The Recurring Boulder Dream

I received an email from a young Slovenian woman in response to something I written on this blog over a year ago. I was relating a daymare that I sometimes had as a child. Here is my original entry:

I have a recurring dream that there is a tiny rock on my chest as I doze on the floor and as my sleep deepens so does the silence and as the silence buzzes around me the rock suddenly expands, instantaneously, like a balloon and I am pinned helplessly beneath it. And then the rock shrinks again and then expands, noiselessly. And when it is a huge boulder I can hear the sharp hiss of silence very loud around me and when it's a pebble I hear nothing.

Here's what this student from Slovenia, named Miha, wrote:

Hello! I came across your dream report when I searched the web for "recurring dream boulder". Why? Because I kept having the very same dream as a child. All of the details you describe, I experienced - the loopy nature of the dream, the confusion about objects being close and far at the same time, the gigantic yet tiny piece of rock stretching from infinity to nothing, the corresponding high pitched hiss, and the feeling of being too scared to move.

The reason why I searched the net for this dream in the first place was that my mom also kept having this dream when she was little - I found that out when I first decided to tell her about it (I was about nine), and to my amazement we could tell each other different bits of the dream and they would match. But for a long time I thought it was just the two of us who had this (and telling anyone else would be stupid, since nobody would believe you anyway). Then, while surfing the web, I found a description of a drug induced experience, I quote: "The sound reminded me of things I had heard during a high fever when I was a child, like an object very light and small like an eyelash and at the same time something very enormous and heavy like a hundred ton boulder." I couldn't believe it... there was actually somebody else who experienced this. So I figured, with all the dream journals online, why not do a search, see if anyone else dreamt anything similar.
I found one report that came close, I quote: "I used to have a recurring dream, usually when I was sick, that I was tied to a bed on top of an enormous boulder. The dream was scary, not because of what happened (nothing did, really), but because of the feeling of absolute helplessness associated with the dream. Then I searched on and found your blog, and I was amazed, since you describe the dream in such detail. I also showed it to my mom, and she agrees - it's the dream we experienced. Now I know all this may be hard to believe, and there is no way I can prove it to you. But if you would be interested in discussing the matter, you can mail me anytime.

I am curious if anyone else has had a similar experience or if you can theorize how this happens to a person's psyche. Personally, I don't recall the daymare as especially traumatizing, just overwhelming at times. I could always open my eyes to make it stop. I will also add that it happened most frequently when I was laying flat on my back on something like a floor surface. It hasn't recurred in many years. Miha thought perhaps it ends with puberty since that is the last time it happened to her.

Everyman Goes to the Olympics

Q. What do you get when you watch the Olympics, are overcome with an acute desire to participate, except that you have no skills, are not an athlete and have no country who will send you?

A. Jonathon Phillips.

That's right! My friend, and internet grandson, has got it into his addle-headed brain to compete in the 2012 Olympics. And he's going to raise $1,000,000 British Sterling for charity in the process. All he needs now are an event he can compete in and a host country to send him. Don't think he can do it? Just watch and see...

Blogger's Nightmare

I dreamed last night. And what's more, I remembered my dream. It went something like this:

Someone hacked into my blog and turned it into a giant, cavorting, spam-fest. I couldn't log into my account because my password had been changed. I wrote Blogger in an ineffectual attempt to stem the tide of crap that seemed to be inundating my site. Post by post, I watched what was once a thriving world of words and images collapse into "Enhancements/Girl on Girl/Insurance Rate" pinwheels and sky rockets across the internet. There was nothing I could do to stop it. It was like a pixel cancer spreading without a sound devouring archives, comments, links. The work of two years of my life erased to nothing. Soon the address of 'k-srasra' became a by-word on the web. People would refer to it as 'k-sr*sr*' ommiting vowels just so the creeping, crawling demon that my site had become would not find this mention of its own (usurped) name and rain down destruction on the person who spelled it.

Everything, everything was gone.

When I woke up I was sad. And thirsty.

So I drank some water, tried to remember if this had actually happened or not, and feeling reasonably certain it had not occurred I went back to sleep.

I think what this dream is trying to tell me is that I need to back up my blog. Just in case. Or maybe it's trying to tell me to change my password more frequently. Or more likely, it's just trying to tell me to get a life.

Daydream

Remember these? From childhood? How they loomed and beckoned us to places we could not go. Doors and tunnels just out of sight, passageways that curved inside to great rooms and gardens. A whole world just inside that cloud. An actual castle in the sky.

I've never been inside, but I know it belongs to me.

Welcome Back...

...to me.
I took a week off which you already know if you were paying attention. Not from work or life or anything, but just from this blog. This "You Learn Something New Everyday" blog.
I decided that I am altogether too faithful to this writing thing. I started this blog back in June of 2003. That's a year and a half of learning something new (almost) every day. That's dependability people, and whether you know this or not, I'm not known for my dependability. I mean, I'm not a flake... I get to work every day on time and I am faithful to my responsibilities, but if I'm being perfectly honest, I'm also a bit of a spaz when it really counts. It's the theater major in me.

