While I have not added to this blog in a hot minute, I am continuing this project (she wrote to her non-existent readers)!

I’ve recorded books 5, 6, and 7 and will begin recording 8 tonight (it’s long and will probably be delivered in two segments). I’m putting off editing in order to gain some momentum in my actual writing of my actual thesis–which is coming slowly and painfully, but, I hope, all to good ends.

My dreams are troubled and troubling. Many upsetting images: zombie apocalypses, rural landscapes populated by malicious people . . . something out of a Cormac McCarthy novel.

While I am unsettles and terribly anxious over the rapidly approaching deadlines and transitions in my life, I have an underlying certainly that my fears come from a productive well and my experience of them has therapeutic value, especially when I contrast this time I’m in now to more . . . stagnant eras. This is the horror of freedom, the burden of responsibility and what I hope is an understandable but destructive impulse to throw that responsibility away.

A mass of my readings will probably all be dumped out at once once the spirit to edit them (minimally as I do) moves me.

Parenthetical and elliptical commentary everywhere. This is the schizophrenia of creation, she assured herself, not hackery.


Reflection upon reading Book Fourth

He starts off the book sounding like a young king. Of course, the town lurks. Even full of people he likes, the prospect of civilization can only be met with apprehension, a pull out of the full projection possible in solitude in nature. Even his beloved “dame” in memory reminds him of age and his own inevitable mortality, but, not being aware of death, he had a different brand of selfishness.

I wonder how much of his passage about his dog are emotional manipulation. Didn’t most everyone have a dog they loved once? Even if it wasn’t a dog specifically, you know? The lines sound sincere, but sincerity can be crafted. I don’t like be reminded of Spanky the Wonderdog any less, though.

I will admit this book drags a bit in the middle. It’s no suffering to be in the midst of, by any means, but it does sort of meander about, but that is actually the mood he’s aiming at, so perhaps that is all to best effect.

Deepest regrets over the audio quality. There’s a tinnyness that I don’t know how to repair beyond re-recording. I’m trying to get these recordings done in 1-2 takes. I suppose if this were being done for money, I might be moved to do it again, but the pressure of the actual composition of the thesis, not just this inner experience I’m trying to have, but the composition of my own words of some value, yeah… that is what needs to be done and redone.

I’ve had the thought that I might like to do these over more perfectly of edit them better or even mix in some video… then again, I’m resisting visual culture right now.

The second part sounds inestimably better, thank goodness. It’s all about the mic placement.

I like the actual second half, too, much better.

Dream Journal 3/23/20

Last night, I had two vivid dreams, the details of which have faded almost entirely from my consciousness. I have resolved to keep a pad of paper and pen on my bedside table to immediately record my dream impressions. Prose of quality will not be the intended product. Rather, in the act of recording–and thus more clearly articulating the dream experience–my mind will fold the sleep sensations into a framework upon which my conscious mind can project sense. As one does in articulation.

Anyhow, the after-images of last night included one distinct “dream” having to do with a clock, probably related to my recent reading on Huygens’ time in  Écrits. I do recall the clock warping and breaking in my dream, so this vision likely enacted me desire to alter the time I’m experiencing which seems to occur at notably varying paces. For instance, time in winter—winter the season—moves slowly. There’s a depressive but also a sensuous quality to winter time. One of the perversions of the industrial revolution was the rise of active winter-culture. One should not risk life and health to commute to work in the winter. Write the time off. One can be productive in stillness—meditation, mobile projects requiring extended meditations, that sort of thing. So, perhaps instead of wanting to obey time as in minutes and hours, perhaps I would like to account for my minutes and hours in my own manner, not Huygens’.

The second image involved two feminine personalities and some emotion of aggression, though I’m not sure which way that aggression was directed. My inkling as to the meaning has to do with various snippets of petty drama in my various social circles conglomerated into this impression, and I’m a tad embarrassed that something so trivial could bury itself in my subconscious to begin with.

One likes to imagine the subconscious as a terrain of mysterious waters and steep cliffs–a place of gravitas. However, my dreams have much of the mundane, desires repressed by civility and manners as much as anything profound. This is the banality of the fantasy—which, I’m sure Wordsworth will comment on in my continued readings. Of course, Coleridge wrote about it in his academic work: Biographia Literaria. Yet, for all its expository functionality and scholarly reputation, I would prefer any few lines by Wordsworth to the exercise in tedium that is reading Biographia again.




Reflection upon reading Book Third

I have discovered that I can play my SoundCloud readings layered over Pandora Instrumental Radio. It sounds like I’m singing along with the music.

I hadn’t read this book before this recording, so my delivery sounds a touch more stilted than the last two, though the tone—detached and overly cautious—somewhat fits the tone of this book.

Yet, there are passages with transporting rhythm—in this book, the inward gazing reflection on the inner experience. When he pays homage to the literary greats before him, I know some people may see arrogance. But his arrogance was founded. He was a genius. He changed English literature forever. And his internal meditations are beautiful and even relatable to someone who has ever fallen in love with an art.

“For there is not a man alive who has not felt his godlike powers…”

Yes! Genius happens in a moment and maybe the reason we haven’t realized this is not everyone’s moment gets recorded.

Hm… since I use Pandora, I occasionally hear my reading played over advertisements. It’s ominous, such ugly noises. Will media hosts eventually make people pay to view strobic light over layered over the audio of an excessively chirpy housewife hawking insurance in lieu of them? How many customers really buy products based on commercials?

His passages starting at 24 minutes are quite effecting. It’s a defense of exuberant young adulthood—which is a fairly difficult time to defend. From the outside, so many things from my own time as at early 20-something seem—even now at a not terribly great distance—absurd. Absurd risks, gestures, choices… but I do remember how I felt, and if I think on it long enough, I think those absurdities make perfect sense.

“no lower than I fell”

It burns.

His commentary on museums oddly echoes the introduction to Capital Visions: The Severed Head.

As my responses show, I don’t have an entirely coherent read on this book yet. It’s uneven, but I don’t expect that quality to go away. “Homer nods.”