more about this technique later; it is in essence a form of 'automatic
reporting' [in whatever medium; so, not only writing] which Jung used
in a clinical setting but which i am simply using to access the
unconscious fairly directly while awake. the goal is to free myself
from forced creativity, or 'making it up' as i keep slighting it, and
report directly the images that come. tools are a bedside
tape-recorder, set to record, and then my own closed-eyes perception of
the fog before me, waiting for the first image to come. once arisen
and reported, events unfold quite rapidly, and are consequently
reported. this was the first i did; it has been transcribed from
audio.
note that the goal was not to be wacky, but to report what unfolded. i
say things that make sense, because i respond as i would were these
experiences unfolding in reality.
- aqaraza
abandoned house; vague figure; flying car
Sunday, 02-06-2005 11:38 pm
i am near an old white house; it is across a field. the sky is grey,
and cloudy, and a storm has recently passed, leaving puddles in the
dirt road. i walk towards the house, and see that the door is ajar. i
hesitate to go in, looking through the windows. they are dirty, and i
can't see in. instead of going into the house i go around to the side,
where i find an old rusty cement mixer. i look in; down in the water
collected from the storm i see something shimmer.
i reach in, and pull out a diamond ring, like a wedding ring. it is
very old. i don't know whether to put it back or not; instead i place
it down in a hole in the ground, and cover it with a rock. i decide to
pound the rock down to seal the hole, but as i do, i smash my hand
flat. it doesn't hurt; it's simply flattened.
i stand up and walk onwards towards the back of the house. as i am
doing so, i notice a flicker of movement in the front of the house; it
appeared to be a figure, but i decide not to look. i am becoming a bit
nervous, but i continue around the house. i look around the back area
of the house; grass is overgrown, unmown. the house is apparently
abandoned. the back door is bolted shut, though the front door was
ajar. the back windows are clear, where the front ones were dirty, but
i don't approach the house to look through. i decide to leave it
completely alone.
i walk off instead into a field that lies behind the house. it is
filled with old rusty car hulks. i can sense that whoever was in front
of the house is now following behind me. i look into one of the rusty
cars, and see keys in the ignition. it has no wheels, but i get in
anyway and start it; it starts right up, and i put it into gear. it
lifts off the ground. now i am hovering above the field in a flying
rusty hulk of a car. i can see the figure that had been in front of the
house, but it is so small below me that i can't make out any details. i
can see the house behind the figure, and suddenly the roof bursts into
flames.
i float above the house in the car, and begin to drift away. i decide
to circle back to get a closer look at the figure. as i fly back, i see
the figure by the side of the house where i buried the ring, ignoring
the burning house. i cannot make out the figure, but they are
recovering the ring from beneath the rock.
is he somehow responsible for my crushed hand?
abandoned house; vague figure; flying car part 2
i continue my flight back up into the air, forgetting the ring, the
house, the figure; and i fly on towards a town in bathed golden
sunlight. it is a small town; i can see steeples and a town square. i
fly closer, and can see people moving about their business; it doesn't
seem that the town is abandoned. its grass is green, although all the
land about is greay. i wonder about those who live there. i land
slowly in the town square.
women and children are walking around the town; men in hats stride
along. it is a stereotypical 50's town with stereotypical 50's
inhabitants, all going about their busiess, not paying any attention as
i land in the town square in my rusted-out car.
i look up at what must be the city hall, and notice that there is a
clock tower. it is 5 minutes after 12. i look around me; a kid is
playing on a see-saw.
i walk up to him and say 'hello.' he looks at me, pauses for a moment,
and says 'hello' back. i ask him what he is doing. he says he is
playing on the see-saw. i point out that there is no person on the
other end. he says, 'that's alright; i can see-saw on my own.' and he
shows me; he lifts up, he drops down, he lifts up, he drops down, just
as if there was a person on the other side of the saw.
i decide to walk on. looking across the street i can see shops: the
shades are drawn, and the 'closed' signs are drawn down. even though
the town is bathed in golden sunlight, it appears that all the shops
are closed. people are still wandering the streets. i stop one man in
a hat: he doesn't have a face. he doesn't say anything. i apologize;
he tips his hat at me, and walks on.
i continue down the sidewalk. i pass a mother walking her child along.
neither of them have faces. they turn their heads towards me as they
pass, and wave.
i decide i should go back and talk to the boy on the seesaw, since he,
at least, had a face.
i run back, but now the see-saw's empty. the end of the see-saw that
the kid was sitting in is lying in a puddle. i look around; he is
lifting off in my rusty car. he waves as he lifts up into the air. i
wave back; and i can feel, at that moment, that i have no face. i have
become an inhabitant of the town.
i am not alarmed; i feel somewhat liberated. i go into the town hall.
nothing is dusty, but all the lights are off, and the town hall seems
closed even though i could walk right in. i decide to go up to where
the clock room is. i make my way up the stairs, and my steps echo, as
if i was in an old bank foyer.
i make my way down the hallway above, to where the clock-room must be.
i can hear the gears slowly turning inside, as my steps fall in the
muted hallway. i try the door where the clock is, expecting it to be
locked; so much so that i rattle the doorknob. but the fact is that
the door is open. i open the door, and walk inside; the gears are
ticking.
off to one side is a person typing away at a typewriter. i ask the
person, 'what are you doing?' he looks up at me; he does have a face:
a moustache, i can see, and glasses; it is one of those Groucho-Marx
glasses-and noses things.
he says, 'i'm typing! what are you doing?'
'i am exploring,' i say.
he says, 'what have you found?'
i say: 'an abandoned house that burnt to the ground; a wedding-ring i
hid under a rock; an indescript person who chased me into a field; a
rusty flying car; a town bathed in golden sunlight; a child on a
seesaw; faceless citizens; the clock; and you.'
him: 'not bad for a day's work, is it?'
me: 'no, i guess not. am i lost?'
him: 'what do you think?'
me: 'i think that if i don't find an ending, then i am definitely
lost.'
him: 'well, in that case, assuming you don't want to be lost, have a
seat here.'
he gets up from the typewriter and offers to let me sit down; i do so.
he says: 'you're going to need these,' and he gives me the Groucho
glasses.
i put them on, and stare down at the typewriter. i see that next to
the typewriter are pages and pages of very carefully stacked copy. i
see that he has just begun a new page. he asks if i can read the text
on the page. i look at it closely. it says
once upon a time,
and that's all. i say, 'what about the rest of this stack? what is
it?'
him: 'you'll have to find that out for yourself.' and he walks out the
door.
i lift up the first page; all it has typed on it is
once upon a time,
there don't seem to be any other blank pages nearby: all in the stack
are the same. so, after the comma on the present page, i type
they lived happily ever after.
below it, in capital letters,
'THE END'
a red velvet curtain falls.
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