bironic

It's fascinating how memory is transmuted - dreams and stories we're told can become real, even vivid, memories, while the memories of things we've actually done blend, shift, and tangle together. What a perfect memory to end the project.

The oldest real memory I have - the only one from before my little brother came along that isn't just a visual flash or a feeling - is of standing just inside the living room of the graduate-ghetto semi-detached my parents had when they first moved to Princeton, before they found the house where I would grow up. There isn't much furniture - a slim, dark dining-room set behind me; hard-wood floors; a fuzzy blue carpet; the old maroon sofa. I am clutching a teddy bear as big as I am, with a red ribbon around his neck. My father is standing on the other side of the living room, and we're about to begin a game, perhaps hide-and-seek: I can only remember the delicious tension that comes before the game.

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Thanks; it was tough to choose a subject to end the LJ portion of the project with.

Lovely memory. I never saw your old house but I can picture it, and you with the enormous red-ribboned teddy bear, ready to play.

It's fascinating how memory is transmuted - dreams and stories we're told can become real, even vivid, memories, while the memories of things we've actually done blend, shift, and tangle together.

It is fascinating, in a bunch of ways. Some -- I might even say most -- of my earliest memories are of dreams that are still very clear.

On the relationship between dream-memory and real-memory, I've also been mulling over the extent to which a dream event/memory "counts" as "real." One difference seems to be that dreams have short-term rather than long-term impact. But the example I've been thinking about is one of the more violent dreams I had a few years ago in which I cut a man's throat. I can still see and feel the rough stubble on his jaw and neck, his sweat-salty skin, the box-cutter I used, the tough ripping of the knife through the skin and artery on its way to the windpipe. None of it was real, but it was based on a combination of perceptions from real life. That might not be what it's like to slit a throat at all, yet I don't have to imagine what it would be like because I've done it, or done a version of it. So -- to what extent do I know what it's like to slit a throat?

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That's a really good question. Sometimes I wake up with such a vivid sense that I've felt exactly what it's like to touch a particular person, or to be shot in the neck (a numb, cold seizing-up, like taking in a sudden breath you can't exhale), or to be lifted off the ground by the waves of heat streaming off a raging urban fire, that I wonder whether our subconscious minds don't have some strangely accurate way of taking scraps of sensation from our actual experience and assembling "new" sensory memories. It would make sense - you know what it feels like to touch someone's jawline, you know what it feels like to cut through something resistant, so the experience your mind manufactures is probably pretty accurate, because it's a blend of those remembered sensations. But then, since I've never ACTUALLY been shot in the neck (touch wood), I have no way of knowing whether my dream about it was accurate or only persuasively vivid.

By the way, your chillingly wonderful description of the dream reminded me of the most enthralling and horrible (in the way that makes you unable to look away) throat-cutting scene I've ever read in a book, which was in Wild Boy (which I really think you would like, incidentally; it's a fictionalised account of the true story of a child found in a village in France shortly after the Revolution. The boy had been living wild in the forests for somewhere between five and nine years. The book follows the young Revolutionary doctor who tries to teach him to speak, and the governess who cares for him. It's lushly written and touches on everything from politics to contemporary views of mental illness to the philosophy of human nature). What gets me about it is what gets me about your description, and about dreams: the sheer awful vividness, almost sensuality, of the act. It imprints on you, I find, and it's difficult to shake the sense of actually having DONE it once you've got that sensual memory fixed in your mind.

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If Wild Boy is the same story they turned into the movie by Francois Truffaut, then we studied it in a Nature of Language class in high school. It was a fascinating case of the extent to which a person could acquire language that late in life. (It's hard to test something like that, since it requires isolating children from all forms of human language.) I would like to read the book some day.

And if our subconscious can recombine sensory memories to form new ones, as you've said, then what is the difference between a new dream-memory and a new real-memory other than the fact that one occurred only in our heads without our conscious control and another occurred in the external world? We could get philosophical here and go on to say that since all we know of the world is what we ourselves experience through our senses, that argument means that there is, in effect, no difference between the two (other than the people around us denying that the event happened). And then what would it mean if we were dreaming lucidly, in control of our own actions and the (dream)world around us? It's one thing to say you committed violence in a dream, because you couldn't make the choice not to -- but it's another to say you deliberately did it in this "safe" place, just to see what it was like.

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And if our subconscious can recombine sensory memories to form new ones, as you've said, then what is the difference between a new dream-memory and a new real-memory other than the fact that one occurred only in our heads without our conscious control and another occurred in the external world? We could get philosophical here and go on to say that since all we know of the world is what we ourselves experience through our senses, that argument means that there is, in effect, no difference between the two (other than the people around us denying that the event happened).

