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
Showing posts with label sky. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sky. Show all posts

Monday, 18 March 2013

Evocations of the Urban Creator: When No Stars Appear, Voices Are Heard

Evocations: Cyclical Wordplay (album art)

“So, dear state, you are a very nice word from a dream. There are fine sounds in the word, much comfort and much freshness, you grew up in a forest of words…ashtray, match, cigarette butt, an equal among equals, but why state do you feed on people. Why has the fatherland become a cannibal and the motherland his wife…If the states be truly bad then who among us will lift a finger to prolong their dreaming under the blanket forever?” Allen Ginsberg reading the work of Paul Klebnikov’s Manifesto of the Presidents of the Terrestrial Globe

After hearing many songs and stories of the dramatic sights seen by survivors of the great natural disasters of the early 21st century; the tsunamis and earthquakes that buckled cities and civilizations to their knees, I have heard many refer to the reversion to a clear sky.

The clarity of sky is an enduring metaphor for the wildly obscuring potency of modern technological electro-civilization. What has been more subtle, and more dramatic a transition, is how the skies under our human settlements have become opaque and starless over the past century. In my mind, this is more traumatic and in need of reflection.

The stars and constellations are being called into the blinding stretches of the ephemeral; of human memory, abstracted through an archaic imagination. Beginning with the wealth of ecological terror that might strike any human being living in a modern Western city, who looks up to see that not only have they left the stars, but the stars have left them.

We are without higher purpose, the signs directing us to a sense of greater belonging in the universe have since faded into the mindless wash of electro-magnetic consumerism and the ecological disturbance of human egotism; a symptom of our technological worldview.
________
Lost by RK
Shadow of Mother Earth by RK
Gutless City by RK 
Wormhole Cafe by RK
Parting the Starless Night by RK
___________
The voicing, "When No Stars Appear" is an excursion through the faded mind, a search for meaning in the depths of human language, abstracted and diluted by the hotbed movement of inorganic noise, and the harmonious serendipity that emerges with the simple act of listening; the inception of self-knowledge, wherefrom the fog clears to reveal novel human experience, metaphorically illustrated by the final lines in the voicing. At the narrative resolution, a fugitive of modernity emerges from a waterfall consciousness of humility, as a child in a traditional Mayan home, looking up into the vast network of a more universal light. And the sounds of the starlit sky become a nightly renewing gift clarity, humility and strength. "When No Stars Appear" was originally published online by PressBoardPress in September, 2012.



Also featured in this post is the release of the chapbook, "Creating in the City" from the Cyclical Wordplay collection, to commemorate the release of another sound evocation! Enjoy!

Wednesday, 19 December 2012

Dream and Love: All Our Relations

From Ben Okri's Mental Fight in London by Alessandro Lucia
“Only those who truly love and who are truly strong can sustain their lives as a dream. You dwell in your own enchantment. Life throws stones at you, but your love and your dream change those stones into the flowers of discovery. Even if you lose, or are defeated by things, your triumph will always be exemplary. And if no one knows it, then there are places that do. People like you enrich the dreams of the worlds, and it is dreams that create history. People like you are unknowing transformers of things, protected by your own fairy-tale, by love.” - Ben Okri

I found the above quote on THE DREAMING of shamanic drummer and creative writer, Lindsay Dobbin. It is such statements from the most brilliantly expressive minds of our time that draw one in to reflect on the substance of one's own nature. This is the creative spark. Ben Okri is so intuitively accurate in feeling out the subtle vibrations of the human heart that I feel as if he has literally been watching me. The relationship between love and dream is the strongest seed of self-knowledge. Those who forget their dreams are not awake to love. 
________
The sky is open. Light blue, and an atmospheric glow, passes through my eyes with serene pleasure. Delicate moisture fills me with a cool air. I exhale all the grandeur of my inspiration, each breath an offering to the immeasurable beauty above. Sky is a translucent goddess.  

