Open your eyes, open yourself and you’ll begin to see things. The ads you see - or just as often, don’t see - online will, sometimes, reveal something about you from deep inside. There’s an awful lot of chaos, of course there is, but there are also untold data points about who you are and what you’ve done, who you don’t know you are, what you don’t know you’ve done, and there is an algorithm. And there are sub-algorithms, and super-algorithms and all of them perfectly silent and perfectly dark. Like black holes whose shape we can’t make out, that the light can’t escape from, and that the knowing never escapes from.
Black holes, or tea leaves, if you prefer. I’ve started to see ads, lately. I’ve started to see myself, lately, out of the corner of my eye - I think - just at the moment I swipe back. There are two ads, basically. Always one of two ads. One is, “Bowels: a simple trick to empty them completely.” The other one, “You’ll never believe Salvador Dali’s simple secret to creativity.”
I’m frightened to click on them, for so many reasons. But, what I am brave enough to do, is Google the topic to find the answer through organic search. I know it’s reckless, it’s barely any better, maybe it’s worse, maybe there’s greater agency in searching than clicking, oh God.
Anyway I haven’t learned anything I didn’t already know about emptying my bowels, so that’s one massive con straight off. The Dali thing’s quite interesting though. Dali would take naps during the day, holding an object - like a door key - in his hand. Right at the moment of falling asleep, his hand would relax, and the key would fall to the floor, making a sudden loud noise that wakes you up. And so you can deliberately access the dream-like state that’s on the border between waking and sleeping.
I don’t think it’s related but yesterday morning in the shower I suddenly realised I’ve been dreaming about snails. I had definitely dreamed about snails that night and I don’t know if it’s a weird dream thing but I’m pretty sure that I realise now I had been dreaming about snails the night before that, and who knows how long I’ve been dreaming about snails.
And it’s not the nice kind of snail with a brightly coloured shell and a smile, like a character in a children’s book. These are realistic snails, mottled and wet. And they don’t have any shells at all. But before you think it, they’re not slugs. They’re snails without shells. And it’s not just one, or a few, it’s a great writhing mass of them, under my feet, like they’re spawning from one another almost flowing out from the grass and leaves. And they’re, like, a lot of them are copulating.
I happen to believe that dreams are symbolic. Open your eyes, open yourself and you’ll begin to see things in them. What you see will, sometimes, reveal something about you from deep inside. There’s an awful lot of chaos, of course there is, but the dreaming mind reveals what we feel, who we are, what we don’t know we feel, who we don’t know we are. So, either, I am revolted, disgusted at the depraved masses that spoil my path, that aren’t even human and who have me reaching for the table salt.
Or, I’m guilty. I’m revolted by myself, by - my own hidden proclivities that remain secret but - if I’m honest - who knows for how long. You know the kind of thing: not exactly the same but hands down my favourite film, “My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.”
Nevermind. Not to worry for now. Could be a mistake. Perhaps I’ll Google it later.
Have a good weekend after tomorrow.