When Black Friday Comes….

A friend of mine had a dream about falling. I don’t profess to be a psychologist and I’m not sure how much stock I put in dream analysis, but it set me thinking about the subject in general.

I tell people I never remember my dreams, but that’s not quite true. The earliest dream I recall — actually, I had it several times during my childhood — takes place at Ridge Hill School in Hamden, Conn., which I attended from kindergarten through sixth grade. I’m in the playground with my classmates when, booming over the shouting and laughter, I hear the ominous fanfare from Strauss’ “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” I am the only one who senses something wrong: a hungry and terrible presence just around the other side of the building. I know I must save my classmates. With growing trepidation, I separate myself from my peers and creep around the corner. As panic swells inside me, I catch a glimpse of something Lovecraftian — pitiless and sharp-toothed and insane — and I know I have met my end. I wake up in a cold sweat with a sense that I have failed.

Guess that makes it Yog-Sothoth 1-Crowder 0. It was around this time that I was coming to understand my own mortality. I believe I picked up the Strauss thing watching “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

I had another memorable childhood dream when I was visiting my cousin’s family at their summer home in Katonah, N.Y. Interestingly, it too takes place at my old elementary school. For some reason, I accompany my mother there; she’s on some kind of business — maybe it’s Election Day and she’s there to vote. In any case, she leaves me at the entrance while she goes inside (no doubt reflecting separation anxiety). A substantial span of time passes, and I begin to worry. Here comes the freaky Oedipal part: There’s this knight guarding the door and he won’t let me pass. So I draw a knife from somewhere and start peeling off his armor — the blade cuts right through it and it comes off sort of like his arm’s solid plastic. There’s no blood. But I strike bone underneath.

I don’t remember whether my mother returns in the end.

Later in life, I had certain dream-related sleep problems that have since disappeared. In my teens and early 20s I was occasionally plagued by insomnia and night terrors. Around that time I began experiencing sleep paralysis, sometimes accompanied by lucid dreaming. Sleep paralysis is terrifying the first time it happens — imagine waking up and finding you have no control over your movements. You can’t even scream — and trust me, you try. But I learned to work around it by wiggling a toe, then foot, etc. — or simply going back to sleep.

Falling dreams are said to be common — I know I’ve had them before. Traditional dream interpretation suggests they reflect anxiety by the dreamer, but by this standard, almost everone should dream about falling every night. Not surprisingly, Freudians put a characteristic twist on the subject. But everybody knows Freud was full of bunk.

The expanding man

A colleague recently invited me to a virtual dinner online. I’m not precisely sure how dining works in a Second Life context, but I sure aims to find out. I’m actually nervous about it: I don’t have formal dining clothes, and as a noob, I’m a bit concerned about etiquette — a valid concern when you can’t always control what your hands are doing at any given time.

Anyhow, an SL dinner seems strangely appropriate, since I’ve been trying to shed a couple of pounds over the last few weeks. I’m pretty close to my goal, thanks to the twin miracles of exercise and starvation, so I will return to eating real food next week — even marked it on my calendar.

Bodhisattva

Re: Metaphors or Jargon?

One sentence, huh? That would be a mouthful — and it would take half my life to accomplish (although I can think of at least one reporter who could work it all into one tedious lede). So I hope the OP will allow me to take a few liberties — slavish devotion to rules was never my strong suit.

Here goes: New technologies allow us to inhabit multiple spheres simultaneously. We live in the physical space of our first life, where we live and breathe and eat. There’s also a second, social sphere where we interact with friends and colleagues, often assisted by technology. And now a third sphere is emerging where we interact within a new, “virtual” reality, where we are represented by alternate personas who may behave and live quite differently than we do. (At least, we hope so in the case of certain Second-Lifers.)

All of this raises fascinating metaphysical (and possibly, in the case of gaming, metafictional) questions. For when we look off the stage, beyond the proverbial fourth wall, what do we see? And perhaps more importantly, who’s seeing us?

Neal Stephenson popularized the use of the word “avatar” to describe these alternate personas, although the word had already been current in the gaming community. But it’s worth noting that it’s actually from the Sanskrit, roughly meaning “incarnation.” Reincarnation, of course, is a staple of the Buddhist and Hindu faiths, but in the latter, as a rule, only the gods can exist as multiple incarnations simultaneously. (I realize I am here inviting a correction from OP, who is better informed on this topic than I.) In any case, maybe we can expect a virtual afterlife.

Beyond the spiritual considerations, communication technology has social impact as well. They say Western pop culture, spread by technology, helped bring down the Iron Curtain. Will new ideas and new technologies also smash the blood-stained glass ceilings that still exist in our society? Can glass and celluloid ceilings even exist in a world where people are always exactly who they choose to be?

There’s always the temptation, of course, to hope that tomorrow’s technology will soon solve today’s problems; it rarely does. Remember the rosy optimism that accompanied the advent of the atomic age? Perhaps our limerent perception of technology clouds our judgment. We should have seen Three Mile Island coming from 20 miles away. We should be concerned that the unrestrained collection of personal data and metadata by private and government agencies will start us on that final slouch toward some dystopian Babylon.

We must tread carefully.

OK. That’s about the best I can do without spending all day at it. Now: If anybody can put that all together and make it rhyme, I’ll have a new hero.

Any world will do

Get a first life.

Not now! Kinda busy!

New Haven Register sports columnist Dave Solomon delivers a witty and elegant tribute to the late Tom McCormack, who died early Friday morning. The Connecticut Post’s Chris Elsberry also gives a fitting eulogy in print.

Clean this mess up

The demolition of the New Haven Coliseum (with apologies to L7).

Red beans and rice for a quarter

Tom Smith is the quiet, thoughtful gentleman who pounds the skins behind several of Krissy’s musical projects. He’s also the man who officiated at our wedding. His new book, The Crescent City Lynchings, explores a fascinating and little-known aspect of Big Easy history.

Happy birthday Kriss!

On a sad note, our friend and former colleague, the respected New Haven Register sports journalist and author Tom McCormack, has passed away. Our thoughts go out to Tucker, Marilyn and the rest of the McCormack family.

Got a case of dynamite

New Haven’s Veterans Memorial Coliseum comes crashing down at 7:30 a.m. Saturday. I kind of bristle at the notion of scrapping a project after it’s gobbled up so many tax dollars over the past three decades. But I suppose that means they simply should never have built the damned thing in the first place.

Monkey in your soul

You know the little angel and little devil that perch on your shoulders and offer unsolicited moral counsel (a la that scene from Animal House)? Well, what if that little voice in your head really isn’t you? The Washington Post reports that the Web is host to a growing community of people who believe the government (or someone, at least) is controlling their thoughts — and they swear they’re not crazy.

Then again, so does Daniel Johnston — but only when he’s been off his meds for a while.

If I ever have a free Saturday afternoon — and it doesn’t look like that’s happening any time soon — I’m going to hang blankets over the windows, burn some patchoulli incense, spin Pink Floyd’s “Atom Heart Mother” (what exactly does that “heart” mean, anyhow?) and just listen. Maybe someone will speak up.

And if that fails, I could always catch up on my reading.

Not getting it

This blogger gets it about right: “newspapers just don’t understand the nature of the Web.”