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

Friday, 31 August 2012

Dreams of Palestine: A Transitioning People, An Ephemeral Mind

I usually begin with a cultural dream context and then select a creative dream description, however when I read Rashid Khalidi's book, The Iron Cage: The Story of the Palestinian Struggle for Statehood I was struck by a fact regarding the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, namely that the Gaza strip is only slightly twice as large as the area of Washington D.C. (Source)

It is one thing when a dream can be applied to a cultural context, though it is wholly another when the cultural context can be applied to the dream. 

On that note, I have always been highly intrigued by the similar plight faced by both Palestinians and First Nations/Native Americans. Which is why the article, "What is Settler Colonialism?" by Maya Mikdashi has resonated in my memory so deeply.

For a great resource on Palestinian films and writings visit Dreams of a Nation

Also, see my earlier post, "Making a Home with an Identity of Conflict" on Rashid Khalidi
A map of New England, pieced together with intersecting lines and pure conceptual space, is represented in a form unknown to me, a son of the land. An unmistakably present empty space lies in the middle of the map. The white of the uncharted territory stands out like a mirage over the sandscape, deluding the eye into such incredulity enough to trick any human sensibility.

Later that night, at my grandparents, I am transfixed by the emptiness. The open white space turns my attention inward, as I meditate on the image, as in an unconscious stupor, half involuntarily though secretively through my utmost will, unchallenged, I ruminate on the mystifying aura of a palpable nothingness so close to home.

The next morning, a family friend tells me all about the emptiness on the map. He is Arab, ancestral to the Levant, while a proud American. He tells me exactly how to get there. I am awestruck, undone as with a viral need, doubly expressed as an escape from the normalcy of the known and also to confront the other.

I arrive to a gate of barbed wire fencing, an entire society of Arabs, transplanted as it were on the uncharted map. A rudiment of the colonial present, a territory, though flown upwards with a gargantuan mall, the area is blistering with the heat of overpopulation. As I enter the grounds, I am constantly watched. Every passerby regards me with a hard edge, though delicate and unassumingly friendly. 

It is Palestine in America! Though they say they are Lebanese. I am taken by their quaint humility and sensitivity to intercultural warmth. I am welcome, though an alarming fear abounds uncannily as thick as the smog-worn air. As I feel for the exit in the train terminal-style, busy street-esque bustle, I stray towards a news kiosk to ask the man behind the counter a question.

Inquisitive as ever, I observe ruffian street children buying single smokes, and so I follow suit with deliberation, quite taken by the overt signage in Arabic absolutely everywhere. I try a few phrases I remembered from Egypt. The man is quiet. A deep pain seems to inflict his chest, almost speechless in the act of a simple exchange. The transaction, while gentle, struck a chord of such powerful resonance that I was never able to return to that emptiness, for the nothingness was filled only with my own ignorance.
a reach
to touch Love's palpable drift
in the body of one Northeastern life
slipping softly from consciousness
into the unending scream of ignorance
as waves of ghosts piercing the cracked, loose air,
and our lonely exit comes to fruition
dreaming soundlessly into the never-ending swarm of heart
sensitivity under the 95 year old skin of true feeling
resonating in the earthy hair of guitar & piano strings, cut
burning in the night's long internal ache,
that fires the ebullient seed in grass-thundered vocalizations
giving melodies to ancestral brother and sisterhoods
calling throughout
the music of surprising beauty

- excerpts from "Fortune's Glutton

Wednesday, 29 August 2012

A New Settlement for Exotic Settlers

Exotic Settlers

Dear Bloggers, Dreamers and Visitors,

For those of you who have been following my blog thus far (or at least passing by to bear witness), I like to follow a series of excerpts from my experimental writing collection with the gift of a compiled book. Please read and download for your interpretive readings and creative pleasures!

Reception for "Exotic Settlers" to date:


monosexuality - The Poetic Pinup Revue (February 2012, print)

(1) how in the year of the rabbit, the pure still need things
(2) I drank in the stupor
(3) interpretive direction
(4) where is the mind in life?

Steel Bananas Art Collective (April 2012, Issue #29)


The New Post Literate: A Gallery of Asemic Writing (April 2012)

Eskimo Pie: Sacramento Poetry, Art and Music (July 2012)

scissors and spackle (October 2012, Issue IX)

Saturday, 25 August 2012

Reflection on "Last Night I Dreamed of Peace: The Diary of Dang Thuy Tram"

"Last Night I Dreamed of Peace: The Diary of Dang Thuy Tram" translated by Andrew X. Pham is necessary literature for every one who reads English. I read the first half of the book aloud to my wife, who was born in Saigon. After a series of waking with crying fits, she shied away from hearing the rest. Finally, I read the final half of the book to myself almost unceasingly.

