Reading: Aleksandar Hemon 3

Page 126 and 127 presents an interesting (if not entirely new) idea of dreaming. Brik talks of his nights with his animate mind.

It often got out of hand: possible stories sprouted from the recalled instants and images...many of those stories turned unnoticeably into a dream, whereby the narrative went completely haywire and I became but a confused character within it.

I once read within a book the story of a painter's fretful after a dream. In this dream he saw some of the most amazing paintings he had ever seen and the next day went to speak to his friend. "Why is it I can't create such masterpieces as those?" To which he friend aptly responds, "Those are your masterpieces, every one of those your creation. "*

Brik handles his dreams differently. Rather than having his mind as a playground, it's his cemetery. "My dreams were but a means of forgetting...the emptying of the garbarge so that tomorrow could be filled up with new life...I woke up after the nap , the dream, naturally, vanishing without a trace." I found it quite odd that his dream vanished after a nap for those are the dreams I find so easy to recall. Without the hole of NREM to halt my mind's attention.

Brik mentioned:

And if I cared about God, I would be tempted to think that remembering was sinful. For what else could it be, what could remembering all those gorgeous moments when this world was fully present at your fingertips be but a beautiful sin?

I mention this simply because it follows one of my beliefs that with Christianity/Judaism, anything worldly is sinful. The most beautiful part of our existence gets caught up searching for something more important. What makes our life so wonderfully propitious is the sights right before our eyes. Our loveable past and our effervescent present, not our unforgiving future. Not what can't be known. The life "between the two trees" is far too good to be derided by the seeking of "something better" after we leave this.
And as Tim Minchin so wonderfully semi-quoted Shakespeare's King John:

“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly” (Storm)

-Mark T
*Note: Quotes likely misquoted but in such a slighted way that it still retain original meaning. If I can find where from they come, I will correct.