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, 27 December 2012

Bridge to Kafka's Language of Dream-Identity

Kafka, Separated from the Fire by a Mirror by Paul Mersmann der Jungere
"Please, consider me a dream." Kafka

How may we interpret this mysterious quote, passed down through interminable echoes? What, if any, interpretation needs be? Read one interpretation. They say it sums up his life. Can a life be summed up? In the spontaneous trigger of language into the folds of space and listening, when do we hear the contemplative grab of a lifetime thrown into a phrase? 

The peculiar relevance of the painting above by German artist Paul Mersmann der Jungere speaks eloquently to the theme of self-reflection and passion. Self-consciousness, or conscious identity may sometimes block our passage into the spiritual heart of self-annihilation, providing us only with a thin display at which to gawk, and finally, withdraw oneself from participation in life altogether. It may be more useful to identify with the less formal, and more marginal states of mind. Or, as Kafka said in another dream reference, "Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me." [source

If language is a bridge, we do not always cross it, but sometimes slip beneath, and after speaking in one direction, go our own way. 
Memory fails to awaken dream into day. Here is bridge photography from the conscious state:

Entering the Blue Void by R.K. 
Electric Ice Reflection by R.K.
City Riverbank in Winter by R.K.
Ice Flow of Light by R.K. 
No One Lives Under The Bridge by R.K.
Into infinity
            And the terminal plague of survival

Marching by
            Currents stepping like waves over the stone-headed martyrs

Staved off
            From one life inside

Painted fame twisting and writhing
            In the soundless urban deep
A rustic, inflamed few,
            Whose solemn grasp partakes in the early break
From an inevitable aftermath
            Draining the rage from our animal brain

excerpts from "Guise of the Beloved"

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