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Last night in bed I scribbled down these rough notes, following on from Friday's musings about the (or certainly, my) parallel tourism of Dreams: is this the next stage of being reclusive? If someone tells me to shake myself up a bit and 'get out of the house' I can just snap back:

There's probably a 'serious'-ish moral or speculation to be drawn here, I thought, but that can wait till morning; I turned back to the Baudrillard I'd picked up and straightaway found this:

"Whilst they are hardly to be seen in real life these days, the most intense passions continue to figure in our dreams..." ! {Was this a 'cooled memory' of my own: did my Uncs. know and remember this passage and take me back to it...?}

"Whilst they are hardly to be seen in real life these days, the most intense passions continue to figure in our dreams. Are these then a reserve of fresh and timeless energy, running beneath the stages of life (and perhaps reaching beyond the mishap that is death)? Or is this freshness not merely the hallucination of a jaded desire? In other words: are there two lines to our lives, the one of a non-biological, immemorial youth, which we experience in dreams, and the other an organic life of life and death, of duration and of remembrance, with which we identify our pale and mortal existence? Could there be two fundamental sequences and no relation between them? Or is the first simply the projection of the second, its hallucinatory discourse, as, deep down, psychoanalysis argues?
I am for the first hypothesis: we have two existences, each of which is wholly original and independent of the other (it is not a case of psychological splitting). Neither existence can be used to interpret the other - which is why psychoanalysis is so futile."
{Jean Baudrillard, from Cool Memories}


Talking of jaded desire and immemorial youth: last thing I saw last night, early hours on SKY News: for their next big concert in some Super Bowl or other [which is being filmed], The Rolling Stones have apparently BANNED anyone over 45 from attending.

So it's official: I'm now more decrepit than Keith Richards ...


More Baudrillard: the minute I read this I thought of Big Brother:

"And our leisure now is no more than the charnel house where dead time is born."

A lesser writer might have been content with "charnel house of dead time..."; but his figurative detail births in turn the image/figure of Celebrity as an endless dying into awful shabby rebirth/becoming/"comeback" + an endless being born into the endless plains of dead time spent being vapidly 'on' or pretending to find the attentions of paparzzi a nuisance, etc, etc ... so that celebrity becomes an ontological calling as gruelling & slavish as any monastic order: you HAVE to use the latest post-botox cosmetics, you HAVE to appear either at some dreadful opening or glorified winebar/titty bar, or on some fat farm reality show (your 'agent' told you so: it's 'good for your profile' in the way that, say, self flagellation or sucking the puss out of the sores of lepers used to be 'good for your soul'...)

posted by Ian 1/07/2006 11:44:00 AM

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