[Read more →]

[Read more →]

[Read more →]

(Female, 30′s) The other night, I had a very short dream that left quite an impression on me.

“…and there was a spurt of blood that shot out and hit the wall…”

My husband was sitting in chair, like in a dining room, and he didn’t have a shirt on. I walked over to hug him, and when I bent down to put my cheek on his shoulder, I noticed this scab on the back of his shoulder. It was about the size of the eraser on a pencil. I reached over and picked the scab off— and there was a spurt of blood that shot out and hit the wall, leaving a big red streak! Quickly, I bent down and put my mouth over the wound and started drinking his blood. There were like 8 or 9 spurts before he stopped bleeding.

I don’t know if I did picked the scab off on purpose or by accident. Did I want to drink his blood, or it was just an impulse to keep the wall from getting bloody. What a strange dream, huh?

As a footnote to the post from yesterday about how vampires suck, er, that is, how they don’t seem to suck anymore, here’s the obvious video clip. I know you’ve already seen this clip but I still crack up when I watch it.

Fun little article at Slate.com about how contemporary vampires suck, or more precisely, that they don’t. The once terrifying Other is now just a cuddly idealized boyfriend – who no longer sucks blood. The article nicely traces a line from Bram Stoker’s Dracula, to Anne Rice’s tortured immortals to Buffy’s beau Angel to the monster’s nadir in the paranormal romance genre a la the Twilight series.

( http://www.slate.com/id/2223486/ )

Makes me wonder if all objects of terror undergo a certain domestication, a processes of Disneyfication where anything that is truly terrifying is sanded flat, made safe and consumable. Happens with all attempts to depict the wholly Other, I suspect, making that “make no graven images” commandment a bit more sensible. After an experience of awe / wonder / terror / amazement it’s understandable to make some record of that encounter. But then there will be folks whose only experience of that Other is via the representation, through the vicarious thrill. At the risk of sounding like a neo-Platonist here, the continued repetition of representation pushes the Other farther and farther away from our actual experience. It’s how that piss-your-pants / fall-on-the-ground-numb / struck-blind-with-scales-on-your-eyes experience of true religion becomes gradually codified into something boring and mundane like ethics and orthodoxy.

Damn. Did I slip from talking about the Monstrous to talking about the Holy again?