The communicative brevity in Thuy's voice is indicative of her honesty, and her clear soul, of sonic vibrance in her words, imbued with such complicated emotion and sweeping literacy. With references to Soviet, French and Vietnamese literature, she affixes her personalized sentiment in historic immediacy as with the timeless genius of contemplative humanity. Her anger towards the imperialist aggressors, the Americans, is always buttressed by a stern will in defending the fight of her fellow brothers and sisters dying around her with the visceral intimacy that only a doctor would be able to elucidate with such clarity. You can almost feel her breath, and indeed, I was powerfully moved many times with a whole spectrum of emotions, as her intense character and youthful innocence enlightens even the bitterest soul with universal intention toward human grace.

Throughout the book, she calls on her dreams, both emergent in sleep and her daily life, and from those around her, pressing her on into the obscurity of the ruined jungles. Her dreams are shared dreams, and in that sense are a constant offering of refuge within, giving reason and stability to her tested mind, fulfilling her with inner community. As the book moves on through her astute witnessing, her dreams become increasingly present as she pours out her uninhibited thoughts with an awe-inspiring magic, reminiscent of the phenomenal dream world exhibited from her inmost reflections, as with the highest ideals of her united comrades.

I could praise this piece of literature on and on, by referring to its unprecedented impact on literacy in Vietnam, or the innumerable anecdotes which resonate with masterful purpose in the mind of the reader, as a daughter speaking to her parent with such loving presence, bridged only by the purity of the listening, however, I'll leave the rest to your own reading.

A family friend of mine is now making a feature documentary on the story behind the book called, "Finding Thuy" check it out, and remain aware of the dream legacy of undying peace from the Vietnamese heart of the world.
Off the plane, at the airport hotel in Vietnam, a troupe of American country musicians and a Malian music duet see the receptionist for their rooms. I sit on my luggage as my wife, in full regalia for a performance, shoots off through a glass doorway, unseen with the swift flap of her flowery dress.

After a bitter wait, she re-enters the lobby, sweaty as a marathon runner in mid-race. The performance is finished. My jaw drops as we board our flight, returning to Canada after the most instantaneous long-distance travel experience I have ever had.

And in our hometown, she lights a stage at a Chinese arts festival. Before her set, a glowing dance company exhibits the icy decadence of masterful classical costuming, their white-painted faces mirroring their paper fans. I eye the stage from afar, sitting with old friends. Then, she walks onstage, without her instrument. To the nervous curiosity of the organizers and select audience members, she begins to sing.

She is gorgeous, and stuns with an evocative elegance with the articulated genius of high emotion and well-trained harmonies. Her upper register fills the audience with recognition of the one mind, a fortuitous stretch into the harmony of collective being, as a sitting admiration of beauty.

Proud, I am ever separate, an eye afar, while with a heart imbued with hers between powerful lungs, emanating together, one voice of honest humanity. 

"To hear singing in you dreams, betokens a cheerful spirit and happy companions. You are soon to have promising news from the absent." (iDream)
yes, and woo over the sonorous
blush in the taste of her feminine blossoming
steaming with the cooled anger of Japan's cherry mind
in the sake spring of our zheng-doumbek interpretive madness
following the playful muses of a drunk and bold life,
granting wishes and boons to each other's heart homes
peaceful and sonorous
breast of ice silver purity.

- excerpt from "woo over the sonorous blush

Thursday, 23 August 2012

Reflection on "Myths, Dreams and Religion" edited by Joseph Campbell

In this collection of eleven essays, edited by Joseph Campbell, I found a wealth of impassioned research into the mystagogy of our literate foundations. My reason for reading this piece of fine literature, was to creatively unmask the roots of a new mythology to re-identify with humankind, i.e. humanity, fashioned by my own literary aspirations. With essays by Alan Watts, Joseph Campbell himself, and other fascinating minds embedded in the culture of mythological literacy, I mainly focused my reading on the traits of human self-identity as it has evolved throughout mythic time. With regard to dreaming, the essays touched on the subject in the light of religious cultural referencing, often comparing Levantine with Indian dream philosophy, as either a visionary or intermediary state burgeoning natural self-transformation; an acorn, if you will, planted in the rough soil of the unconscious by the prehistoric mind of our mysterious bio-archetypal origins. And the perennial quote, from the final essay by Richard A. Underwood, "Myth, Dream, and the Vocation of Contemporary Philosophy" a reference to Heraclitus' Fragments reads, "Even sleepers are workers and collaborators in what goes on in the universe."

