Exposing Consciousness ~ Expanding Subconsciousness ~ Entering the Unconscious
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
Here, I've posted a selection of photos in gathering a visual essay on the Bow River's recent flood through the city of Calgary from Summer Solstice to the closest Supermoon in two decades. Again, as in the previous post, The Poetics of Resistance: Myths of India and Freedom, I cite from the brilliance of Telugu poet Varavara Rao, whose words resound with chilling truthfulness and direct one towards reflection, even over the muddiest and swiftest, and most inhumane, of currents.
The rainforest breathes of a drear & lush death. The ashen phoenix is all too quiet in the underbrush of dying embers. I see the dying earth breathe a hot ash of distrust and shame, the blood of broken faith runs as from a bone broken clean from the hip. Earth brews a harsh truth, of the fallen creation, yearning to return to the skyward dust.
Phoenixes by Paulownia Trees by Kano Tan'yu
A spiritual lament turns and writhes like the roots of an upturned tree, cracking and spewing, breaking and rattling the final rattle of reconciliation. I mourn for the beings of ground and light. And of my throat, a burning rush of silence, the ignorant flicks of pain resound, shot through the echo chamber of an empty heart. I see through the body, holed with holy flesh flecked with wounds of impalement and rape.
The Wawona Tree, 1887
Lungs, tethered to each branch, as I, see, soot-blackened, flushed with discolor and the pangs of mortal addiction. Now, every branch leaved and flowered with lungs of inanimate flesh, long dead and yet left unscavenged, to petrify, as if the air itself were evading the decomposition and decay. Time orbits in the long yawn of solitude.
The Smoker by Édouard Manet
The more motionless I become, the more the world swirls and the dead sigh their long heaving sigh of memory and remorse. As each uncolored tree cowers lowering into graves of roots from whence they came, the thinning forest reveals a final stand.
Büssender St. Jerome by Albrecht Altdorfer
A wild trunk, gnarled with the character of age, endures as a thick mark of life ahead. Its neighbor, a trunk straight and smooth, glimmers under the swarming azure. Yet not a single leaf of green rustles in the faraway vale. Pink, earthy and glowing with a bloody, purple pulse, a healthy lung of earthly flesh, as an undiscovered bloom of willow, breathes out the purest air.
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art & writing & all activities of the creative, while demonstrably flushed with the economic downturn of a costly natural disaster, remains invaluable, and reveals itself as one of the only true & sound Values of human life, beyond the impermanent trespasses of consumption and trade. creativity & art & writing & the wisdom that ensues & issues from the blank page of authentic thought and pure action are only strengthened under the taut and tested strings of emotion & trust in the depth of the human soul.
my stomach, stained with blood and coffee, and I drink with a consumptive gaze greedily at the tip of the root hanging from Earth's core, the Indian tree, swelling as it sways to the rhythmic tuning of the cordial universal spring, 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, and Confucius prays for love in the Taoist grave of Saturn's eyeless pupil memorizing the pages of our life's trunk become engraved with a stoned ape's tug, at the hairless chord, our once upraised wilderness now chained to European drug lust
forced, evacuated from my home, surrounded with flooded streets & powerless, transitioning from house to house among hospitable friends, i've been unable to find the space & resources to dream up a new original musical - narrative sound art - piece accompanying the forthcoming chapbook, "Understanding our Meaning" - although I have posted a video from one peace-loving afternoon among friends, in celebration of the presence, in all its magnificence & luxuries of life, breath and harmony. may we all find peace in the ground & space of the moment!
music, as a predominantly community-based art form, teaches us how creativity & art, especially in times of facing a natural disaster, reaffirms our basic humanity, teaches us that despite the angry gods, as metaphysical personifications of the suprahuman forces of nature, and their crashing display of power over death and rebirth, we overcome from within and for each other, through the human triumphs of creation by our hands, through our tongues and in our shared smiles, languages of communal warmth, embrace & gentle touch of especial human beauty, grace & Love.
a special thank you to all those who give help & promote compassion with artists & their communities in times of need
