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
I walk into an ecological sanctuary where exotic plants and
fish thrive in a hot greenhouse. The humid air transports one to a
transcendence of spatial dimensions, wherein time breathes with the quickening
pace of an intensified microcosmic environment. Jungle leaves brush against my
face as lotus-bloomed lilies freshly spring from the fish-born soup of
breathable life in the density of my deeply woven surroundings. A plant
scientist and professor live in a nearby hut within the transplanted immersion
of moderate rainforest. Also an active marijuana enthusiast, he keeps to
himself, remote behind a fastened wall of swollen wood. I and a few friends
meander through the delicate passageways, magically mysterious fruits and vines
hang down with a gift of flowering beauty unknown to our Massachusetts scents. Our eyes glisten in
the cool dank inner workings of such magnificent spires as they that mount upon
the blank calm of a recess and serenity in this isolated outgrowth of our
Earth’s most advanced biological developments.
As we glide effortlessly, weaving in and out of the
rejuvenating corridors, a glint of an eye sparks in an unseen corner. The walls
open to encompass the ever-widening viscera of inbound flora. A blue panther
sneaks beyond the encircling brush, masked by the glowing façade of a charged,
fearful night. We are unprepared. Dropping everything, we rush headlong into
the deepest corridor, seeking refuge. This otherworldly animal, prehistoric and
enigmatic, bleeds into the folds of any remaining sensation of physical
security. We manage to find refuge beneath an enclosure of tables. Frightened
beyond the immediacy of thought, we smash the external glass of the sanctuary and
carefully stretch outside into the neighboring cold, modern presence of the
un-bubbled Earthly night.
________
Jungle
"The jungle in dreams represents the wild, passionate side of your personality. How you feel about the jungle in your dream indicates how comfortable you are with this side of yourself." (iDream)
“That is the thing that inspired Pasolini the most in
Sophocles, the contrast between total innocence and the quest for knowledge.
Pasolini
“It isn’t so much the cruelty that produces crimes but the
fact that crimes are committed because people don’t understand history, life or
reality…if Oedipus had not been so fatally innocent and unconscious, if he had
been an intellectual and had first sought out the truth, he might have been
able to alter reality. The only hope is a cultural one, to be an intellectual.”
Narrator
“Pasolini wanted the central part, which is the main part of
the film, to resemble a dream. This explains the settings and the choice of
costumes, and in a sense, the general rhythm of the film.”
Immediately, I fall into a field, transformed into a beast
with qualities of a saber-toothed tiger, a large prehistoric dog and massive
reptile. I fly, as with vestigial wings, across the golden, low-lying field on
foot, beside me are other beasts of similar quality. Above us, a helicopter
hovers menacingly. We race towards a cliff side and plummet off its edge.
In mid-air, we become human, though prehistoric humans. We
wear rough animal hides. The others become topless women with faces resembling
famous actresses and a friendly girl who used to live on the same property as
me in the Western Massachusetts countryside.
She had spiky dreadlocks and was an inveterate marijuana user, yet a tough
spirit at heart. I watch as she glides effortlessly down the daring tree
trunks, only just evading a branch with spikes sharp enough to impale straight
through the bone. We finally reach the bottom, and this reality transforms to
me running with my golden retriever through the paved neighborhoods in the suburban
coastal woodlands of modern day Massachusetts.
I enter the woods. My dog has since left my side. I find my
way onto the property of another identical suburban home as the rest. I find a
choice between a kayak and a canoe to flee down a nearby stream. At first I
choose the canoe, and then return for the kayak for greater stability and
smaller, lighter body. I begin to flow down the stream, and suddenly it turns
into a great river. I am on this river, which I call ShaganappiRiver.
I feel safe, as this is a great and mighty river, and it will lead me along its
course for days through the gorgeous riverine banks of forest, cliff-side and
freshwater island scenery. This river slightly resembles the St. Lawrence,
where I once kayaked solo for hours under a deafening thunder of sky and empty
spiritual witnessing.
As soon as I sense that I am beyond the sights and feelers
of my past, I enter a mucky, narrow zone that I am unable to penetrate through.
I feel someone has followed me here, and I am at risk of being sent back to my
former life in paved neighborhoods. Yet, I manage to sneak past this murky
undergrowth violating the surface of the river with vegetable muck and mire and
continue on unnoticed.
I continue on the river as before, for days and nights,
sleeping under the floating watery stars, as my subjective eye pierces the veil
of Earth’s atmosphere with a unity of being in tune with the flow of the great
being below my nightly watercraft and bed. Ultimately, I find a small stand,
perched against the unsteady shore. Inside is an on old friend from Calgary, who has since fled this city eagerly for the
brilliance of Brazil.
