Remembering A Dream—I Don’t Re-member

J. Lucas II. a.k.a. Aesthetarchon

The only connection I have to it is (presently) not knowing it, but the memory of once having known it; but if there is an absence of what it i s in the present-tense and the past, with no imagery or recollection of any kind to assist me, how can I be in the present state of re-membering in the remembering-of-something-I-do-not-remember? Something a priori must linger with neither reference nor transparency. Like a vibration, or after-shock; something has taken place, possibly erotic or dramatic. A feeling washes up that is nearly identical to that of a clear picture, but one that never arrives. Only that tactile sense of hugging a long-departed friend and all that has been carried over into this moment may bare some resemblance to this experience. It might as well be said that this is the after-effect of the unconscious: somewhere this knowledge must be contained, which would account for its quasi-recollectedconfused, and emotional residue. As if the dream inscription could be apprehended at any of its points; the dream-text dangling like strings—any of which can be grasped at, relaying a sense with no unity or causality to the whole of which it is related. E.g., I feel a spur to tragedy or romance, of last night’s happening, but that is all. And I know this feeling is somehow connected to the dream, because I’ve been here before, and this peculiarity typically leads to an unveiling of the dream. But some instances fall short, and we remain only with a trace or residuum of the dream inscription (Cf., Freud, who opened the writerly metaphor to the functionality of cognition and perception). This would imply a textuality of the dream somehow tucked away in the unconscious. A mark on the “mystic writing-pad” (Cf. Ibid.) – the transparent wax-sheet stands still, yet to relapse to its opening-and-closing program. But now we have replaced a question with an enigma. Our dime-store dialectic is of little help here. It is at such moments that philosophy ends in Proustianism. And why shouldn’t that suffice!?