death

Dreams are weird

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And by weird, I mean it in the contemporary sense, which is bizarre, strange, a bit nutty.

However, I read a study recently where its authors propose that dreams are also weird (my word not the authors) in the word’s more historical sense, which is supernatural, a la the Weird Sisters and/or Weird Tales.

And by supernatural (again, my word not theirs), I mean it in its literal sense, or at least in the-word-defines-its-meaning sense, which is beyond nature…

Or at least nature as we I know it.

And by beyond nature as I know it, I mean portals to other dimensions of being (their words not mine).

To wit:

This paper seeks to elucidate dreams’ profound effects on our psychological landscape, shaping our perceptions, behaviours, and perhaps even ontological orientation. It aims to contribute to a deeper understanding of consciousness, challenging the boundaries between subjective and objective reality, and opening avenues for further interdisciplinary research into the mystique of the dreaming mind. Through this exploration, we aim to decipher dreams’ content and potential significance as portals to other dimensions of being (my emphasis, not theirs) inviting us to reconsider the essence of reality as experienced through the dream state.

Dreams as Portals to Parallel Realities and Reflections of Self by Dave Leong and Oxana Zinych, December 18, 2023

It amazes me how we humans are forever trying to find meaning from our dreams, as bizarre, strange, and nutty as they often are. And if they aren’t weirding us me out, then they are either befuddling me or scaring the bejeezus out of me. Rarely do I get one of those heavenly lucid flying dreams or any other kind that is wholesome and uplifting to the soul.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I actually enjoy having weird, befuddling, spooky dreams; and I appreciate them as one of those intriguing and mysterious spices of life. What I do complain about is how fleeting their details are. It is so frustrating to wake up knowing I just had an epic dream, but not being able to recall in detail what it was about.

But that frustration doesn’t deter me from slipping into one of my Jungian phases where I’m intent on recording as much about my dreams as possible so I can use them, via a kind of Jungian Active Imagination hocus pocus, to, not so much understand my dreams, but to use them to help bring me more in tune with the Universal Collective Soul/Conscious/God.

Jung is a trip (Ad)

Is that the right approach to discover one’s deeper meaning of existance? Who knows? Certainly not me. Which is why I put as much value in what a study or any so-called expert says the purpose of dreams are as I do in someone/anyone trying to tell me what to expect in the afterlife, which is just about zero.

But it is fun to speculate.

And it is from such speculation — about dreams and death, or more specifically our my fear of death — that Sorrow was born.

And which, hopefully, will be available at Amazon within the week.

A disillusioned aging white male forsakes all humanity, changes his name to Sorrow, and begins identifying as an it, just as its white son learns his Black girlfriend is pregnant, and you begin a murderous rampage targeting interracial couples just like them.

If you are interested in helping Kurt me out by reading and posting a review upon Sorrow’s release, you can request a prepublication copy by sending an email to hank@kurtbrindley.com.

Right on.

Chekov, as timeless as is endless life’s coil of mortality

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'Uncle Vanya'
‘Uncle Vanya’ by Library of Congress is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

This brings me to Anton Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya” (1897), a singularly psychologically destabilizing piece of theater that’s now being seen anew as a study of post-Covid paralysis, not to mention the existential dread of watching your life slip away by the spoonful. Although first produced in Moscow in 1899, it feels just like our present American age, when nobody hears anybody else because listening hurts too much; when the most comforting activity imaginable is a long, solitary walk followed by an even longer interlude of silence. This is a drama about being driven insane by the sound of other people’s desires, complaints and aspirations when you’re already being tortured by your own. The pandemic and the boorish political and public discourse that followed drove us inward, unable to fight back, going nuts like poor Vanya.

Why ‘Uncle Vanya’ Is the Play for Our Anxious Era, The New York Times Style Magazine, March 21, 2024

This is an interesting take on the play, one hard to dispute since, you know, one’s take or opinion or impression of a work of any art is completely subjective and just as valid as anyone else’s.

Especially with Chekov’s work, which is just about as timeless and universal as anything written, and which is hard for me to see it anew as a post-Covid paralysis, or anew as post anything.

“Uncle Vanya,” to me, just like all of the Chekov I have had the pleasure to read, which, unfortunately, is not yet all that he has gifted us, is simply about our fear of death, the fear of our suddenly being planted into the soil to become nothing more than worm dirt without ever having done anything of lasting value, of becoming, in a sense, immortal.

Both images from “The Scream” Wikipedia page

Again, just my subjective take but, as Chekov was a man of medicine not unfamiliar with the attack of mortality we all are certain to become inflicted with, it’s no wonder it made such easy and often literary fodder for him.

And of course, related to our fear of death, there is the persisten nag of FOMO, the fear of missing out. While we are fretting incessently over leaving behind nothing of lasting value when we die, we fret almost as much during our short time we do actually have alive on this pretty yet petulant planet of ours of missing out on all the fun and excitement that everyone else seems to be enjoying with such ease.

Anyway, “Uncle Vanya” is chock full of such fear, longing, and regret. To wit, Serebrakoff (Uncle Vanya’s nemisis and whose young wife Helena he longs for) to Helena:

I want to live; I long for success and fame and the stir of the world, and here I am in exile! Oh, it is dreadful to spend every moment grieving for the lost past, to see the success of others and sit here with nothing to do but to fear death. I cannot stand it! It is more than I can bear. And you will not even forgive me for being old!