But if it weren't for my spazzy side I wouldn't be nearly as interesting either. My spaz side is the well-rehearsed battleground for my artistic temperment. It is solely responsible for my dreaming up half the stuff I write.

So, enough, where was I? I was taking a vacation, explaining my spaz side... oh yes - what I learned this week.

A couple of things really. I figured out that I am not going to grad school to study film and film making. I know, I know. Some of you are thinking this is typical Hoagland copping-out before we reach the finish-line behavior, but I assure you, it's not. It's a new style of Hoagland behavior which says, "Hey, is that really gonna make me happy or have I just set up some goal that isn't really suited to me?" and in this case it's the latter. I was talking to Brian last week about the whole thing and he asked me, "Do you make films now?" To which I said, "No." And then he said, "But you write films, right..." To which I answered, "No, I really don't." In fact, to be honest the most I do is watch films and then write about them. Which isn't a bad thing, to be sure, but I always say your actions betray you. You can try to make yourself into whatever you want (and all the glory in film is in being the bad assss director), but your actions will never lie to you. They go on doing exactly what it is you really want to do even if you're trying to go off in another direction. Kinda funny if you think about it. human nature. is kind of funny.

The other thing i learned is that I like taking time off from this blog. I'm not saying I'm quitting this blog. But I did enjoy taking a break from it. And the reason (dear, precious, sweet, delicious reader) is that this blog kinda saps my writing energy. It dissipates. Which I dearly need on a regular basis. Writing is like a steam pressure that builds in me till the top blows. I cannot imagine what kind of creature I would become if there were no outlet for me to write or express the trivialities of my life. So, in that sense this blog is a godsend. On the other hand, I need that energy if I'm ever going to get up enough steam for a larger project... stories, novels, essays etc. I forget who, but one of those rich, white, bastard writers called it the "pressure cooker." And that's exactly what it is. A pressure cooker. You need it cranked up to build heat and you should leave the lid on till it's done.

So, folks, I'm looking for the best way to live my quiet little life while coddling a couple of heart loves; writing, photography, music. I figure it will cost less than three years of grad school and I'll probably end up happier in the bargain. And I may or may not be taking time off from the blog to do so. No promises. If I can mold the blog into a conduit for larger work, I may do that. Time, you know...

So, here's to following my dreams. Even if they're the quiet ones I took for granted because they didn't come with an Oscar.

Speaking of Nothing

It isn't so much the day as it is the lack of air in this basement that has my eyes feeling somewhat itchy and irritable. I have 109 minutes left of work day. Let's see how many I can waste at my computer typing in absolutely pointless references to my day today.

Minutes 1-8

It is interesting to me that I have only two hands. I don't tend to think about them specifically very often, but when I do they seem strange, foreign to me. Sometimes I'm looking at one hand and it suddenly surprises me by jumping up from its place and picking up a cup or scratching my chin. These moments are the closest to drunk I can get without actually drinking. They don't happen often.
Or similarly, there are times when I am staring at a plate full of mashed potatoes or the folds of a comforter and no matter how hard I try to tell myself it isn't true, I see a human face in them. And I stare and I stare and I know if I just shifted a little to the left or right the illusion would vanish and all things would return to their proper stasis, but I am deadlocked, freeze-framed, eyes-glued, head-on, can't move, tharninated by the face I see. Like it's about to speak or something. And then I blink and everything goes back to status quo. Or when you look at an image in the dark and it appears upside down or inside out or something else that technically you know is improbable, but because of the lack of light or the imprecision of your perception it becomes something other than what it is for a moment.

I have a recurring dream that there is a tiny rock on my chest as I doze on the floor and as my sleep deepens so does the silence and as the silence buzzes around me the rock suddenly expands, instantaneously, like a balloon and I am pinned helplessly beneath it. And then the rock shrinks again and then expands, noiselessly. And when it is a huge boulder I can hear the sharp hiss of silence very loud around me and when it's a pebble I hear nothing.

Minutes 9-16

There is a similar dream that also occurs only when I am resting midday, dozing, half in, half out of dreams, in which I am like the rock. My body is one moment infintesimally small in the center of the room, a tiny speck on the carpet of the space which is now larger than any cathedral and the next instant I am wholely larger than the room, the house, the city, equal in size to the planet or perhaps even larger. Then it does that silent flip-flop, now tiny, now enormous as I lie there terrified that if I open my eyes during these changes I'll be left in that state.

This phenomenon happens most pronouncedly, too, when I am speaking for any length of time with my eyes closed. Such as in prayer in my younger days. I used to freak out and panic and wonder why my voice still sounded calm when my body felt like it was the size of the universe and surely no one in the original room where I started this monologue to God could hear me now. And always there was that awkward and slightly disappointing moment when I open my eyes and see that I am me, the same size I always was, sitting on the same couch or chair or floor. And nobody even gave me a strange look for all my transformations in the dark.