See my reflection on Amazon

Shrapnel of memory in the ephemeral reflection of a broken shard forced up the neck. Checkerboard flooring sprayed with clear blood. I loosened my grip around his slippery esophagus-cored flesh, dripping with the moldy puss in long-neglected balloon, deflated in the workman’s hand. In the dense obscurity where the long way back from the faint escape route memories still linger. Drinkable, luring, the tidal flush of shared pain extorts the constant sleep, the blathering, ongoing consciousness, never put to rest by the wasted highs of an unceasing mind, running off the bare edge of a fleeting freedom to simply be, and not be moved to contemplate homicide and escape in the backdrop imagination of the unreal & surreal & real fire of raw instinctual creativity.    
"To dream about strangling someone, or being strangled yourself, means you have been hiding an important part of personality - one that you need to express to be happy - just to please someone in real life." (iDream)
of memory and the strange
the lofty touch,
reminiscing beyond the treasured wine of death
as an end to meaning
in the fingertip and pupil
shone lunar and astral
with vanished luck

- excerpt from "hallelujah"

Tuesday, 21 August 2012

Requiem For Our Unconscious Friendship With Spirit, a Paradise Lost

In the description to the above post of Zbigniew Preisner's "Requiem for my friend" written to commemorate the death of brilliant filmmaker Krzysztof Kieslowski, a quote from John Milton reads, "Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both when we sleep and when we awake." From Paradise Lost, Book IV Lines 675-6

"Evil into the mind of God or man
May come and go, so unreproved, and leave
No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope
That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream,
Waking thou never will consent to do."

From Paradise Lost, Book V, Lines 117-121

These lines speak to me today, as in yesterday's dream I experienced from myself such burning intense rage as I never feel for anything, never mind, as in my turmoiled sleep, directed at the smile of a new friend. And in the day after, the crooked seething in waking light transformed to deja vu and the peaceable contemplation of homeless sky, observing the street life and empty catharsis of the unreproved recollection of day, gathering myself inwardly to confront the daimonic psyche through an entropy of silence, night and dreams.

See my Reflection on Preisner's "Silence, Night and Dreams"
Two Latin men, both uncles of the word, they are as family, a safe haven of fraternity. Their abode, in relative disrepair, offers the kind of humble solace for a younger counterpart such as myself. When my family arrives to take me away, I shed tears of remorse for having become so loyal to their gentle friendship. Almost having left with a few of their possessions, they do gift us a curious metal mug, bedecked with silver broaches and a handle of aesthetic opulence. They warn us about a nearby volcano. If we are to mount, they say, we should not mount the East side, as the activity may fuse in a plume in that direction. 

With naïve innocence, adventurous, I lead my parents up the steaming mountain. Near the summit, the rumbling foment cracks the ground in a spray of unwelcomingly hot earth. Racing down to the foot of the mountain, the flowing lava is within earshot as the steam fills our lungs. Before the raging momentum engulfs us in its deathly cast, I raise the mysterious chalice to the sizzling winds and behold, the steam is vacuumed with the power of the entire energy of the volcanic surge into the mug, the handle remaining tepid at the touch. 
"that squirrely rascal who defended his money based on numbers and licks,
a body caressed with growing sores,
living excrement fumigating the stringy jewish marriage,
wafting scrawny alzheimer's brains over the stovetop dream,
fanned and purring as the asian lynx,
whose stormy eyes behold the revolution
behind the First Kingdom's daring ring"
"where words exist as bones and sculpted mountains
fire myths into the freed air"

- excerpts from "unreliable fortune

Sunday, 19 August 2012

Waiting for the God in Godot, A Drunken Youth Wakes


"I was asleep, why will you never let me sleep?


"I felt lonely."


"I had a dream."


"Oh, don't tell me."


"I dreamt..."


"Don't tell me!"


"This one is enough for you."

From "Waiting for Godot" by Samuel Beckett

I know here. The green wafting streaks of sky, the iris of Venus and tail smoke of the passing jet on the wide-open horizon. Manhattan is a gorgeous home. The winds pray a unity between every passerby and neighbor, lifted into the star-born heights. I pass by a group of peers, walking towards the underground concert. My building is a popular one tonight. Rows of followers bedeck the graffiti concrete sidewalk pathways down into the lair of raw music. Above, my apartment teems with life. The partied flaw of a missed generation of youth wails with unheard rhyme in the melodious burn of smoke and cash. 

After a drink, I stammer underneath the foundation. A wealthy set up; simulacra of electric night, urban fantasies of steam and the stroboscopic hunt prepare the space for a name, a god, an image, a face, a sound, and the restless warning of day, undeserved in the hollow loose of masterful ceremonies. In the post-modern dirge, plain and simple yearnings for the breath of magic in life, waning in the new moon phase of skyward lust. The discolored throat opens to emit its holy hole under groundless feet moving to the belly of earth’s final tempting before she retracts our wasted tongue of divinity.
"If drunk on wine, you will be fortune in trade and love-making, and will scale exalted heights in literary pursuits. This dream is always the bearer of aesthetic experiences...Drunkenness in all forms is unreliable as a good dream. All classes are warned by this dream to shift their thoughts into more healthful channels." (iDream)
alone, centered by intoxication and my forlorn host,
brother, in demise,
a lonesome paradox in disguise,
read and weep, as the ancients' rowing

cabins alight with pages
in the eyes of warring children
who cry in blood
and tear from the sod with teeth, cracked
amid the skeleton earth, war torn

greed, strapped aimlessly to the butterfly
home bearing Trotskyan steeds
in the fight to bring back wealth
to the lands of Zapatista

covered with stark, oppressive emotion
and chained, now
to the oriental rug

- excerpt from "turning over the ashes of the unnamed"

