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

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

The Story of MAY DAY Returns upon Waking

A May Day Garland for 1820 by Samuel William Fores
"Dance away my Friends, I have been the cause of all their fun by your Help and Money - Edward the Instigator!"
"This is the story of the rootless ones. Your bones already know the story, though your mind does not yet understand it. One day, in the waking world, this story will come back to you."

- from "The Witch's Child" a brilliant zine on MAY DAY
In the old-fashioned aesthetics of a New Spain colony, the federal district of Mexico in the 15th century is featured on a piece of black and white cartography. The historic document is imprinted in my memory as I glare out over the Manhattan skyline. The urban grid lies before me. I am headed towards the last line on the grid, one hundred and something street. Atop a bristling hillock in the strong spring winds, a fair temptress bounds effortlessly over sprigs of dandelion-bloomed grasses, her clothing flaps wildly as she mounts my hip in a leap of embracing lust. She’s asked me to find my way past the blistering outcrop of one staggering urban nightmare, a chaotic mess of colonial history, a Tenochtitlan of North America, sprawling in a frayed mess of abandoned wires and charcoal heat. In an apocalyptic vehicle, I brave the incendiary beyond. 
"To dream that you are oppressed by heat, denotes failure to carry out designs on your account of some friend betraying you." (iDream)
“as we swallowed awful breaths of meager and sinking failure
she gave it her all and courageously fit into the brew of my panic, and surprise
and we could figure the rains, as they hit charred disdain in our unfeeling dream
of croaking drink, and vile moans 
that troubled our disgraced, fugitive blame”

“as I sought out your Gaelic whispers with a charm for sage-grass forlorn
there spun a hint of deranged angst for the painful distance 
expressed in the age of a silent rasping damage

to condemn an unknowing
in the broken guilt 
that goes aimless and unforgiving
as the bellows of sorrow and the un-chosen regret
of a million graves violating the entrenched sky”

as journeys go
afraid into the wild
calls of a single space.

- excerpt from "Breathtaking Images"

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