24 April 2008
were it not that I have bad dreams
Undergoing a seriously bad bout of insomnia/jetlag coupled with excruciatingly unpleasant dreams, I start to wonder what cinema would look like if dreams were not a common feature of psychic life. Dreams are extraordinary lies: the death of a friend, the disintegration of teeth, the taste of blood, the guilt felt at the accidental death of someone in your care are real, physically felt phenomena. The tears cried in dreams create the same exhaustion as tears cried in waking life, and the unpleasantness and terror that lingers after witnessing a violent death or spending what seemed like several hours wondering around with a mouth filled with vomit, blood and broken teeth remains with you during the day. You can taste it. Just as the false movement and emotional wrench of much cinema creates a kind of depthless empathy and pity for the reflection of a world which doesn't exist, dreams too invent pathos for a nonreality, but one which is unfortunately, and tiresomely, caught between the confines of your own skull. The combined boredom and discomfort of listening to the dreams of another is a kind of fear of this confined subjective illusion, the infinite space of a claustrophobic...nutshell.
Oh, yes, it's good to be back...normal service resumed shortly...
