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

Thursday, 4 October 2012

Reflection on "Save the Humans" lecture by Rob Stewart

There are few more mindful of the delicate lucidity of ocean life, and its profound meaning in the interdependent webs of consciousness, subconscious and unconscious education. There are few who emerge from the subconscious depths with such memory, and imbue the unconscious ground with the animate vibrancy of temporal generation as befits the glorious epochal bridge of sea life and its significance for the holistic fate knotted so tightly with human existence that with almost seamless sight, the depths of our own subconscious churn with its equanimous tempests. Such is the mind of documentary filmmaker (Sharkwater), author and speaker, Rob Stewart whose visit to Calgary yesterday to present his new book, "Save The Humans" shone light on the deepest and darkest secrets of the 21st century paradigmatic predicament of all life on Earth.

The Oceanic Subconscious 
Tempests of Human Fate

Learn about his hardworking team of United Conservationists

What wide-eyed mission into the black waters of Atlantic night! My childhood friend, a forgotten son of old Portugal, climbs into an unsteady raft. To what subterranean fortress do we aspire? The growth of waves curls up and over drifting notions of our common presence, floating now in opposite directions, waylaid by the wind-whipped tide and our inability to muster the strength. We separate out over the clouded night, and ink dark sea.

Hero and Leander by Peter Paul Rubens
Aground on concrete, I see glowing through the foggy clime, a bus stop. A rain-swept pier empties in the sallow light. Hurriedly, I rush into the bus, towards the unknown. Highway bound, the clouds shatter and coagulate in an undulating mass of dizzying heights. The gathering storm moves closer. I look out the window, and time desists as hail and thunder rumbles the window. The music in my head quietly plays on. 
A great tormented void rings over the binding salt of my sleepless thoughts
         Called forth into being by the bone-skinned drum of life’s flow,
A drawing
A sacred heat
         Below the eardrum’s fall to a coarse truth;

                           “We all feel undone by shameful tragedy.”

A distinct forging into the now dizzy percepts of a lingering eye
         Finding beyond the brush stroke predawn –
The blinking heart of the drum impresses the joy of the animal womb,

                           To dream anew

- excerpt from "A Dark Glory"

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