, sometimes living with friends. My mom would always say, ‘Don’t get comfortable, because we may not be here long.’ – LeBron James
The strange thing about living in a new appartment is realizing, corporeally, how much you are and how much the rooms around you are co-existent: one is an extension of the other and you form a sort of working agreement that allows for maximal daily spatial efficiency. In certain rooms you feel like this, in other like that and then there you could never imagine doing such, while others are perfect for doing so and such – it‘s not just a psycho-geography, it‘s a physio-topology and a biographical spatiology. The body and the rooms have mutually encoded each other in the succession of hours and years so that one, in the absence of the other, experiences an estrangement. All the more so when one‘s accumulated, sedimented, habitual exo-skeleton or psycho-carapace suddenly changes. Everything is suddenly in the wrong place now – now [unmoored from a vast mountainrange of preceeding nows] – because the place has changed.
In fact, the place has changed to once again become a space, a three-dimensional cubus rasa of spatial coordinates that await one‘s encoding. With meaning, first linear then palimpsestic. Time, function and habit are yet to do their signifying work. And in this space one is as a babe – blubbering, fumbling, forever turning in the wrong direction… – just two socializations short of crying for food and mama-milk. What happened to my room? Where did the kitchen go? This is now to be the living room, here, much more than anywhere else, I am to live? And where, ultimately, are my favorite socks?
The fifth of November and it is snowing [insert outrage emoticon]; the meteorlogists are probably right: this will be an arctic winter, a cold season of epic subzero quicksilver readings. Where when you spit, a tiny icicle hits the hardtop within the second. The flakes now coming down in the streetlamp‘s orange cone are fat, wet, heavy and fall without the ado you get from the wispy, capricious December flakes. Instead they fall in a straight line and melt right away. The truth is these flakes are pretty much a white, skyborn version of the Farmer Flakes [natural] I have for breakfast these days. All in all, It‘s a bit like a rehearsal for things to come, a walk-through for the arctic season ahead. Earlier in the day it had been simple, stringy rain, heavy for sure but not with any allusions to winter.
And, I‘ll admit, I enjoyed it, I loved walking through the rain. I often do, it‘s easy, water meet water. Our Go-Sensei yesterday said: there‘s lovely rain tomorrow, it‘s going to be beautifully nasty. He proofed right. Rain is refreshing to the point of rejuvenating and there is the wetsplash excitement of being continually struck in the face by little bits of water. SPLISH-SPLASH-SPLUSH-SPLASH. Impossible not to love. It‘s not so much about us being watery beings too but about the encounter, the „conflict“, the cool 50‘000 drops stimulation that soaks the spirits. Plus a not negligible fact is that it is wearing top-hole rainproof gear, including shoes, which makes enjoying rain easy; one would be hard pressed to appreciate precipitation slogging through town in soaking boots, one‘s toes ready to fall off.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow the cold will have more of a foothold and we‘ll have become used to the precipitation and I‘ll have to remind myself of the pointlessness of whinging about any form of weather.
The other day we were invited over for dinner to our friends‘ place. We talked over a delicious dinner, savvory stuff we know we could never manage in our pots and pans. Are these the same vegetables, the same salt and sugar, the identical fruit and milk that we too buy at the Migros and Coop? Truly? How can the flavors of dishes be so infinitely varied? But this very variation, in its positive manifestation, we savored.
And over this all we talked, a long maundering quatrologue with everybody slowly throwing in their opinions, considerations and personal experiences into a known but invisible cauldron…as though, secret and parallel to our dinner, we were preparing a stew of intrasubjective understanding. None of us could ruin this soup, first thinking then speaking, we fulfilled our roles as cooks cum magi. This stew of ours….Only to be eaten and digested later, well-fed, in our own beds dreaming.
Almost suddenly, at a brief collective silence which provoked a topical changeover, my friend brought up the topic of lucid dreaming. I could envision us covering ground that had been covered in previous conversations, too long ago to count against re-counting things, too short ago to really have forgotten what we would cover now again. A repetition for a quiz that will fortunately never have to be taken. I had to bring up Waking Life, more as a reminder to myself to watch it again than a genuine recommendation. A– told about his experiences in keeping a dream diary. His oneiric experiences became immensely vivid and memorable, certain symbols and motive kept reappearing. I thought to myself at that point that it would be marvelous if I could maybe revert to the frequent dreaming of earlier years. That night was the first one in our new appartment, four room appartment, seven if you prefer reality-based numbers or, simply, think of a room as four walls with an egress.
I fell asleep quickly & soundly. And dreamt like a madman, no, not a lunatic, a formula one driver. Indeed, I dreamt precisely as GZA describes it in Jarmusch‘s „Coffee&Cigarettes“. He says that he habitually drinks coffee before going to bed, that way he dreams faster, much faster, like gunning down a midnight tunnel lined with one‘s hoarded subconscious imagery. That‘s how I dreamt that first night, fast and furious, fishtailing between the muddled little narratives that one so struggles to remember. And that‘s how I‘ve dreamt every night since. This has lead me back to the idea of keeping a dream diary to keep track of all the crazy, proliferating, ultravisual narratives but I haven‘t done so. The thought of getting up in the middle of the night, turning on the light and jotting down the incoherent storyfragments of my dreams, is itself an unappealing prospect. It seems like the sureshot road to massive sleep deprivation in which case the matter of dreaming or not dreaming will be relegated to secondary consideration. And here I am, november 7th, and the dreams continue unabated, their liveliness flavoring my mornings with the rich energies of the imaginary though there is only a recall of disjointed images. No words, just pictures, like pintrest from the deep well of my self. What is down there? What is in there? I can ask but I don‘t believe that dreams are, at the end of the night, the truest access to the grand illusion of our selves, the confluence of reality‘s flux and interiority‘s neuronal conflagration.