And considering that the people around us in the dream confirmed the event (and also, in some way, denied or belied the existence of the "waking" world), you could say there really is no difference, except that we cannot believe both, and therefore choose to believe one reality over the other. I think the only way to really be sure that the waking world is more real than the dream world (and again, it sort of depends on your ideas of "real") is that, when we're in the waking world, we're aware of the dream world as something artificial, but in those dreams where we remember the waking world, we usually become aware of it as something real we can return to.

And then what would it mean if we were dreaming lucidly, in control of our own actions and the (dream)world around us? It's one thing to say you committed violence in a dream, because you couldn't make the choice not to -- but it's another to say you deliberately did it in this "safe" place, just to see what it was like.

Yes, that is a pretty uncomfortable thought. It seems somehow worse than dwelling on the violent act, or even writing it, while you're awake. That said, I've never dreamt lucidly enough to be able to control what was going on in the dream, only occasionally enough to make myself wake up. It would take a hell of a lot of awareness in a dream to be able not only to choose to slit someone's throat, but to do it KNOWING that this is a dream and deciding to "experiment" with the violence anyway - I'm not sure that the mind could combine that level of conscious control with a dream's level of sensory intensity.

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I think the only way to really be sure that the waking world is more real than the dream world is that, when we're in the waking world, we're aware of the dream world as something artificial

And yet the lucid-dreaming self-help sites will tell you that we spend much of our waking lives in a semi-conscious state. We "know" we're awake but most of the time we're not actively confirming it, which is why usually in dreams we don't question that we're conscious -- even though there we're really not. They say the key to achieving a conscious dream-state involves recognizing this sort of slipping in and out of awareness of consciousness; they recommend making an effort to confirm one's consciousness regularly during the day, arguing (with success stories to support them) that the habit will carry over to dreamlife, at which point when you perform the check you will discover that you're dreaming. So if you train yourself to confirm that you're awake every, say, 15 minutes, by whatever method you've chosen (asking yourself how you got to be where you are, or staring at text and trying to make the letters change, etc.), then chances are in a dream you'll perform the same behavior, things won't happen the way you expect, et voila: lucidity. Then you get into the various techniques people use to keep from waking up at that point or slipping back into regular dreaming.

Yes, that is a pretty uncomfortable thought. It seems somehow worse than dwelling on the violent act, or even writing it, while you're awake.

The question is how responsible we should hold ourselves for what we dream. In one sense (disregarding lucidity) we have no control over our dreamscapes or actions and shouldn't be held accountable for what we do in them. In another sense everything that happens comes from us, our experiences, our emotions, our memories, our desires. Unlike reality, a dream is pure self.

It would take a hell of a lot of awareness in a dream to be able not only to choose to slit someone's throat, but to do it KNOWING that this is a dream and deciding to "experiment" with the violence anyway - I'm not sure that the mind could combine that level of conscious control with a dream's level of sensory intensity.

I don't know how conscious a conscious dream is either, but I remember reading that one way to prevent yourself from waking up upon achieving lucidity is to rub your hands together, clap or spin around, because the brain can't handle two sensory inputs at once (the dream-input and the body-in-bed input) and often chooses to stay with the signals coming from within the dream.

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That's quite fascinating about the techniques of lucid dreaming; do you have a link to any of those sites kicking about? The methods of confirming consciousness sound almost like very basic versions of Zen exercises (like moving the letters in a word around, or picturing an object and a word that means something else at the same time, or trying to visualise the word "red" in blue letters).

When I was little I could wake myself up from a dream, but since then my only attempt to interact with my dreams has been to try and jot them down. I'd be really intrigued to try conscious dreaming.

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I did some research on it for a science fair in high school (silver medal, baby!) and came pretty close to achieving sustained lucidity when I tried it while preparing the project. Let me see if any of those sites are still around that I remember...

There's lucidity.com, which seems to have undergone a much-needed redesign. Stephen LaBerge is the big name in the field. Wikipedia has some links as well.

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Wow, and that was when you were two? Pretty impressive to have that clear a memory from that age. Although if you thought your mother had eaten something that big, I can see where it would stay with you. Lol.

Married? Does that mean you're permanently relocating to Reading? Next you'll tell me you're planning to swallow watermelons. Will be online tonight for details.

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I couldn't just refrain from commenting here, so:
Congratulations! :-D

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maddy-harrigan.livejournal.com

*waves*

Hi Michelle! I knew Stephanie a little when we were all in London together, and now I'm back in London and I hear you're marrying a Reading boy. We'll have to look each other up sometime, as it sometimes gets tres lonely on this side of the pond!

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I'll be going with earliest memories here then.

I have pretty clear flashes from I was 2, but the first detailed one is from the day I turned three.
I had this toy, little wooden, round figures that sat in a car. They were perhaps half an inch in diameter and two inches long. I tried to use them to "skate" on and fell, hit my head on the doorframe and knocked one of my front teath so it turned blue. Result was spending the day at the dentist.
I lied to my mother and said I'd fallen on them since I knew she'd scold me for trying something as stupid as skating like that.
To this day she believes what I told her then and I've stopped trying to convince her I lied *G*

And this has been a great experience :-) I'll be posting all of my memories in a journal entry soon.