Friday, 17 August 2012

The Achuar and the Meaning of an Indigenous Map

“For many years these Achuar communities have dreamt of introducing themselves, their way of life and the beauty of their ancestral lands to the rest of the country and the world. For the Achuar, a dream is not simply a passing, nocturnal illusion without relation to one’s waking life. On the contrary, dreams are gateways allowing communication with the spirits of their ancestors, who come to visit and talk to the living, giving them advice and a vision of their future so that they can tread a clear path in life.” (Source)
North America on a map, tangled in intercalated diagrammatic linearity. A pale shade of red loosely emboldens Native lands. The patchy splotches of coloration on the otherwise black and white delineation of national-political boundary displaces geography with a time-bound worshipping, a cultural veil of truancy, a wakeful respite from truth. Looking at the seemingly random collection of red area follow my eyes as my eyes follow easterly into the heart of New England, my mind is inundated with a series of educational videos on sexual abuse in reserve/reservation communities. Homoerotic visuals tear my stare into blurry remorse for the heady desperation and wasteful racism, looking away from the natural history, the undeserved step over fellow men. As I contemplate the madness of the contemporary imagery presented to me, I turn a corner atop a towering butte in the skyscraping mountainous land, hiking through a valley pass, immersed in the cold sky air, unobstructed by not but stone and hair. 
"To dream of a map, or studying one, denotes a change will be contemplated in your business. Some disappointing thing swill occur, but much profit also will follow the change...To dream of following a map means you are going in the right direction in a real life situation. It also symbolizes emotional and spiritual growth...A confusing chart may indicate that you lack a clear sense of direction in your everyday life or are in the midst of changing long term plans." (iDream)
to the racist, sexist and conservative religious wine,
intoxicating the West
with a throat climbing upwards
to vomit the female's adam apple,
now so dry, shriveled with frost,
cracked and permanently wasted,
not a thought to re-cycle,
only the Mother (Mater/Matter) abuse,
to forgive latent mindreaders
stating new thought dictionary entries

new, with fresh ink over the staircase travelogue,
leading yet leaderless,
wading in the warm bathwater
fresh and awash with the purest feeling,
drinking earth and swaying so slightly
atop family trees brushing neatly
along the skin-touched pages
leafing soundly into a freed paradigm
lonesome with radical imagination,
to resist the sufferer's cold throne and sleep
instead in the deadly fog of oblivion,
away from the driven masses
who prepare to wake
who failed to swear an addiction into existence
over the creator's blue telephone,
hushing the musical light from beyond
into anonymity,
whose authoritarian drug was fixed by the word,
and now silent to the punch,
a subtle dream

slaking the thirst for lucidity to be
in modern consciousness,

"it is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a sick society" (J. Krishnamurti)
a healthy wave reaches sky's peopled shores,
wherein all are recognized within the womb,
unborn demigods come to that awareness,
giving lush expressions to instantaneous action,
rousing impassioned need to flow with an artistic palette,
swimming above extinction in winter's unprepared lulls,
choking the urge toward movement within,
a mental pride

singing zealous
while sad, and diving earnestly
into depression's darkest ignorance

shadow's dust so remote
now only found in greed, sick corners
within a Southerly, Global hate,
trading laws with resistance,
scheming out of natural dependence,
realizing childish humility, and finally
forgiving the precious sources of Love,
kneeling before forests,
swamps, wetlands, rains, fogs,
winds, grasses, bushes, trees,
soils, shores, stones, and all measure of fungal being
as barefoot sleepers,
smiling at the unknown,

- excerpts from "truth, judgment or unknowns"

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

India's First Poet Sees Rama's Dream Journey

Ramayana by Prashanthprao
"Now a dream which is terrible, causing the hairs to stand erect for the destruction of ogres and for the welfare of Her husband, has been seen by me."

"Of what kind is this dream seen by you. Tell us". Listening to this utterance that came forth from the mouths of those ogresses, Trijata spoke at that time this word relating to the dream.

"Now it has been seen by me in the dream that Seetha also wearing white clothes was sitting on a white mountain surrounded by the ocean."

"Thereafter it has been seen by me that Seetha with eyes like lotuses has risen up from the lap of Her husband and gently touched the Moon and the Sun with Her hand."

"Rama with strength equalling that of Lord Vishnu, born in Raghu's dynasty together with brother Lakshmana and with Seetha has been seen by me thus in the dream."

"In that dream the ogre Kumbhakarna has been seen thus by me. All Ravana's sons have been seen to be sprinkled with oil."

