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, 16 September 2012

The Inalienable Presence of Bill Hicks and Fidel Castro

Bill Hicks, martyr of the new word order, spellbound to the final laugh, which he is still having. Can you just imagine what he'd be saying now?! 

Visiting the home of my friend, a Persian man with whom I collaborate on various literary projects, I greet his entire family, half of whom are European. There is an air of social discord, as the meeting is secretly called in agreement to work towards peaceable resistance to the current status quo. 

A grandmother asks if I am to work on my first film as I walk along a series of picnic tables to have my outdoor meal. “The hummus is down there!” she calls, with respect to my vegetarianism. I sit with my friend’s son, a young and thoughtful individual, who reflects many characteristics of mine. Sitting by the edge of a flowing river, we begin talking about our ideas for social justice action through creative arts. The presence of Fidel Castro hangs over us like a wide-screen TV, as we endeavour to tackle the airwaves of radio with our alternative worldview for a new society. 

Fidel Castro speaking in Havana, 1978
Kicking a soccer ball back and forth, we converse after dinner in the yard, with a wealth of youthful insight and ideation. He kicks the ball in the water and I fly in, swimming in the filthy mud. “How clean is this water?” I ask. “Not very,” he responds, apologetically. 

At that my Persian friend warmly greets us and asks that we join him outside of the house. As we walk, we notice various individuals staging a full-scale rebellion. Although shabby and poorly dressed, they are the weary front of the struggle. Our filmmaking commences through their eyes. 
coursing through the married rings of male-female becoming
like an ageless fight
against the cruel daze
with monotony and clever denial
bequeathed to the jealous children of war
boiling over the holy boom pot of re-created American cookery,
to flash discolored eyes
suddenly into the empty well-cast light
and sense a bravura of internal awakening without respite,
that judgment, cleansed from humanity, will see its day reborn
and the rusty match,
raised to presidential beginnings
at the final tuning
beyond a slow curve of national despair,
and the answerless dread, washing over the religiously tired
whose mouths sink into the sea
and blame the faithful for their troubling sense of diversity,
whose risen heart failed to beat upon hearing
her single step

- excerpt from "To There...a single step"

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