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, 4 September 2012

The Dark Ages Revivified by the Colour of Welsh Dream-Lore

Pont-Rhyd-y-groes, the bridge over the Ystwyth
"As soon as sleep had come upon his eyes, it seemed to him that he was journeying with his companions across the plain of Argyngroeg and he thought that he went towards Rhyd y Groes on the Severn...this tale is called the Dream of one knows the dream without a book, neither bard nor gifted seer; because of the various colours that were upon the horses, and the many wondrous colours of the arms and of the panoply, and of the precious scarfs, and of the virtue-bearing stones."

- excerpt from The Mabinogion by Lady Charlotte Guest
Emerging from the final step of competitive glares and adolescent misdirection from the fair of scholastic races, I flee a field trip in Boston with a bunch of docile, bored Canadian tourists. These are my old stomping grounds, and I know a restaurant where my brother’s reputable. So, I saunter over.

The restaurant owner gladly greets me with the warmth of an old family friend. His restaurant, of aesthetics, which call to the sleek mindfulness of the Netherlands, is overwhelmingly chic in its opulent splendor. Utilizing just a small space, he manages to accommodate the finest tastes of the city.

As I step out over a neat veranda, I see the resplendent visage of architectural prowess, gathered from a hillock vista overlooking the downtown core. Majestic crimson checkers and dazzling cerulean pillars angle with perfected arches and pristine domes. The city has sure gained a wealth of ingenious focus. Staring out over the brink of the ocean cliffs, the Atlantic assuredly behind me, I gather my eyes, besotted with the dizzying color palette of form in the buildings below.

After quickened absorption in the wealth of tones outside below, I clamber upstairs into a hollowed attic within the restaurant. There, I am met with hostility from a ghost and small red fox, which to my contempt, I kill over the metal ledge of a bed. Stupefied by the unintended violence, I climb into a top bunk and lay to rest. The ghosts may transcend the locks, and the smell of dead flesh is their very calling.
After contemplating the recent series of interpretations based on the application of generic dream dictionary usage, I have experienced the truth that in fact, the interpretation is in the writing, that meaning that in creatively writing the dream with imaginative insight into the narrative structure and enlightening detail, the interpretation is made, not as a definition or forecast, but as an act of creative impression in the waking mind of the public collective, where art and dream interfuse in a subtle rendering of meaning in the act of envisioning the import of the imagery on waking, through conscious language, yet still poetically, in a language that minds the unconscious relativity of creation, as a holistic creative act in tune with the entire phenomenal experience of being human. That finally, the dream and its interpretation are one.
and so the strung chords of the world's birthing are plucked
duly, with grand motion over the starboard ocean rains
tunneling into a thunderous vision,
the pierced hawk
eyeing ground from atop the archaic skies of timeless dream,
the soundless above slips beyond the social canopy
our once upraised wilderness
now chained
to European drug lust

- excerpts from "I, Internalize My Body

1 comment:

  1. Always intriguing writing, with some lines calling out from another dreamspace: "The ghosts may transcend the locks, and the smell of dead flesh is their very calling."