read… or LISTEN to this post.
so, you know, there’s this idea of the collective unconscious.
who was it… carl jung? but i mean, who was it who told me about this, who brought this to my attention? was it thad? thad ziolkowski who was writing a book about a childhood of surfing (which i later read) while i was in his class.
i remember i used the word fuck in my first composition that semester and effused sheer light and buzz from my skin when i read it aloud in class, thought i was going to throw-up, but nobody budged. we were 18 and it was brooklyn and the classroom was in this old building that felt so real in all its dirt and cracked-paint corners, with a courtyard at its center, small but clear windows framing a portal to all of brooklyn, or to the whole entire world – to everything all of us could think of.
sitting in the subway station playing a song with corduroy pants wearing thin at the knees and with ever-carried water bottles and with wanting to kiss this girl or boy… and me, a white-ish girl from a rural-ish county in western new jersey wondering if it was ok to start yet… and fuck-it, i was starting –
ok, so, it was thad first. thad who said, read jung. reflections, dreams, something…
but it was really this guy: it was frank ancona who gave me my first high-wire night class thinking about the collective unconscious. the collective unconscious. in a full classroom on the second floor of the D building at a community college back in the rural-ish hometown – the class was “myth, dream, image.”
so now i’m older, right – i mean, i’m older. 27. and i am thinking about this notion, this feeling – having this wonderment about what comprises my very own consciousness & i have this feeling of having a collective consciousness – that is, that the moment of consciousness that i am in fact experiencing is, in effect, a collective of all of the things i can [and cannot consciously] think of in that moment.
i start thinking that i want to learn to draw my collection, my collective consciousness – like an artist or dancer who uncovers the form of lines of ink or the directions of a body in space. but what is the medium? what is the fluid, the ink or the glue, or the ligaments, or the music? i mean, i, like all of us, have this incredible journey of laced together images & sensations – the people & sounds i’ve encountered – the creations, the spaces, even the painful mishaps. in my school years alone, a myriad of proper names weave together in a cloth of memories made of color and light, form and shadow… even just in one building:
tracy jones sings i know the name of every rain-drop, standing with a microphone in the small theatre on the southside of a campus in the part of new york state that is more connecticut’s cousin than the boroughs’ brother.
there was a co*op that once lived in that same building – it was one of the fantastic reasons i ended up in that corner of westchester county with my dictionary and my mind, uncovering poetry and making high heaps out of novel crushes.
and later, after the co*op had been shut down, co-opted by a different kind of growing, there was the blood drive in that same building, and it was protested by the lgbt, but i went in, queer but female, and gave my blood anyway.
so you see,
sometimes it begins to be winter – maybe i start having dreams that are more detailed than usual, or maybe i put on a record i haven’t heard in some time, or maybe i think about how it is that i can love desperately and still find myself forgetting how to move towards the decisive moment when the boundary between going along & pushing ahead topples – and i say to myself: shit, how old am i and what the fuck am i doing?