"An assembly also of ogres drinking oil and wearing red garlands, with red clothes, with the sound of songs and musical instruments has been seen by me."

"Which woman while being sorrowful, such type of dream has been seen, that woman being released from various sorrows, will get unsurpassed pleasure."

"I am seeing Seetha coming near accomplishment of motive. I also see the destruction of Ravana also and victory of Rama coming near."

"The main book of reference for dream – interpretation is Charaka-samhita by Charaka, part of which is supposed to be based on Valmiki Ramayana" writes Jayasree

Read this fascinating article on Hinduism and Dreaming
Private museum screening: Amazon Tobacco Memories. A fellow artist, a sculptor of all things spirit, places his Kali – Uma papier-mâché work on a cabinet in a whitewashed room. The black fire spits with discerning ash, impeded by the radiance of the all-mother’s gaze. I am impressed by the artist’s visionary innocence, conveying a child-like eye for the Hindu cosmology, expressed as a Faustian drama of Dadaist cultural syntax. And the screening begins. 

The dark howling jungle cackled and hooted in the avian-simian craze, a sonic insanity swept through my over-civilized musical palate as the humid tension raised sky high in the Amazonian night. The river vessel, motionless across from an isolated village of thirty native inhabitants, I smoked a Peruvian cigarette with a quiet, philosophic friend. In a moment of uninvited silence, a hand perked up from the lower level through a handrail, offering us a leftover packet of smokes. We grabbed them, thoughtless and looked at one another. Returning the steaming laughter of the sleepless rainforest, we stained the lungs of the earth with anxious conversation and latent abandon. 

Later that night the clear skies illuminated my mind with obsolescent memory, the archaic wisdom of unpolluted climactic earth-born advancement reflected in the translucent universe, wherein my eyes sank as a body of thunder into the dank rainforest moat, encircling the mother of the universe, freeing the reptilian scale from the mammalian chord, giving voice to the source sprung with Martian light. 
"If your dream featured sculptures, it is a warning to pay more attention to your own personal affairs and less to those of others." (iDream)

Movie Theatre
"If you dream of being in a movie theatre, you are attempting to protect yourself from your emotions or actions." (iDream)

"To smoke tobacco, denotes amiable friendships." (iDream)

Kuan Yin companion
breathless nerve

lying, sweat dream,
figure of local poverty,
the sleeping wretch,
half-haggard with princely sexdom

wilderness of mindplay
needing rough deranged feeling,
entranced idiocy
blank eyes
pouring into belief,
experience for greater hilarity,
and necessity bred from popular hysteria
or psychic discomfort

in the open field
laughing out
the distressed boredom
to desire comic failure

in the moment's strength
for newfound rich seeing
that once led animals into the evolutionary mold
senseless through plant networks
supporting with the medicinal love of creation
softly growing inside the mammalian egg
with lonesome prowess
over the angry female

war drama untold
over millennia
of gross mourning
in the struggle for simple pride
or earnest life,
never acknowledging the ageless
being of each seed
that lives.

Monday, 13 August 2012

Beyond LSD, Within the Experiment

“The program I was involved was to study the active principles of medicinal plants and one of these medical plants we were studying was Ergot…At the end of the synthesis I was in a very strange psychic situation, a kind of dream world appeared, a kind, a feeling of oneness with the world, a very strange experience which reminded me to some experience I had in childhood.

Sometimes when I was in nature, with the forest and the wood, I had some kind of, I would say, mystical experiences. The feeling of oneness, to be one with nature, the feeling to see now the true aspects of nature, the beauty, and which filled me with happiness.”

- Albert Hoffman

“Could it be that this present, dream-like state was in some way connected with the crystals of LSD that Albert Hoffman was purifying that afternoon. He certainly had not eaten any but his fingers might possibly have brushed against a few traces of the compound. If so, then LSD was a remarkably potent drug. He decided to experiment on himself.”

- Narrator in "The Beyond Within"

Now, listen to Alan Watts on Drugs
Dim metallic bursts; silvery orbs bedeck the subdued leather warm of the café tables. Northern Greece, on the western outskirts of Ioannina, the Italian heel clicks in the vibrant waters at the center of the unruly European Earth. The Euro’s devalued to the near-extinction of another ancient peoples, drowned in the eye of the storm, at the height of neo-classical disorder. Ordering a coffee is now rife with the political amalgamation of a dungeon’s dearth. No one’s blinded, caffeinated, nicotine blink minds stutter over the oblivious stupefaction of leadership burned at the seam by the public hulk, dashing their traditional dress of human mockery for a breath of mutual truth. Together with family, we wade in the swampy lighting, in darkness as thick as the Grecian café mark on the silent, burning tongue of lingering potency.