She is friendly an offers me a cold drink and an ice slush, which she is
selling to passersby. I look ahead and see the river mysteriously turned into
highway, a crooked bend of road packed with cars in rush hour. I tell her that
I think I will turn back and go upstream against the flow of the great river,
back where I came rather than face this void impasse of humanity ahead. She
agrees, however she brings up that it would be easier for my friend, an
ultra-marathon runner than I, however she wishes me good luck and offers me her
plutonic friendship, which, for me, is the greatest gift from her.
I begin upstream, although it may seem difficulty, I see no
challenge, and simply row along swiftly until the beginning road. My dream
cycle fades, and next I am rising up in an elevator. I meet a local Greek
restaurant owner who I’ve been trying to contact and he offers me the funding
to organize an event for Greek Heritage and Culture, highlighting the music of
Roza Eskenazi. I am delighted. There is a man there who’s working for my
betterment, on my behalf, he resembles Poet Tree and I am glad to know his
physical dream presence as he is kind and encouraging in life.
I descend in the elevator and next find myself waiting for
my wife outside a cinema. The movie house lobby is packed with kids who appear
to be nearing the end of their high school, they are a beat group. One walks up
to me, noticing me from a music venue, and begins talking to me about how he
rides waterfalls. He literally uses a board or foot-born craft of some kind and
traverses the verticality of some of the world’s most formidable waterfalls. It
is a death-defying sport, yet he is keen to show me.
I walk along a damp dirt pathway. This is Athabaska
territory. We are at the largest waterfall in the region. I feel the presence
of snakes and other venomous creatures about. They say there is a snake who
dwells here that is especially aggressive. As we near the edge of the waterfall
cliff where the man dips down into the abyss beyond, I see one of these snakes
challenging one guy in our party. The guy is playful, trying to disarm the
snake with his experience, however he is bitten, which in my mind is fatal,
however no one is panicking. Afraid, I dart back, tracing my steps along the
path, meeting many snakes along the way, I manage to avoid their wicked
advances. Coming to an outcrop, I look out and see this new extreme sportsman
riding the waterfall with prowess. It is a sight to behold.
ghost of the stalking whispers of human division blind my inside vision as I stir with personal betrayal over the family history in spirit, the moment's occurrence on this very land, quiet peacemaking, mobility tightly screws the factions of an embittered mind each hour, dying to the painful alcoholic grimace of glum infamy
our brewed, wide, drunken grave stammers, laughing to the holy fix and we are reduced to a liar, crying on man towards a mule
First dreams of a stitched paper design with penciled flower and writings, common to my writing art idea, however suddenly they are all fixed with images of an androgynous Italian who my wife has grown fond of, as she gawks and dances to his images, shouting Italian phrases and playing Italian music, then I am transported down a highway with McDonalds and other corporate consumer businesses in full color on either side, many of the same businesses are right across from one another on what seems to be a futuristic, yet somehow foreign (European or Asian?) drive down a commercial highway stacked to the fullest with consumer culture venues, and next I find myself at war, in full armed soldier uniform, with backpacks of gear hunching down behind a risen formation on a hillock awaiting the enemy, who suddenly rolls in on big Tonka truck tanks that look almost like construction vehicles, I throw out a grenade but it comes flying back and explodes near our troops though no one is hurt, and suddenly as I’m fiddling through my backpack, only to find culinary knives, the enemy greets us, they are Spanish-speaking and have children with them, I ask one of the children what their name is, speaking in Spanish and it is a long, indiscernible Spanish name, my brother is among the troops, laughing and speaking Spanish as well, all the while I am searching for a pistol in bag
Next dream I am beside a tree in the middle of the open prairie fields in what looks like Southern Alberta, however there are hints of a prehistoric landscape among me, I can sense that there are big animals around, a lion of sorts, a bison, and others in herds somewhere near. I sneak into a dim tavern and I see a whole slew of nationalities and ethnicities. I suddenly feel that I am in Palestine when I see a man with a yarmulke and he is smiling at me, and then I look at the bartender who also has one and I am nervous for them, next I am trying to talk with my friend, a Senegalese musician, but he is on the phone and being uncooperative, yet somehow we are in the middle of a conversation and go to a nearby table, there are people around it, a full table with people drinking, one round man at the end of the table tells me he also plays percussion and enjoys rambutan, laughing at me trying to connect, meanwhile I am at the other end of the table trying to converse with my friend the Senegalese musician, and his African friends, however all I can say is there is never going to be any change ever. I walk out from the tavern and I feel again as if I am in a prehistoric landscape, I imagine pre-ancient man, walking amid the predators and herds of endless animal, fearless, barefoot and with purpose beyond his immediate surroundings, and suddenly I fear the tree that I had just visited, for now it seems to resemble that landscape and I am unable to walk within it.
