The Goldfish
Active Imagination is a Jungian technique designed to help people connect with their unconscious, particularly around dream material. While I’m a very active dreamer, I’ve never been any good at this technique. I can’t get my ego out of the way and I end up feeling like I’m putting words into the mouths of my symbols.
So I decided to embrace it, but in a waking state. Every morning I pick 4-6 stickers from a stash and put them in my journal - then I make up a dream using those images.
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This is my first attempt:
Hirokatsu knew the goldfish were dying.
He’d tried everything.
At first he thought it was loneliness, Aloo needed a friend.
Malo helped at first.
They chased each other around,
almost swirling into a whirlpool in the small glass bowl.
But then they slowed down again.
Stagnant.
Maybe the bowl was too small.
He bought a larger one.
They seemed curious, they explored.
But then they slowed down again.
Every night he tried to fall asleep,
looking at the glowing street lights shining on the bowl.
He’d pretend it was the moon.
That they were larger and more wild, swishing in a koi pond
In some shrine far away
He imagined himself at the shrine
A different version of himself, too
Someone older and wiser
Someone more old-fashioned
Or just in a different time altogether.
He’d stand over the koi pond.
He’d introduce himself to Aloo and Malo.
Somehow they’d tell him their names
Or he’d just know
He’d pull out a yellow film camera
He’d know how to use it
He’d capture the iridescence of their scales
The gauziness of their tails
The halo nature of their fins
A plum blossom would float down
From the ancient trees above
And he’d catch the moment when it touched the pool
The ripples would glisten in the gentle moonlight
He’d develop it himself - his hands moving expertly gentle
Between the ponds of chemicals
The paper becoming film under his touch
Under the perfect light, colors would bloom
And be forever his
The memory fully belonging to him
Not just within him, but out in the world
He’d leave the dark room and walk under the moonlight
Back to his room, there’d be a black typewriter
He’d know how to use that, too
His fingers would fly and drop just right
There’d be so few mistakes
Just the clicking and clacking
The bell dinging at the end of a row
The mechanical slide to the next line
Just like in the old movies
He imagined it smelled like oiled metal
That the ribbon had a deep inky smell
Like a broken pen in the bottom of a backpack
He’d elegantly type about the koi pond
And the plum blossom
He’d publish it somewhere
Some thick-papered literary magazine
It would be quietly brilliant
It would change someone’s life
He rolled over in his bed, away from the goldfish
He was back in himself
In his time period, his reality
Tucked in the corner of his bed, against the wall
His peach plushy perpetually smiles
He closes his eyes
And tries not think about what he’ll find in the bowl tomorrow
Here’s the sticker group:
Here’s a collage I made after writing:
Thanks for dreaming with me.