Through a multicolored crest of followers, the warehouse screams with atmospheric delight, a musical haunt for the sacred lives whose energy dreams in smokeless fire. My Love is playing in a professional contemporary Mediterranean music ensemble. A chic audience reclines leisurely over metal chairs. Inside a graffiti’d dome of unfinished concrete, though a stylish rendition of the European artist-squatter paradise. I’m especially proud to see my Love creating wildly refreshing original music within the high standard of such daring quality. A kit drummer with a rig fitting over ten cymbals begins leading a rhythmic introduction of spatial ingenuity, moving the plush sonic stream of consciousness movie of artful belief into the realm of magic. Standing beside the audience, near the well-lit stage, small spotlights injecting funnels of visible dust in the wakeful air, I see her. Gowned in her usual flowing dress, a big explosion of black hair and her glowing skin. I am a martyr of unmade art.
"To dream of travelling in Europe, foretells that you will soon go on a long journey, which will avail you in the knowledge you gain of the manners and customs of foreign people. You will also be enabled to forward your financial standing." (iDream)
now transforming
through spiritual marriage
to my near love
whose life casts a benevolent spotlight on my being,
and path
with such wind,
a gusting splash,
refreshing the outer core
that foretells the dead body laughing at me

- excerpt from "society, charities and addictions"

Saturday, 11 August 2012

Deathly Assumption of the Premodern Morpheus

Morpheus by Jean-Bernard Restout
The God, uneasy 'till he slept again,
Resolv'd at once to rid himself of pain;
And, tho' against his custom, call'd aloud,
Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd:
Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express'd
The shape of man, and imitated best;
The walk, the words, the gesture could supply,
The habit mimick, and the mein bely;
Plays well, but all his action is confin'd,
Extending not beyond our human kind.

From Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book XI (Source

Death and sleep, the fading plea of waking form, dissipating under the thin sheets of human comfort, forlorn, the pain of reality is a realization, that death's blood stains the dying hand. 
The creaking wood of the log cabin breeds an authentic woodsy order. Inklings and whisperings from the unheard Northern ecology brew spindly mycelium waves into the tragic human desolation, a stolid break from the bitter taste of city life. 

An original inhabitant, with less design for the transitory fading of desire, hides in groves and pains with the aftermath of winter in this warming escape. Unintentional, with drab face, his emotive instances are bare with unknowable sorrow. The rain burns over the frayed wick of lightless trunks under the whistling canopy. 

He has the air of a murderer, more a serial killer. Thin and over-confident, he swaggers into a common room, his flesh woven in knots, gnarled eyes penetrate the pointed vulnerability of my female companion. The tense noose of our isolation bespeaks unforeseen warning. One night, he feeds.

Gathering my things, a fright of blearing raw insanity, my computers, my bags, the endless compartments within compartments filled with this or that, yet my Love is slaughtered in the white heat of this wooden homicidal mystery. I hear his steps and free myself from the burden of automobile and everything I own, possessing only the random trappings of a turning mind. 

I fall, retching in a golden mud, into a hole of wonder, the driven names sputter and churn in this earthen stomach, heaving and ingesting my whereabouts in a timetable of eternity. Blinking water, dripping in the metallic soil, spurns an awakening as I peer into the soft light of the tunnelling ahead, beckoning me to further escape. The wishy-washy sounds pander in my mind with noxious will. 

A funnel of heat presses its ugly scent into my eyes, as I sink ever deeper through a new hole, fainting with near-death experience, dropped beside a bus. Eagerly, a host of newcomers, young as myself, board the bus with all their things. Stupefied, lost faces daydream an unsayable nightmare, their hollow eyes mirror my own mourning. We’re off to Egypt, to face the sun of the age. 
"To see murder committed in your dreams, foretells much sorrow arising from the misdeeds of others. Affair will assume dullness. Violent deaths will come under your notice...If you are the eyewitness to a murder this is also a warning, but, one that is alerting you to possible changes in your life that you will not like unless you practice self control and not expect others to order the situation for you." (iDream)
roaming to sacrifice

and the aftermath of a wordless crisis,
vagaries of mind bound by geographic boom
into the obscured continental pole,
estranged to unknown homes,
sacrificed to roaming

Thursday, 9 August 2012

Humanism, Fathered Through A Song of Love

"Laura and Petrarch" by some pre-raphaelite master (anonymous)
I saw angelic virtue on earth
and heavenly beauty on terrestrial soil,
so I am sad and joyful at the memory,
and what I see seems dream, shadows, smoke:

and I saw two lovely eyes that wept,
that made the sun a thousand times jealous:
and I heard words emerge among sighs
that made the mountains move, and halted rivers.

From Petrarch's Canzoniere (Source)
The opaque black void of sky billows in from under the deep sable cloud, a rain stirs, as invisible paint on the windows, whipped off the brush of some invisible painter on an unseen canvas of glass, smoked in the storm-tossed night. Clarity emanates from the computer screen light, an email. The message: you’ve been selected, to read your poem, at this event, congratulations. 

