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, 10 March 2012

Through a Subterranean REM Dreamachine Train

Are the effects of REM similar to that of a film reel, where the mind develops a way to conceive thoughts with equal momentum and speed as one would perceive, in simultaneous function with the the faculties of memory to create images, sound and other sensory phenomena experienced in dream as in memory? 

Is REM the Dreamachine in the flesh?


In this Dream Series, I ask what about the recurring and unusual instances of action in dreams which remind me of the function of metaphors in myth and poetry. For example, the train seems to be a passageway, or link between worlds, memories and times. Next, there is the “emptying of the fridge” in Venezuela when the Christian world is coming down, and the frozen, armless hand of an enamored singer vying for my attention at the final dream cycle.

The dreaming begins with my wife and me traveling to the East Village of Manhattan to see a friend. This friend allowed us a place to stay and offered his peer support as a successful musician to my wife, who is also a successful musician. In the dream, however, instead of a musician peer to my wife, the individual who we are staying with is a friend of mine, a fellow writer, who engages with me in very healthy ways to support our common goals as writers. When we meet this man, we find that he is extremely effeminate. He wakes from his unkempt bedroom and greets us warmly, however bedraggled and immediately throws on a pink, fishnet, sleeveless shirt and walks out the door, we don’t see him again, but he offers us his place.

Later, I find I am late to pick up my parents at the airport, as they are arriving to visit with us during our time in Manhattan. I am very late, and we have missed dinner, as the time reads after 10, however they are relieved to see me.

As I am returning to the East Village, I find myself in what looks like it may be Bedford-Stuyvesant, where I once walked through, with intimidating hooded men standing motionless in small groups on street corners. I feel out of place to say the least. I band of small Latino kids face me and jeer and bat at my clothing as I try to walk away unseen. I offer them money and they simply reject my idea that they are Mexican or somewhere in some poor country in Latin America and need my money. They don’t take beggar’s money, they say. Finally, I meet my wife somewhere in the city and we board a subway train. The train pulls off at what seems like we are now in Venezuela! There is a choral group busking beside the benches in this very outskirts subway stop. I flip them a coin behind my back so as not to let my wife see, as she dismisses them. As we walk from the underground train platform, we walk into a realm of pitch black darkness. There is no way to go, so we head back to the subway. The choral group is gone and the platform is completely empty. I try to find my coin, but find nothing.


“The Pride of Bedford-Stuyvesant”

Interview with Randy Weston on Democracy Now!

"I grew up in a very powerful, spiritual, cultural area in Brooklyn, what they call Bedford-Stuyvesant...Everybody had to take art, you had to take piano, or trumpet or violin or dance, that was in the neighborhood, and economically everybody didn't have money, but culturally it was so wonderful.

[Marcus Garvey's] philosophy of Africa, is our ancestral home. We were taken away, those of us who were taken away, we have to give back, we have to rebuild our motherland, which is Africa, and all of humanity comes out of Africa anyhow, so he was way ahead of his time. 

Your history, your ancestry is your foundation."

When we exit the train at the next stop, we are still in Venezuela, only there is a field of sparkling light before us. Within the field, my father and step-mother’s house lies empty. In the field, a highly religious ceremony is taking place. They are enacting the end of the Christian world, the last Christian rite it seems! As the high-rising organs sparkle with incandescent crystals as one would believe heaven to appear, everyone present forms a mass around a ceremonial hearth of heavenly glow. My wife and I dive inside the house, wishing to escape such highfalutin religious activity, and begin emptying their fridge, cleaning their expired foods out from their dusty and neglected icebox. All the while, we see on television, the center of the Roman Catholic world crumbling away, as the central image appears, where the great Jesus statue in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil falls down the mountain like Saddam Hussein’s statue in Bagdhad.

Then, out from the ceremonial mass, as its Christian imagery begins to fade into an archaic celebration in precious stone, naturally encrusted over a celestial mountain of pipe organ, I am somehow called out into the midst of the open field, and led into a palace of sorts. There seems to be royal intrigue about, a changing of the guard causes slight anxiety in those present. One lady, however, turns to me and begins chanting and singing lightly to calm us. She gives me her hand, which freezes in the grasp of my palm with effortless burden. She then turns, leaving her hand in mine while singing to everyone present, calming the vibration of the palace, near-crumbling at the end of days with her strong, human voice. She comes back to me, though leaving her hand in mine, her palm is now mangled, fingerless and bloody, though she is calm and so are we.  


in the livid pull of train wreck desire
the followers’ sneering crimes become awake
to the rush of the wading horror
that thrives innocently on beer and hate
while our nonplussed singing escapes into the cruel, driven spines of the wicked slink of fame
that shines like hosts in a steaming ballroom of creative play
and shaved rasping throats blunder over towers of hypocrisy
engraved mores of hunger and celebration link together within insane, aesthetic duality
to please the entranced few 

in a skinny pathway across ever-shrinking pores of history
wearing narcotic bracelets and shaming our alien tours with priceless need
in the random chores of spurious fornication
on bedside hordes that tame the blue African skies to dried jungles
that feel free with deserted lies 
in the political waves of a corporate, shark-ruled tribe
swearing and leaning into the hounds of biblical law

- excerpt from "When No Stars Appear"