My Unconscious is Earnest; It’s Only My Ego That’s Nihilist

David Foster Wallace is already starting to get inside my head (I’m reading Infinite Jest as part of the Infinite Summer project). Last night I had a dream that S. and I were moving to a new place, an old facility building that had been converted into residential dwelling, located on a sparsely built, wooded former campus of some sort (E.T.A.?) on Lake Washington in Seattle. The current resident of the unit was David Foster Wallace and according to whatever dream logic was in effect, we were moving in a few days before he was moving out (it was revealed later in the dream — because you discover your dream personae as you discover those of other people — that the occupant prior to us of the place from which we were moving was also David Foster Wallace). We engaged in a series of joint activities in the period of our overlap, one of which included sitting together around a large table with a lot of simply cut, craftsman-type ornamentation as we painted it. Mr. Wallace was telling us how good these sorts of communal art works are when in a moment of cynical snark, of which I am want — at least dreamworld Donald is accurate in this respect — I insisted, “Yeah, but this sort of artistic self-indulgence is just a few steps removed from scrawling inscrutable messages on the wall in your own feces.” At which Mr. Wallace treated me to a considerable upbraiding regarding the failings of my detached, ironic stance. I struggled to defend my position of cynicism, but only flailed rather impishly in the face of his well reasoned criticisms. The argument, and my failings, continued through an afternoon’s shoreline scrub brush walk.

I know, I know, blogging your dreams! Is there anything more boring than other peoples’ dreams? It’s bad enough to have to hear about them while struggling for bathroom sink time in the morning; then to go and blog about them! I’ve tried to keep it brief, only to serve as an example of how quickly (I’m only on like page 50) and in what ways David Foster Wallace is getting in my head in a way that no novel has in a long time.

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