Primarily a writing exercise, this dream journal-inspired blog is a quiet introspective sojourn into the process that we traverse in going from private dream to public art. I see our dreaming as an internalized mythmaking. As I philosophize and expressively exhibit dreams, both private and public, I encourage and delight in creative language as a way to practice experiential metaphors through a “public dreaming." Writing Theory: Creative Dream Fiction

Saturday, 8 October 2011

Moroccan Blues Visitations and Riding an Exotic Animal through Suburbia

Traum by Franz Marc

In a small home, I barely have any clothes on. A recent friend made, a calm, collected man from Morocco, lover of music and conversation, appears to be somewhere near my door, expecting me to engage in a night on the town. Instead, I act as if I am unprepared for the visit. He says to me, “Well, what about the Blues!” as if I need to see some live blues music. There are some other people in the small living space, I am still getting dressed as about three others pull out electric basses and other instruments. I also take out a bass, and while we all begin to jam, I get extremely creative and lead the jam with an experimental, percussive approach to the bass that is at the same time quite bluesy. The people in the room admire, and the Moroccan man seems to have had his fill of blues and respectfully exits my living space.

Next, I am in what seems to be New England suburbia, exploring a yet to be developed area of housing projects for the upper middle class of America. I find myself boarding the top of an elephant-like species, a huge towering animal, that is at once friendly and at the same time seems to represent an extinct being, with great tufts of light, matted hair and an unusual shape. The animal is very warm with me as we stride carefully along the margins of a paved road as it ends unexpectedly off into the under-developed woodlands of the northeast coast American ecology. Suddenly, the animal takes off after letting me down, through the forest. I watch, feeling an empathetic compassion for this animal and its charge into an unredeemable fixation with a wilderness on the brink of being tamed.  

Friday, October 7, 2011

1 comment:

  1. These dreams are of my life path--the swampy woods along the Massachusetts coast were all that was left of the Indian spirits, but it was not enough, I had to leave, to pursue the secrets in Moroccan music, the origin of the blues, to seek but never find the Master Musicians of Joujouka. I was riding on the back of my own music all along.