The hotel seethes with the aftermath of meaning, a post-sex ward of incongruous freedom in the squared shell of our toxic, flown might, rubbing against the thigh and heel of the lover asleep in her violent convulsions of metaphysical dream. 

She, transported beyond the narrow night, answers to the inborn possibility, a warming light screaming from her mind with elegant force, enough to welcome me inside, forever flushed with intimate secrecy, at her waking touch. The morning, lifeless in the southern winter, breeds an inhumane scarcity. In the lobby, I meet the event organizers, poets themselves. They greet me shyly. 

Sitting in the amphitheater, encased under the waning spotlight seating, I ask an organizer, only minutes before the show if I can have musical accompaniment. She says of course, after which my wife readies to retrieve her instrument back in town. On stage, a beat boxing, spoken word all star thespian nomad streams in the conscious wisdom of the unprepared emotional night. 

With lofty trespasses, I clamber on backstage, wondering, and waiting, ever patient to hear myself, together with the delicate instrumentation of my wife and me sing in the language of spirit.
"If you sing in your dream, this is a lucky omen representing happiness, harmony and joy. You are uplifting others with your positive attitude and cheerful disposition." (iDream)
"in the lonely pain of the unanswered desire
to be youthful and free
and not burdened with need
in embracing beauty as a gift
shown open to all equally
breathtakingly always

undisguised before the rapt maw
scraping carelessly inside marrow's falling pressure
to meet thee, only mortality"

Tuesday, 7 August 2012

Lafcadio Hearn's Akinosuke and the Fleeting Entomology of Youth

Illustration from the original edition
"Akinosuke must have been dreaming," one of them exclaimed, with a laugh. "What did you see, Akinosuke, that was strange?"

Then Akinosuke told his dream,--that dream of three-and-twenty years' sojourn in the realm of Tokoyo, in the island of Raishu;--and they were astonished, because he had really slept for no more than a few minutes."

- excerpt from The Dream of Akinosuke, as compiled in Lafcadio Hearn's Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things

In the Japanese dream narrative recorded and analyzed by Lafcadio Hearn, based in the folklore of Japan, the symbology of insects, which reflect the ephemeral substance of dream as the unconscious imagination, are here abundantly espoused as creative interpretations of archetypal imagery (Butterflies, Mosquitos, and Ants).

Wonder, the life of an insect, so short, from a human mind. Yet with the indiscernible speed of buzzing flight, an eternal instant, witnessed of countless eyes.

(Currently listening to Somei Satoh)
Backstage, a slight sepia-tone monochrome corridor splits into a labyrinth of doorways. An old acquaintance meets me behind a curtain, in the shadowy nook. “Oh! How are you?” Proudly delighted to have us meet onstage, he announces his part, “This is the play of Arthur.” With equal candor to his showy façade of shiny outlook, I greet him kindly, “That is great!” I walk past, returning to my disoriented grumbling, a burdened mug, stupefied with untenable sorrow. In an underground room, coldly lit with dusty spotlights, a group of Japanese youth greet me with strong affirmation, welcoming and comfortable in their sturdy countenance, an open sound of impromptu community breeds equal recognition for all present, dicing cards and stringing their hats to the unblinking mold of unspoken friendship. One, slightly overweight, fiddles with an obsolete USB converter. Blowing through it, he creates tones of a flute. Placing a wooden object with holes and a plate full of water, he begins to shape harmonies and effervescent rhythms with a strong windpipe coloration. His instrumental play continues to the delight of us all as he sits under a strong light, entertaining with jazz intonation amid the subdued betting ruckus of bargained camaraderie. One man at the cards table looks me straight in the eye with clear intention, a warm regard filters through the depth of his unwavering eyes as he hands me a cloudy glass of thin white water. “Would you like some rice water?” He asks quietly. “I’ve heard of rice milk!” I respond, accepting with spry respect.   
"Rice is good to see in dreams, as it foretells success and warm friendships...To eat it signifies happiness and domestic content. To see it mixed with dirt or otherwise impure, denotes sickness and separation from friends...Dreaming about rice means good luck and happy times are coming." (iDream)

"Insects in a dream always represent obstacles that you must overcome to reach your goals...Insects also represent excessive worry over certain things, meditate to find out what they might mean to you by using all the symbols in your dream for reference." (iDream) 
oh dreamer in disguise!
who wakes with a call vocalized
from towers disappearing and weary
in the first morning light,

who shocked entranced gazers
pouring pupils over their single-haired tips, fragmented,
reflecting a statue's burned relics, encased in antiquity

surviving the past with trickery in the momentary revelation
from an onlooking sage,
her brown-eyed ghost close above her shoulders,
sunken and twisting with every step
into the shrinking abyss alleyway.