Minutes 17-27

I don't like it when people comment Anonymously. I should just say that now. I realize it is their right, their perogative, to comment in any way they think best and generally, I don't care. If for instance, they are too lazy to pick a username and start an account, then so be it. No biggie. I have a friend in England who does that.

But when someone posts a criticism or a come-on as Anonymous it makes my skin crawl. If it's a com- on, then what is so inappropriate about their comment that keeps them from telling me who they are? Obviously, I like compliments. I like knowing that I'm cute, funny, have great hair, nice gams, (leave the boobs alone folks, I don't know you that well) etc. So, fine. Tell me how cute I am. But why the hell you have to post it as "Anonynous?" What's wrong with you that you can't tell me something like that? Is it gonna get you in trouble or make you embarassed? Are you a married man who doesn't want his wife to know he's flirting? Are you a woman who hasn't come out yet? Or are you a stranger off the net who stopped by and didn't have a username? I mean, seriously. What the fuck? I suppose it doesn't matter. And maybe it's none of those things. But if I find one of my regular readers came to my site and decided he or she HAD to comment on my legs and be all secretive about it, I'm gonna KICK THEIR BUTT. And that ladies and gentlemen is today's rant.

I busted my knuckle on a bag of ice. I did the ol' body-bag on the sidewalk move, holding the top of it so ice wouldn't spill out (I'd already opened it) and WHAM, it slammed back. I stood up and winced, that brave whince I do when something just really hurt a whole hell of a lot. I leave cussing for a second or two later. I look at my hand. Nothing, Just icy-white knuckles. After a minute the cloud of purple and blue rose up and filled the skin. Juicy. Nice little bruise that'll last maybe a week and make me look like I got into a fistfight on my way to work. It doesn't hurt now. Musta been the ice.

Minutes 28-31

Today we served chili dogs and nachos for the kids at the school. Two tables, full trays of all-beef franks, buns, homemade chili, shredded cheese, onions, relish, condiments, the works. And then we even had those little nacho cheese trays with the two compartments like you get at a high school basketball game with a little bit o' cheese in one tiny side pocket and some chips in the rest of the container. We have those. My boss orders them from, I don't know where. But she does. And she lets the kids dip their own, we don't portion out their nachos and cheese. We're not stingy like that. In fact, we're not stingy at all. Those boys - some of em apparently haven't done growing - need to eat. And one kid smashed a plate with four hotdogs, 8 cookies and a tray of nachos in twelve minutes. I kid you not. He's one of the new ones: the athletes.

Minutes something to something: 70 minutes left

Ok, so there's this new self-awareness excerise that I've been doing of late to retrain my brain to listen to myself. Because apparently I don't. Or at least not enough to help me deal with some of the shit I'm stuck in currently. So it goes something ike this: Look around you and notice everything, what shapes, colors, textures do you see. Where are you? Do you see people or things? Can you sunlight or are you in artificially lit surroundings.? Then, what do you hear? Are you someplace quiet? Does the quietness make you uncomfortable? Is there music or conversation? Are you trying to ignore it? Do you hear cars? Or water? Can you hear yourself breathing? What can you smell? Are you eating or drinking anything? What does it taste like? Is your chair (if you are sitting) comfortable? Is your body warm or cold? Are you sitting comfortably or are you slouched or cramoed into a corner? How does your body feel? Do you feel tension in any part of your body? Try taking in a deep breath. How does it feel? Can you breath freely or does your breathing stutter? etc, etc.

Then after about ten minutes of this nonsense I can actually get down to business asking my body things like, "Ok, where are you holding the most tension?" And it's usually my stomach or in my chest. Then I concentrate on that place and even put my hand there and say to my body, "What do you need to tell me?" And then I listen. I bet some of you think this sounds dorky as hell and you're right. It is dorky as hell to blog about it on the internet with a bunch of people, most of whom I don't know from shit, but in practice it is not dorky as hell, it is kinda cool and liberating and friendly. To me. It sucks to think you might not be as friendly to yourself as you are to other people. For instance when I realized I took home a paper I was supposed to give to someone else at work I called myself a "bistress." One of my favorite insults. Only, it wasn't a very nice thing to say just because I took home someone else's piece of paper, you know. Had anyone else said, "Oh damn, I'm an idiot for taking this home!" I would have said, "Nah, it's no big deal. Don't worry about it, man. That kinda stuff happens all the time. Just return it tomorrow." And I would have meant it. So, maybe just maybe there's something to the dorkiness and the cheesiness and the laughableness of the whole "protect yourself" "be your own best friend" thing. I intend to find out.

Minutes: Who cares. Half hour left.

And now I'm bored with writing about nothing and after jumping around on the internet to see what else has posted in the last ten minutes I just notice out of the corner of my eye a bruise on my fore arm that I thought had reached it's color peak. It's now a peacock's rainbow of brown and yellow and blue. Damn white skin. I look like a bad apple. And the finger I smashed in the ice? Merely a red smear across the top of my fist. I do all this work, for nothing. The bruise ends up in the wrong place. Stupid bruises.