Vishnu's Universal Dream of Creation: A Philosophy of Art

The Recumbent Vishnu and the Creation of Brahma from Guler, Himachal Pradesh, India

The painting shown here is an illustration of Vishnu reclining on Shesha, a serpent alluding to the meaning of infinity, or Ananta, also one of the many names of Vishnu. Out of his navel, springs the universe, which is Brahma, pictured here as multi-faceted. Here, Brahma appears as the dream of Vishnu, dreaming the universe into existence.

The role of Vishnu as the existential dreamer, whose dreaming is the experience of creation gives the mythology of Vishnu profound meaning for artists and all creative thinkers. The striking thing that caught my eye about ancient Indian religious philosophy in relation to creative writing, is the way in which Joseph Campbell describes the role of Vishnu in leading the awe-inspiring traditions of ancient Indian yogic philosophy towards a recollection of the shattered mirror of thought and creative inspiration, into one yoked unity of enlightened perception, which is seen in its fullness as Vishnu eyes the dream-lotus of universal creation.

Read Joseph Campbell's brilliant article, "Hindu Wisdom"

Also, check out this arts book, interestingly eponymous with the Dream Author, called, "Secrets of Rusty Things" where an artist explores found art with mythological application to the creative dreaming of Vishnu's in-sight.

_________

Lightning premonitions, deft déjà vu of tone, the amalgamated voice of anger enunciates towards a new acquaintance, a poet of Canadian life. And in that rage, the unearthed moans of my internal aching, the gorge of indulgent emotional farce, an awakened source, spiked with the thirst of a skinless napalm victim. My life pains for the strength to express such incendiary anger, a pure rage, undignified.

Chemical Kali by Srimati lal

So, within seconds, a brief passing, I apologize with sturdy feet. My breath is steady, and at once I am relieved from my internal night, the concave flexing of cavernous rock, a burden of upended implosive tension. The wilds burn with stolid elasticity and I am inflamed with a secondary respite, at seeing my name lit towards the ceiling, and reacting with confident force, eyeing my winnings; a recognition of literary achievement, in multiple categories, standing beside renowned academics and independent artists of creative literacy.

Vishnu sahasranama manuscript by Anonymous 

I am bedecked with opulent outfitting, and walk to receive my medals with an ostentatious headdress and unnatural clothing. A blathering fake of heady fame, I steal through the tables clumsily and jeopardize the entire name, quickly hiding in the utter obscurity of another day. 

_________

A gourd filled with smoke speaks in a voice,

          Human,
A mindless bowl
                    of mirth
                             inflamed

glasses grow cold in the unheated concrete glue,
                    a fixture of the dead past

a golden consumer begs with a throat full of tears

in front of speakers
                 throbbing with broken-hearted names
                 burning up in a heat of worldly instrumentation,

transcending this same-self curse
                 with a storied high
                        of nameless voice

...

a spiritual womb formed
                        at the fingertips of an artist healer
                                     pursuing the groove of an epoch
                                     stolen from the mind of silent law

in a world’s motionless yearning

                 from afar

in the dark

fearless

night

excerpt from "A Joke Downstairs"

Reflection on "green girl dreams Mountains" by Marilyn Dumont

Camping on the prairie by Paul Kane
Scene shows the artist with a Metis guide en route to the Buffalo Hunt

I read the unseen. Her eyes are the milk of a hollow cow, branding the misjudged beauty of a new and timely pride in the human self in all its fascinating breadth. Her words are a first kiss, and the smile afterwords, even if the kiss was a little sour.

This is my first read into Marilyn Dumont's work. A Cree/Metis poet, who is widely celebrated as a must-read in contemporary Canadian literature. Her words are bittersweet, and do not say too much. She uses language for its brevity and with singular pausing, announces the mystic inclination to wonder with a sad grace. One can easily and cathartically empty their mind of doubt when reading page after page of brilliant humility. Her self-knowledge is evident as she prints words into the mind of a page with the delicate necessity of breath.

I read this book from cover to cover in one sitting as welcomingly as opening my door to a new friend. Now, I'm looking forward to welcoming, "that tongued belonging" her latest work.

I heard of Marilyn Dumont through Black Coffee Poet, who interviewed her for Indigenous Sovereignty Week

_________

Entering the distant cottage, there is tranquility. Mindful, the air is welcoming. It is a refuge for Aboriginal intellectuals. A group of women converse softly over tea as I wander the grounds. In the backyard, a lively, well-kept garden is lush with Canadian summer vegetables and medicinal herbs. The light hangs slowly from the deep, curling cloudscapes in the wide, Midwestern expanse. 

Battle of Duck Lake

Overlooking the property hill, a bustling cruelty unearths the dry heave crime of migratory blindness, as settler compunction fills the writhing horizon with a crooked smile. Endless houses, misshapen and identical, curve along the wasted prairie hills, and there is only a dim emanation of life. As I stare into the perfectly reflecting window of the cottage, an aural wisdom speaks in silence, carrying my body to the comfort of our Mother’s home: land.

________

Holy Rope

Holy rope glean
           Setting off the executioner’s raffle
                     In a dream state, turning the mind
                                To a pentatonic, indigenous scale
                                To the antique buzz in our lonely natural surroundings
                                             That prepares a decadent life

Amidst the misty hilltop laughter

                                       That echoes in the contemplative breath on high

Experiments With Conventional Dream Definition

"We believe warmth and brightness will return and renew all of the hopes of men. NO!!!"