a life written as graffiti
from talented, distended arms
working magic into the obsolete concrete,
courageous youth, who wars
over books and trivia for a mathematical applause
within their minds,
the build up,
cornering her feline sense

in a mundane yet sacrificial wail to another day,
a day after dead thoughts reinvigorate the mind
with careless hauntings that cry and stutter a storm,
made in blood and worn as a headdress
to the laughing and cruel butterfly Asian trust,
in a token object,
insignia drawn with fingernail accuracy

as a tattoo beneath the skin,
warning in wordless heed
to beware for the introspective desire,
most inner and yet most awake,
as host to the world's untamed fire,
a prehistoric urge,
to look above,
walking away from the estranged bellowing
hidden deep inside,
a union with touch,
spirit's shudder
listening to the walled moods that hallow

- excerpt from "misbegotten souls"

Sunday, 5 August 2012

Cuban Youth and Creative Autonomy

Video streaming by Ustream
"José Martí said, 'the children are the hope of the world.' He's very well known in Cuba and the rest of the world. And we could also say that youth is the light of the world, the hope of the world...Youth is very important in our society, because they are very well educated and many of them are professionals. Because of the universal right to education and many university graduates. In the last decade, the number of university students has risen five fold.

Today's youth is a population that has grown up after what we call the "Special Period." So, youth has grown up during this economic crisis and under the economic blockade of the United States, by the United States of Cuba. So therefore, they have been subjected to scarcity and economic limitations. And that has made more stumbling blocks and obstacles to the fulfillment of their dreams...They are the protagonists of cultural, community and artistic creativity."

Maria Isabelle Dominguez, sociologist and Director of Psychological and Sociological Research of Havana (1:01:30 of Cuba in Focus 2012: Part I)

"Children are the ones who know how to love." - José Martí

An impromptu, Hakim Bey TAZ (Temporary Autonomous Zone), an occupation, a force field of instant creative spontaneous group presence, artist-magicians freeing the spare moment of interconnected spatial continuity in the visceral act of communal play, a boastful pantomime of acknowledgment, an undreamt torrent of sound waves blindly over my urban fate. A walk alongside the river pathway, and I sit with a group of peers, individual revolutionists, spit-shining the nature of mind with DUI grit. They hand me the most unusual instruments I’ve ever seen, self-invented out of sheer devotion to original ingenuity. Experimenting with a four-tiered frame drum, I notice the circle waits, watching for my creative intelligence to light the group momentum in the fire of scintillating freedom, manifest before their innocent eyes.

The next evening, I walk through an Eastern market, an Arabian Nights treasure trove for belligerent desire, fuelled by monetary drive amid strong wafts of perfume, spice, and the kohl-lined female blink into human want. I am saturated with immense apology. A downpour of mental guilt bruises my faded intentions with each step deeper into the dim havoc throughout the winding earth-ground pathways, leading into unlit alleyways, mental obscurity beckons my drowning, swollen self-pity as I lead myself ever deeper into the unknown grave of my found esoteric ecology.

The wares of an instrument seller captivate me. Albogues, duduks and exotic snakeskin frame drums line the wooden frame of a rickety wooden kiosk stand, seemingly unattended. As I stretch my hand out to feel the skin of a drum, an impish sprite, a young, rosy-cheeked tomboy gazes, beatific into a beam of light above my face. I can’t help but notice her unusual countenance, a proud and noble stature from her youthful facial expressions, shining brighter than the floodlight above us. Without speaking, she begins gesturing hands in avian wing patterns, mimicking the tongue, conveying a plethora of human emotion without missing a beat. 

Her play is expert, her storytelling movements well expressed, imbued with commonly understood meaning. A local woman emerges from the opaque shade of the antiques stone building, narrowing the market pathways. “That’s a well-known Aboriginal dance theatre,” she says, confirming the story well told. At the moment of her pausing, my mouth breathless with wonder and admiration, she gathers a small hand drum, only a touch larger than her palm, and taps with a wild energy, a direct speech of rhythmic pulsing. She speaks through the abstraction of form with an artistry not yet experienced by my foggy, nonplussed eyes, still burdened with internal weight. In that moment, I enter the sky, bodiless over sonic clouds, a booming voice silences the air at the cusp of our earthly atmosphere. I have been here before. With her help, I will return. 
"The dance is always a good omen and it foretells many things, such as children dancing signifies that your marriage will produce lively, happy children who are well behaved, older people shows a better business income and if you are enjoying the dance you will receive and unexpected windfall!" (iDream)

"To hear the muffled beating of a drum, denotes that some absent friend is in distress and calls on you for aid. To see a drum, foretells amiability of character and a great aversion to quarrels and dissensions. It is an omen of prosperity to the sailor, the farmer and the tradesman alike." (iDream)
filled. with immediacy
profaning eternity
of now, into secondary manifestation
of everything, into ignorant cries

for an end to all life, and unswayed
the silent mother feeds greater discontent
into the belly of her sanctified martyrdom,
consecrated over the neoclassical demise of New England

sameness, howling European mockery
and second-guessing the entire First History

- excerpt from "where is the mind in life?"