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, 16 June 2012

Speechless Movement of Noetic Sound

" use art not as self-expression, but as self-alteration; to become more open." 

"In Zen, they say, if something is boring after 2 minutes, try it for 4, if still boring, try it for 8, 16, 32, and so on. Eventually, one discovers that it's not boring at all, but very interesting."

At my father’s house, the neighbors are belligerent. They drink in squalor and rev engines in domestic rage, puffing their chests with the heave of self-created poverty, a traumatic school of bundled nerves, fraying and pressed against the hot ice of American dreams. On the road between my father’s and their house, I stare, empathizing with their tragic isolation. As I spin my head around to my father’s lawn, the grass is inundated with naked souls, barefooted and striving with dead honor to lust and feed off each other’s energy. Multi-colored bodies writhe and shake as a spawn of ghosts shrieking wildly in the post-greed high of the stubborn suburb.

Recoiling mad into my private bathroom at my mother’s I freak wryly, drowning my habit in a sore crack addiction. Black pills behind the mirror scream deftly into my ear at all hours. Howls brew, slaking my darkest corner with a dreamless food. Dispassionate and apologetic, I am exposed by my mother, who slowly weans me off the fatal addiction. Re-entering the street, I pass between the spiritual purgatory of population and the isolated wallowing of violent speed.

A time after, I walk carefully through a glowing green brush in the rural vein of the Northeast country. Carrying our instruments, my Love and I meander toward the new home of my father, way out in the bush of Maine. On their property, I play with a friendly cat, shaking a healthy, felled branch over its crooked head, radiant with happy fervor. We are received. I eat a stomach-full of red steak. I haven’t eaten meat in 7 years! The flesh is warm and satisfying. I ask, “Is the steak from Argentina?” The label says, “Made in America” just like any other consumer product. Sitting out by an outdoor hearth in the midday sun, my Love and I begin to play music for the flies. The wind is bright with security and home.

I imagine our next phase, on a bridge in San Francisco, street performing with a lively troupe and befriending a nut seller on our way to public grace.
"To dream of being in a beautiful and fertile country, where abound rich fields of grain and running streams of pure water, denotes the very acme of good times at hand. Wealth will pile in upon you, and you will be able to reign in state in any country." (iDream)

"To see raw meat in your dream symbolizes that there will be many obstacles in achieving your goals. If you dream of cooked meat, this symbolizes that you will see others obtain the object that you have been striving for." (iDream)
separation into the unfair glory of a broken now,
embittered jealousy and temptation from the host of a brewing psychic sickness,
guarding the predawn monumental distance among the enchained
battered souls of a deeply entrenched loss
complexified and exponential falsification of death's human mask
still breathing the attuned words of spiritual greed in the crescent boon of a perfect desert sleep,
and involved within an enclosed world all their own,
the forgotten beauty of an intoxicating truth still relieves the air above with its tempting,
yet out of reach and petrified, animalistic burden
feeding on the glow of the moon
and the laughter of pagan lights streaking past the beyond
in pairs of three and nine,
we forever move. 
- excerpt from "4 Dreams"

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