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

Sunday, 5 August 2012

Cuban Youth and Creative Autonomy

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"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?"

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