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

Thursday, 22 March 2012

Dreaming is a Choice between Fear and Love

By Walt Whitman
Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion? 


I am in a dimly lit college dormitory. Occupying a strange room with my new wife, I await an old acquaintance. I’m being enticed to be a part of an international marijuana trade. The benefits will by high and the peer pressure mounts however I turn my back on the offers and listen to the silent wishes of my new wife, whose dear presence reminds me that trafficking only leads to indirect violence, and all the filth that follows in the wake of easy money. We stand in the smoked out room, where dusty, creaking lights sway as above a reptile’s glass cage. The old life of chronic marijuana use wafts in my subconscious as a strong, deep inhalation, and I clear the smoke of self-conscious perception through a mind and body purified by love. 


Is there love without music? 
And why does music spark love?

Music provides the innocent
backdrop for the play to unfold,
and become sweet
as the spring in a mid-winter sun
fading against the whisky iris of my lover’s cat
scratching the butchered skin of L.A.

deranged toxicity, madness of memory
from beyond the grips of fatigue
and into the failure to be,
true and awake, light with the speed of thought,
a slight wink on the riverside blue,
and what's new from another lazy, sick waiting?

she sits transfixed
and I ignore the heart
that beats quicker inside
with every finger drop
word flatness

I rinse myself blindly in an alcoholic fight
through perfect humanity,
knowing the loveless embrace of non-feeling,
and her lust
and her lust again,

a secretive tear at the loss of an eyelid
dimming in the thick listening
of night fallen
with shared melancholic delight…

March 01. 217am 2010
Butler mansion. (N.W. Calgary). My love sleeps smiling, I sober up, listening to music of nostalgic kisses

1 comment:

  1. Lovely poem, lines like "whisky iris of my lover's cat" and "shared melancholic delight." The Whitman poem is also very transporting, away from the ego mind that insists that what we think is what is. Kinda like that Bill Hicks passage, also very compassionate for our inability to see through the maya (as your dream wife did with you). I quoted that exact Bill Hicks passage on my own blog.