27-8-00 19:06:16 -0000
I've always had very vivid and frequent dreams. When I was younger a lot of them were "nightmares." My mom would say to me, "Just tell yourself that it is a dream." She doesn't talk much about her dreams but when she does she seems to have a definite control over them that I never have had.
About the time I hit adolescence my step-father entered my life. He was / is extremely religious, and my mom had just recently become so. I found myself in an extremely "christian fundamentalist" household. Everything that had anything to do with the imagination became suspect.
With the changes of adolescence and my new home environment, my dreams became more powerful and meaningful to me. To deny and / or condemn that which had to do with the imagination would be to deny or condemn that which was an essential part of me. They became a place of refuge I suppose. They were a reminder that that part of me was still alive, regardless of how many books of mine might get thrown away or how much consternation my drawings might provoke, or how many "good" books were force fed in exchange for allowance.
A quick search on / for Chic(k?) publications (they're on the web) will give you an idea of what sort of environment I was surrounded with. This companies books lined the family shelves.
Funny thing was, some of these books would include a bibliography in the back. I'd write down the badly mangled works from the work cited list and then look for the actual book. Forced points, faulty inferences, seemingly deliberate convolutions of the authors intent and errors in logic all over the place had been made in my folks' books.
All this time I had my dreams. They were my connection to whatever "it" is or "i" am or we are.
All of the above, all subject to arguments involving semantics.
A sense of "the other" whatever that is. a sense of awe or wonder or mystery.
Sorry about the verbose answers to the first two questions.
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