"Let me put it this way, I don't think there's a deep concern about anything. I think there's a lot of, you know, there's sort of passing interest in things, but there's no real concern. It's doesn't mean it's a matter of conviction, again. People seem unwilling to become involved in anything. I mean, really."

Also by Arthur Lipsett, "[Free Fall] evokes a surrealist dream of our fall from grace into banality." (NFB)

___________

It’s the Floridian humidity. The silent pavement provides a buffer zone between the sweating plants and the lowering sky. Small mammals scurry mindfully in the thick brush beside these manicured pathways. A massive dome appears on our way. The recently past dusk threw a scintillating crepuscular finitude over the incredible structure. White-mounded, of chalky substance, the mound invited us with an easily accessible entranceway. An aqueous blue light hovers in a pallid mist throughout the sporadic lighting of a tunnel system. Globular shadows bloom over the fear-cast hideaway. “The deeper we press on, the more sheltered are the animals who dwell inside,” I peer into a subterranean passage, meant for a nocturnal fox. I turn back.

The next day, in the sweltering heat, I sit languorous with café atop a balconied precipice in an inner city restaurant. The muddied roads spell social friction as two heated rough bands of youth face off. The attitude about is apathetic, as resting feet mosey in careless to the disaffected gorge of violence in our immediate vicinity. I watch restlessly, bitter with remorse as the puffed chests of the youths splinter with strangled breath under their pitiful guise of torn flesh and mangled bones.

In the café, my wayward attention darts in the direction of a radiant presence. A world-class musician empties bellies of laughter and rays of his smiling countenance in all directions, especially meeting my eyes with his. We become acquainted. Over tea, he invites me to a concert of his in the evening. The concert hall is bedecked with the stylish wonders of the epoch. The bountiful core of human opulence shines in its full magnificence as the musician, a percussionist, gently plays a twin-headed gourd with a masterful split-finger technique, similar to the way one would play a hadgini. Bursts of mountainous excitement turn the crowd inside their beatific lives to a place more common to all. 

_________

Fox

"To dream of chasing a fox, denotes that you are engaging in doubtful speculations and risky love affairs." (iDream)

_________

The snowball effect and the end of humanity…

Pacification.
Air dead.
Noxious and looming.
Distracted meds fielding stringent commentary.

Of wrong.

Misinformed delusion.
Gray-haired wisdom.
Bold boom music.
Drunk on sleep.
Feeding extreme weak binge.

Insane night.

Wheeling through migrations
Globalizing responsibility.

For no one.

Healing engrossed savages
Inviolate demise.
Undone law.

Ruin.

Demeaned personality
Locked unmovable
Warm concrete.

Derailed western dream.

920pm. Feb 18. 10’

L.A., caged windowed building, pesto pasta and one cigarette

Busking, Gambling and Escape from the Assured Life

Peasants Playing Cards in a Tavern by Adriaen Brouwer

A dream of two days ago will not escape me. It is ever pertinent, because it lingers still in my memory, and its narrative, symbology and emotional meanings are carried through into my dreams today:

Dream 1

I am running, as a fugitive would run, I run with everything that I am. I seem to be escaping the watch of some unknown authoritative holding. The police, FBI, it could be any of these, or it could be something more abstract. I am unsure, yet I am running.

Next, I find myself busking with a guitar beside a Fire Station in the town of Mattapoisett, Massachusetts. This is an odd place to find one's self busking, however I am in the eye of governmental authority. My change bowl clinks with a Canadian loonie and a few pennies. I am enjoying playing the guitar, then I feel as if I am being chased again, the firefighters seem to all glare and approach as if from above, and my whole environment around me seems to do the same.

Dream 2

I at New York University. My step-father is guiding me to sign up for a set of classes with a Master's program as he had always wished for me. I comply with passive-aggressive remarks and actions, thinking in my head one thing while doing another. I sign up for some classes in his presence. Next, he buys me a cheap guitar out on the street. I see him speed off with an unforgivably strange partner, however he is happy, and so I am content.

I visit a friend, we are in a small space, inside what seems to be a bedroom of a trailer. I show the people there the guitar and it seems to be entirely unplayable. It is a cheap piece of trash. We sit awkwardly around the television, wasting time.

I then go down an alleyway which appears similar to the alleyways in and around Cairo, Egypt's downtown midan or squares. In the alleway, I see people busking. They are bringing such authentic vibrations of strength, persistence and genuine enjoyment to an otherwise dull and dreary atmosphere of biological decay and mental stagnance. The street performers are still not well-recognized nor respected well by passerby onlookers. I cheerfully greet these buskers and enjoy their drumming.

Next, I am in what seems to be the inside of a warehouse, it is a filled with the stereotypical busker of the public mind. A recurring dream-character, tall, stout, blonde-haired, bearded with bad complexion. Within the warehouse there is homelessness, deprivation, madness, poverty. I walk through unaffected yet witnessing, somehow removed by unique experience. I have returned to a world filled with inequalities and cheap resolve for a way of life which transforms peoples minds into that of a fugitive.

                                                                    ____________

One day, while reflecting on the act of street performing/busking, I was taken with the notion that busking is in many respects like gambling. And from a crude perspective, the art of pure improvisation is in a way a form of gambling, wherein you anticipate, based on one's knowledge of the variables at hand, the outcome of a certain action. The fact that my experience as a street performer/busker has been through performing completely improvised music further emphasizes my notion that improvised street performing is a kind of gambling, however with the due sophistication of musicianship and the wealth of experiential confidence in playing one's instrument. For further understanding seek: myspace.com/vian and youtube.com/nivsha