Way to write, Longy McWinded
At the moment I am an extremely angry person. While I suspect this may be the ground state of my personality, I have a fairly good reason for my anger. Towards the end of last week I caught a cold, and about halfway through Saturday it went nuclear. I was dropping in and out of sleep with dreams following me and not being quite in sync with the periods of unconsciousness. I surmised from those experience that psychedelic drugs are not needed to experience a bad trip.
Saturday night was the first time in years that I was frightened by nightmares. I've dreamt of a few generic horror and disaster themes, and they do not bother me. There's always an element of control, that I can change the story or wake up if I don't like what's going on. It's a film where I can make suggestions to the director as it develops; which is something that many films could benefit from, but that's another rant. Anyway, the dream I was most horrified by last night was probably the least imaginative one I could ever have had. I have many qualms with it stylistically and plot-wise, with the script being supremely sub-par. So here it is.
I was lying in bed, whose sheets suddenly felt like the softest things in the world. "That's alright then," I thought, and snuggled down. Immediately they turned oppressive and as hard as rock, without changing in any way, shape or form. They just suddenly decided to crush me. And yes, I believed my sheets to have become imbued with a menacing intelligence that willfully was crushing me. Conscious now, I ran out of my room and into the corridor, just to somehow shock myself awake. The impressions of the dream kept on. So now the walls are inexpressibly malevolent, closing in without moving. There was a sense of violence in their existence, and there was a voice of someone in authority shouting at me. Bear in mind that I had a childhood that was almost decadantly idyllic, so this is not trauma surfacing from that time. The sense of control I've got used to having inside my own head was shattered when I opened my eyes and was moving about without the bloody dream stopping. That produced anger, eventually, which led to this afternoon's incandascent mood when I finished my seminar on The Great War.
This is a special subject, which means you have to chooose it to be there. True, I didn't because there was a mixup with my request when I was abroad, and I somehow ended up applying for a course they don't run anymore. But whatever. The majority of the rest of the group should be passionate about the subject. It should be two hours of debate, self-indulgent opinions, half-remembrances from history class and documentaries, something. Anything. Not silence interspersed with my attempts to fill it. Along with the professor, deliberately throwing around contentious stuff and getting no bites. We were supposedly analysing Wilfred Owen, something it turns out one guy had actually written his dissertation on. He said almost nothing, and when he did it was like he'd ripped a sentence out of a textbook he read in primary school. I really hope I'm wrong in my assumption that his dissertation is so much toilet paper.
Then there's the repeating what the prof says back to him in different words and hoping he doesn't notice. That's hangover tactics and it was the end of the day! I was expecting passion, discourse, academia. I don't expect that in every seminar, I was almost completely silent in the first one I had today. I plead mitigating circumstances, what with having read the wrong play during my sickness and the knowledge that one only has to get the guy teaching that one going and you'll get all sorts of useful stuff out of him that nobody else in the room would have known. It's a compulsary subject on post-modernism. Something disturbingly new at the moment. I don't anticipate fire. But I do in such a well-known subject as The Great War, especially in the current climate.
Tell me if it seems like I'm still just dizzy from fever and ranting over nothing. I don't like slating people when they've done nothing wrong.
Saturday night was the first time in years that I was frightened by nightmares. I've dreamt of a few generic horror and disaster themes, and they do not bother me. There's always an element of control, that I can change the story or wake up if I don't like what's going on. It's a film where I can make suggestions to the director as it develops; which is something that many films could benefit from, but that's another rant. Anyway, the dream I was most horrified by last night was probably the least imaginative one I could ever have had. I have many qualms with it stylistically and plot-wise, with the script being supremely sub-par. So here it is.
I was lying in bed, whose sheets suddenly felt like the softest things in the world. "That's alright then," I thought, and snuggled down. Immediately they turned oppressive and as hard as rock, without changing in any way, shape or form. They just suddenly decided to crush me. And yes, I believed my sheets to have become imbued with a menacing intelligence that willfully was crushing me. Conscious now, I ran out of my room and into the corridor, just to somehow shock myself awake. The impressions of the dream kept on. So now the walls are inexpressibly malevolent, closing in without moving. There was a sense of violence in their existence, and there was a voice of someone in authority shouting at me. Bear in mind that I had a childhood that was almost decadantly idyllic, so this is not trauma surfacing from that time. The sense of control I've got used to having inside my own head was shattered when I opened my eyes and was moving about without the bloody dream stopping. That produced anger, eventually, which led to this afternoon's incandascent mood when I finished my seminar on The Great War.
This is a special subject, which means you have to chooose it to be there. True, I didn't because there was a mixup with my request when I was abroad, and I somehow ended up applying for a course they don't run anymore. But whatever. The majority of the rest of the group should be passionate about the subject. It should be two hours of debate, self-indulgent opinions, half-remembrances from history class and documentaries, something. Anything. Not silence interspersed with my attempts to fill it. Along with the professor, deliberately throwing around contentious stuff and getting no bites. We were supposedly analysing Wilfred Owen, something it turns out one guy had actually written his dissertation on. He said almost nothing, and when he did it was like he'd ripped a sentence out of a textbook he read in primary school. I really hope I'm wrong in my assumption that his dissertation is so much toilet paper.
Then there's the repeating what the prof says back to him in different words and hoping he doesn't notice. That's hangover tactics and it was the end of the day! I was expecting passion, discourse, academia. I don't expect that in every seminar, I was almost completely silent in the first one I had today. I plead mitigating circumstances, what with having read the wrong play during my sickness and the knowledge that one only has to get the guy teaching that one going and you'll get all sorts of useful stuff out of him that nobody else in the room would have known. It's a compulsary subject on post-modernism. Something disturbingly new at the moment. I don't anticipate fire. But I do in such a well-known subject as The Great War, especially in the current climate.
Tell me if it seems like I'm still just dizzy from fever and ranting over nothing. I don't like slating people when they've done nothing wrong.