Uncle Vanya, Scenes from Country Life in Four Acts, Act II, Project Gutneberg

Of course Vanya rants and raves about pretty much the same thing, but it’s a bit more ironic showing Serebrakoff’s angst since it is he who Uncle Vanya idolizes and envies and, ultimately, despairs over.

So yeah, Uncle Vanya could easily be read anew as a study of our post-Covid paralysis, I guess, just as it could easily be a study of our post-yesterday or post-tomorrow paralysis, as well.

But, you know, that is just my subjectively humble take on the timeless tale…

Literary Zen XI

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Arthur Schopenhauer
Arthur Schopenhauer*

There is some wisdom in taking a gloomy view, in looking upon the world as a kind of Hell, and in confining one’s efforts to securing a little room that shall not be exposed to the fire.

*Perhaps a better caption would be, Willem Defoe as Arthur Schopenhauer, which is why I shan’t give up my day job.

Oh yeah, my books will be free from 00:01 (PDST) tonight until 23:59 PDST) Friday.

✌️

Does it matter if our soul* is eternal?

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Leaving religion with its heavens and hells and golden-paved avenues and abiding virgins and doting angels and disinterested saints and other high-ranking, hifalutin gods and demigods aside, is there an actual evolutionary and/or functioning purpose for an eternal soul?

In other words, does the fact that our souls are eternal matter to our day-to-day struggle to survive?

Or is this concept just a necessary illusion, one that provides us with a false sense of immortality to help us deal with our debilitating fear of death?

Anyway…

I guess we won’t know until we know, you know?

And in case you’re wondering, I just read a click-bate article about the ‘Orch-OR’ theory, so it got me to wondering…

*If the word soul is a bit too new-agey and metaphysical for you, replace it with consciousness

A Life Not Lost In Time…

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Very sorry to see that the great Rutger Hauer has passed. He was one badass mofo on the big screen and in life; and he killed it in Blade Runner, one of the most badassest films ever.

Actually one of the roles of his I liked almost as much as Roy Blatty was his portrayal of the quirky faerie Niall Brigant on HBO’s True Blood. The show itself was pretty goofy but Rutger was brilliant in it.

Dang, it seems like everyone is going to die eventually, doesn’t it…

Anyway, HEAVY.COM has a pretty good write-up about him if you’re looking for one.

#riprutger

Featured image courtesy of HEAVY.COMM

Rutger Hauer, ‘Blade Runner’ Co-Star, Dies at 75 — Variety

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Very sorry to see that Rutger has passed. He was one badass mofo in Blade Runner, one of the most badassest films ever. But actually one of my most favorite roles of his was as Niall Brigant on the True Blood series. The show itself was pretty goofy but Rutger was brilliant in his role.

Dang, seems like everyone is going to die eventually, doesn’t it…

I Killed Scott Weiland?

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Scott Weiland
 

I killed him?
You killed him?
We all killed him?
It’s what we do?
It’s what we think?
It’s our expectations?
It’s what you expect of me?
It’s what I expect of you?
Your expectations are killing me?
My expectations are killing you?

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HOW NOT TO DIE: In 13 Easy Steps

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On this day five years ago, I received the news that a recent lung biopsy showed that my lungs were inflicted with a severe form of graft versus host disease (GVHD) called bronchiolitis obliterans syndrome (BOS). BOS, I came to find out, was a known but uncommon side-effect resulting from a bone marrow transplant (for leukemia) that I had had earlier in the year. And by severe I was told it meant the BOS was incurable, non-reversible, and, in most cases, aggressively fatal. I was also told — because I had asked and insisted on an answer — that, according to a National Institutes of Health (NIH) study of the time, BOS had only a 13%, five-year survival rate. In other words, there was an 87% chance that within five years I would be dead.

Well, it’s been five years and here I am – a newly minted Thirteen Percenter.

Can a brother get a “Hell yeah?”

Hell yeah!

Anyway… at my most recent appointment with my oncologist, in addition to his standard declaration whenever he sees me of, “So, I see you’re still alive,” he also declared that my present condition may just be a miracle of sorts because it appears that my incurable BOS may have actually been cured… somehow.

I don’t think I would be overstating if I said that, because of all my goings on these past five years – goings on such as leukemia, GVHD (and not just of the lungs, but also of the eyes, liver, and intestines), prednisone side-effects, cytomegalovirus (CMV), and heart failure to name a few – I think I’ve learned a thing or two about life in general and living it in particular.

Now, if you search around this site, I’m pretty sure you will find that much of my writing, mostly encapsulated in my haiku, reflects a lot of the insights and learning I’ve garnered from these goings on. However, just because I like you all so much and don’t want you to have try to sift through this site for days on end in an effort to discover these insights and learning, and because short, pithy lists are all the rage these days, I will identify for you the top thirteen things I learned about how to not only not die, but mostly about how to best live your life filled with happiness and meaning, regardless whether death is looking you directly in the face or not.

Cool?

Okay, so here we go…

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