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The shame! The shame! :) I love that your mother still doesn't believe you when you try to confess.

I'm so glad you enjoyed it too, and I hope your flist enjoys the collection when you post it to your journal.

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Indeed *G* It's a really funny story, especially the part about my mother.

I hope so too. And now I will go congratulate

michelle_nine since that's only fitting, even if I don't know her.
Incidentally, I have made and received a mostly for fun marriage proposal yesterday *G*

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Oh?

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Based on a meme here in my journal and here in

son_of_darkness_' journal, we've decided that we ought to get married ;-) Very silly, but also a little thought-provoking.
(I don't know if you recall him from Accio...?)

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Ah yes, the meme. I couldn't come up with enough preferences/requirements to do one of my own but I enjoyed yours.

I remember him a little from the audience at Snape's trial but mostly from before the conference started when we were laminating the name tags and one of the older committee members was taken aback/amused at the nom de plume.

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Heh, well it is a quite striking name *S* Especially since he really is a rather sweet boy.

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I'm sure you two will be very happy together.

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Thank you ;-)

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And apparently LJ wouldn't eat my tag to

son_of_darkness so I'm trying again here.

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maddy-harrigan.livejournal.com

Let me join with the chorus of people congratulating michelle_nine (even though I don't know her either) and say HURRAH!!

My earliest memory is very very early - I was probably about five months old. I was born in May, and in this memory, I'm wearing fleece pyjamas, but I wasn't yet able to sit up on my own, so I'm putting it somewhere around October, probably.

There are two ways I know it's genuine. The first is that the room was actually very small, but in the memory, it's enormous. Secondly, I drew a diagram of the placement of the furniture for my mother - the changing table, the crib, all the things that were moved out of there around my first or second birthday - and she verified its accuracy.

Anyway, I remember my mother bringing me into the room for my nap. It was daytime; there's light coming through the translucent window shades. I wasn't tired, but she put me in the crib anyway and left. I wasn't too upset, because there was a toy strung over the top of the crib - three stuffed pigs attached to an elastic string (which would never be allowed these days; the elastic would be considered a hazard). I remember waving up at it and batting my hand towards it, accidentally making contact with one of the pigs. I watched it go around the string and then come back. It was tremendously exciting, so I did it again and again and again. I'd had no idea I could do that.

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michelle_nine was abroad with us in London and rescued my lonely self on many an occasion.

My earliest memory is very very early - I was probably about five months old. I was born in May, and in this memory, I'm wearing fleece pyjamas, but I wasn't yet able to sit up on my own, so I'm putting it somewhere around October, probably.

Maybe I should change your prize to "Earliest Memory"!

I remember waving up at it and batting my hand towards it, accidentally making contact with one of the pigs.

Excellent -- I'm right there with you in the perspective.

You've triggered a few memories of my own, too -- not from that early on, but of an afternoon nap or two in my old room, of playing with a plastic toy called Learning Keys or something where you fit pieces of different colors and shapes into a yellow cube.

The trouble for me in some of my childhood memories is my father videotaped quite a few events, and it's hard to separate what I remember myself from what we've watched on tape throughout the years; and, having seen the tapes, hard to recall what happened that wasn't recorded because the videos crowd everything else out.

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maddy-harrigan.livejournal.com

Oh, THAT Michele! You know, if I have one regret about London it's that I was too zonked and stressed-out when we met in the queue outside Manson Place to fully appreciate and remember the coolness of you. We could have had such happy times ...

Instead, we sat around Boston during senior year and told each other about the things we'd done, which was fun and all, but not as cool as it could have been.

This only goes to show that you have to eventually move back here (and bring Nichole), and you and me and Catherine and Nichole will start up a Bohemian expat society and offer Sam a visa-marriage (to Catherine, as she's the only one with citizenship) to come and join us.

That wrenching sound you hear is Margaret tumbling back into reality.

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I can only imagine what the three of us might have got up to that semester. I don't know if I was ready for the powah that is you at that time. But as it was, we did have a fine Easter dinner and a good trip to Leeds Castle/Canterbury. Mm, evensong.

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Well, the only hitch with that is that Sam would have to live on his own in Ireland for, I believe, two years. The Irish government, despite its expansiveness when it comes to letting you claim citizenship by birthright, is tightening up its citizenship-by-marriage laws - they don't particularly like the idea of being just an open door into the rest of the EU, so they've slapped on a residency requirement.

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Don't worry; I'll keep Sam company in Ireland while we wait for both of our citizenships to come through.

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Are you going for Irish citizenship? You didn't tell me that!

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No... Is he? I thought we were in a purely hypothetical scenario here.

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We were, but then I got confused about why (or rather how) you would hypothetically be in Ireland waiting for citizenship. Perhaps I'm overthinking this.

*head hurts*

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