sometimes the nobler route involves
living with puny fears,
or like writing poetry with the specifications
of it being unheard,
so that there’s a hoped for sense of fluidity,
but eventually something else emerges,
like the investment in what’s against
the freudian interpretation of dreams,
a way to block images from the unconscious
layering over images from the world
and one’s life;
there’s an antidote to this layering of images
from the unconscious,
it resides in having heard stories from
the days when you were a toddler and
were the opposite of animals and insects,
with weak **** muscles and a weaker bladder,
not even remotely within the architecture of
the collective of herd or swarm, without an individuality
that would precipitate into a consciousness:
with unique self-awareness that’s missing in herring or locust,
that’s how i cured myself from interpreting dreams too much,
this realm that provides false images
and is like a virus for the memory bank of the world
and the winding river of experience that you and i am.
it is relevant then to utilise words to shake off this realm of
image impregnation that can rot away your truer memory,
sure you will remember a dream once in a while,
but to allow interpretation of this dream
and being as lucky as joseph & the pharaoh is no good, unless
the dream is so potent as to predict the future
and only then, because why would any man desire
to uncover the ontology of man to only then justify the evils
and brush aside the good by packaged delay in prisons?
never mind, from what my grandfather said, the utility of words
that became more potent than any image impregnation
in the unconscious: ‘when you were a toddler you used to
put your hand down the alsatian’s gob, right in there
and she didn’t do anything, you grew up with here,
you used to ride her like a horse and she didn’t do anything,
and when someone faked scorn against you she would
bark & bark and protect you.’
there are no pictures of this, therefore no images, only
the noting of the sounds with these phonetic units... and
with these phonetic units noted and compounded into words...
images can be crafted solidly, even though there are no photographs
of this... even though there are photographs of my grandfather.
but the point is... apart from the whole dream impregnation
as an erosion of the truer memory of being awake and in the world...
apart from the jungian theory that we’re like herring or locust
within the framework of the jungian collective unconscious theory...
apart from all this...
my perfect teeth... obviously yellowish (but i rather call them 2nd milky)
from nicotine soot...
and the fact that when a dentist wanted to prescribe me braces once
i refused... and by refusal my teeth aligned like the planets
in a straight line in that fable of someone celestial being born in man.