Sitar Man; My Mother Moves.
All day today, and all day yesterday, I kept thinking of all the things I want to write about on this blog-thing here. It's all a big tangled ball of yarn now. In order to untangle this knot, I'll latch on to the most obvious and appropriate of threads: The dream I had last night.
This Arabian man had a very special stringed instrument, which he called a sitar: it was actually his penis, which was detachable. Very long. The neck was the cock itself, while the large balls were the body. It had to be at least semi-erect for him to play it. He was playing the most beautiful music, and I was enchanted. He also had many special tools with which to strum the strings: a padded stick, and something that reminded me of a feather duster. When he started to use these tools the music changed, and was not so good; I think this had less to do with his technical or artistic skill, and more to do with what was playing on the radio in my room at the time in the waking world. He only played for me, in private, in his small, plain room, with sparkling white walls. Rather intimate.
This man was staying with me and my mother back in Minneapolis. We were living in the house that we were living in right before she came into a little bit of money and bought her own house.
Her friend Mary had gotten a divorce from her husband, with whom she had lived a stifling life of domestic responsibility, and had moved in with her foreign born lover in a bad part of town (in waking reality Mary does live a somewhat stifling life of domestic responsibility, but she loves her husband, and is pretty happy). My mother was going to move into the same apartment complex as Mary, in order to keep her company and help her feel safer. My mother is an avid pack-rat, and I said to her "even if you only keep what's in this kitchen [where we were sitting], you'll still have more stuff than what could fit in that tiny apartment." But, as usual, she was stubborn, and refused to listen to reason.
I was annoyed at her behavior, but wasn't at all surprised. It was entirely natural for her to be giving up her way of life to live in an inner-city apartment building. In waking reality this would be a very sad and depressing thing for her to have to do. Both her and Mary, in this dream, were doing exactly the opposite of what they would be likely to do in reality; and they were happy doing it. Perhaps this reflects a desire on my part, to go about my life in a slightly different way than before; to change my character, and embrace new possibilities; to redefine what is reasonable to expect from me. The fact that it was two older women, one of which is the woman who has had more to do with laying the groundwork for my basic personality than anyone else, indicates to me that this is a desire to change on a very fundamental level; not just the details of my life, but the overall spirit of it.
The other night I had a friend over, and I was showing him all my old photos of myself. I keep the photos of myself seperate from my other photos, 'cause sometimes I like to look exclusively at ME. He was remarking that in all my photos I look entirely different, and that if he hadn't been told they were both me, then he would have assumed they were different people. This pleased me, but I had to admit that over the past four years, since I've moved to Columbus, my image has stayed relatively stable. I've grown up, in my own way, or at least solidified. And this is good, because I've gotten much more accomplished here in Columbus than I did anywhere, or anywhen, else. But there is still the desire to change, to grow, to make new and exciting my sense of reality. The trick, for me, is to figure out how to have both; I want my delicious cake to change with every bite, yet still remain the sweet, dependable, nourishing cake that I've come to know and love.
As far as the man with the sitar goes, I can only wish that my own mastrabation could be as beautiful, abstract, wholsome, and inspiring. Instead of saying "I'm gonna go jack-off now" I could say "I think I will go and practice my sitar now, and further perfect the art of making beautiful music." Ah...maybe that's how I could view my ideal sexual behavior: as a work of art, a tool to create pleasure and harmony, both for personal enjoyment and for the pleasure of the occasional lover of fine music.
This Arabian man had a very special stringed instrument, which he called a sitar: it was actually his penis, which was detachable. Very long. The neck was the cock itself, while the large balls were the body. It had to be at least semi-erect for him to play it. He was playing the most beautiful music, and I was enchanted. He also had many special tools with which to strum the strings: a padded stick, and something that reminded me of a feather duster. When he started to use these tools the music changed, and was not so good; I think this had less to do with his technical or artistic skill, and more to do with what was playing on the radio in my room at the time in the waking world. He only played for me, in private, in his small, plain room, with sparkling white walls. Rather intimate.
This man was staying with me and my mother back in Minneapolis. We were living in the house that we were living in right before she came into a little bit of money and bought her own house.
Her friend Mary had gotten a divorce from her husband, with whom she had lived a stifling life of domestic responsibility, and had moved in with her foreign born lover in a bad part of town (in waking reality Mary does live a somewhat stifling life of domestic responsibility, but she loves her husband, and is pretty happy). My mother was going to move into the same apartment complex as Mary, in order to keep her company and help her feel safer. My mother is an avid pack-rat, and I said to her "even if you only keep what's in this kitchen [where we were sitting], you'll still have more stuff than what could fit in that tiny apartment." But, as usual, she was stubborn, and refused to listen to reason.
I was annoyed at her behavior, but wasn't at all surprised. It was entirely natural for her to be giving up her way of life to live in an inner-city apartment building. In waking reality this would be a very sad and depressing thing for her to have to do. Both her and Mary, in this dream, were doing exactly the opposite of what they would be likely to do in reality; and they were happy doing it. Perhaps this reflects a desire on my part, to go about my life in a slightly different way than before; to change my character, and embrace new possibilities; to redefine what is reasonable to expect from me. The fact that it was two older women, one of which is the woman who has had more to do with laying the groundwork for my basic personality than anyone else, indicates to me that this is a desire to change on a very fundamental level; not just the details of my life, but the overall spirit of it.
The other night I had a friend over, and I was showing him all my old photos of myself. I keep the photos of myself seperate from my other photos, 'cause sometimes I like to look exclusively at ME. He was remarking that in all my photos I look entirely different, and that if he hadn't been told they were both me, then he would have assumed they were different people. This pleased me, but I had to admit that over the past four years, since I've moved to Columbus, my image has stayed relatively stable. I've grown up, in my own way, or at least solidified. And this is good, because I've gotten much more accomplished here in Columbus than I did anywhere, or anywhen, else. But there is still the desire to change, to grow, to make new and exciting my sense of reality. The trick, for me, is to figure out how to have both; I want my delicious cake to change with every bite, yet still remain the sweet, dependable, nourishing cake that I've come to know and love.
As far as the man with the sitar goes, I can only wish that my own mastrabation could be as beautiful, abstract, wholsome, and inspiring. Instead of saying "I'm gonna go jack-off now" I could say "I think I will go and practice my sitar now, and further perfect the art of making beautiful music." Ah...maybe that's how I could view my ideal sexual behavior: as a work of art, a tool to create pleasure and harmony, both for personal enjoyment and for the pleasure of the occasional lover of fine music.
posted by nearfalse | 8:46 PM
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