Today I'm reading a creased and tanned old paperback titled Waking Dreams, by Mary Watkins. The writing is so stilted the reading is a torment, but th...moreToday I'm reading a creased and tanned old paperback titled Waking Dreams, by Mary Watkins. The writing is so stilted the reading is a torment, but the information is excellent and I'll persist. In this 1976 volume, Watkins explores the notion of creative imaginings--along the lines of what I call "journeys"--from a Jungian standpoint.
I began my own practice in the mid-'90s via Sandra Ingerman's Soul Retrieval. Because imaginings and fictions always have been troublesome for me--perhaps it's the Asperger's, but if something wasn't authentic and true and practical and possible, I could not consider writing about it, and I certainly couldn't think it up.
The journeys, then, opened up a new world for me. By going within and waiting to be led, I was and am shown all manner of worlds and possibilities I could not conceive on my own.
I'll poke around in this dense and technical little volume. I'll journey and write things down and find my way back to where I once belonged.
Jeez, six full pages of precious premise, a hundred introductory what-ifs. Does no one know what an editor is?
Ah--here's something for the Blue Notebook:
When the imaginal has been pruned from the trees and exorcised from the animals, having chased the night creatures under the rocks by the light of our reasonableness--when everything is still, clean, and free of the beasts of the imaginary--within the hour we feel their movement within. ... One forgets a well-known name, says something unintended, cries "without reason," becomes angry at one thing and not another, loves one man and not another and does not know why. ... [W]hen we observe what we are doing, who we have become, and where we are aimed, it is often as if our lives were dreamed by another, and we are some ... actor or actress executing a part. ... Surely we contemplated it all before. But when it came time to sign the paper or move one's belongings, to make love or espouse a view, did it not just happen in a dreaminess--as if indeed we were playing our parts, having memorized them well? The belief we have created that we are a continuous "I" living in certain predetermined landscapes, experiencing an outer world independent of ourselves, breaks down. The science of memory, the practices of medicine and reason fail to account. There is another force influencing our thoughts, emotions, movements, and actions. One can no longer say it is a god or a spirit, and yet one has those ancient feelings of possession and movement by a force that does not answer to logic or common space and time. There is something using matter in a way that does not have to do with matter itself. Science can say what reality is and is not, and yet something fails to be included in the inventory. Appearance hides a world that the tools of a rationalistic knowledge have no access to.
Enter the Unconscious.
I'll try and push through this thing, but it won't be easy. One should pull aside curtains of gauze to get at meaning. Here one forces oneself past draperies made from old Persian carpets--so heavy, thick, and elaborately patterned one forgets where one was headed in the first place.(less)