The Eve of the Deluge by John Martin
As I gaze forward, I see Christ standing atop the water. From afar, his face still affixes to my eyeballs with the cosmic presence of mystic flesh. I am reminded of Alex Grey's Christ painting. Then, in a moment's whisper, a pair of Bison crash through the water. I see the lake is barely a foot deep. The age old prophet is lost to my sight. The Buffalo steam through the water, carrying themselves with the charm of a sibling rivalry. The sacred flesh of the plains opens a revelation of the land's own history. 
__________
"…the apparent flood of a bleeding anorexic paradise…drowned in the furtive beckoning towards malformed reasoning…my Anglo-eyed drug…rushing forth into the magi of atheistic awe…the lawless prism of deep endless failure…gone astray in the fatalist’s catastrophic underpinnings…during midnight conversation…"


Monday, 17 December 2012

Fear: Spoken Word of a Female Prisoner



"...the fear of prisons
The fear of strip searches leads to 
The fear of being naked in front of other women 
The fear of keys leads to
The fear of chains
The fear of small spaces it leads to
The fear of tears, the fear of dreams, the fear of loneliness
The fear of being forgotten, it leads to 
The fear of time, the fear of lies
The fear of metal doors leads to
The fear of dark empty corridors 
The fear of insanity leads to
The fear of separation, the fear of isolation, the fear of segregation, the fear of being a statistic." 

Spoken by a female prisoner at the final minute of short film, "Beautiful Sentence" 

Not until I wrote this did I understand the double meaning in the title...sentence. What phenomenal beauty there is in the regeneration of oral storytelling through writing. That is my key literary focus this past year, as I reflect on my greater literary ambitions. As I re-watch this humble documentary on an oft-recurring subject, the impact of poetry on prisoners, I think about the unique predicament I'm in this year, in relation to the subject of the above-quoted poem. I won't be departing or arriving in airports this holiday season. I'm staying far away. Although I am not incarcerated, I can feel the fear that this prisoner speaks of in her poem on the blatantly unjust quality of airports, and remain ever thankful that I have the option, and freedom, to not pass through, at least for now. 
_________
In light of not remembering the narrative arc of any dreams as of late, I am posting original photography from my waking life in relation to the initial topic instead of spontaneous prose and historical art
Crashland America by Rusty Kjarvik
Skeletal Cockpit by Rusty Kjarvik
No School by Rusty Kjarvik
Crash from the High Plains by Rusty Kjarvik
God-Awful Rhinoplasty by Rusty Kjarvik
__________
"An epic
of intention,
a bruised nation
and the stir-crazy polity,
struggling
with the sad gift
of only one humanity

a shipwreck beauty,
gleaming with the light of the ancients
over star-crossed paths
circulating through the veins
of an unbroken galaxial unity

evolving beyond one heartbeat to the infinite
blending of colorful awe
in the transitional being’s destiny
as wormhole wanderer
...

neck-tipped wheels edging naively on the backs of extinction,
Buffalo Confederacy of the western mage
playing tricks on white society beneath a rainbow cloak,
bundling rain and the boom of truth in our drum’s not-forgotten flower mask, straying now from pleasure and hate
in the unborn seat of quiet yearning

with English tongues of grotesque neighborly wick,
suffocated and pouring
over the tea-stained talk of elder medicine
healing beyond death
...

'knowledge in space,
as verbal structure,
passes beyond inert caution
to a stimulated dream-law,
intelligent yet nude'"

excerpts from "Epic of Intention"



Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Weathering Tornados from The Lover's Music


Vi An Music

"If we go somewhere on foot, we know the way perfectly, whereas if we go by car or airplane, we are hardly there at all. It becomes merely a dream." 

Excerpt from "Meditation in Action" by Chogyam Trungpa
_______
On my way to see my Love! She’s giving a presentation in a high tower, what a glorious teacher she is, a teacher in secret, with hidden wisdom and enlightening prophecy leaking clean out of a package of such humble eloquence.

The road is dry in the warm, new summer air. I see a woodwind shop to my left. A Xaphoon, hanging in the wall! Why, I do have one at home, but that one looks so beautiful today! I have been enjoying this instrument so very much, but I think I’ll have to buy another for the special occasion that is this day. In the shop, a saleswoman is short with me. No extra conversation ensues despite my attempts after I’ve decided on their only functioning Xaphoon. For the $30 I walk away with my new instrument, smiling quaintly in sweet visions for the day, gaily in love.

I arrive to the towering silver building. Strangely, I decide on the stairs. Massive windows bedeck the entirety of the walls, the low plains stretch as a mercilessly singular mural throughout. I find the room of my love’s presentation. There she is; a ghost of decadence, beauty, a word in her honor, is unready for its true name. In her presence I am light with the fresh gold of summer dreams. Her hair is bunched and flowing, the gargantuan black mass swells and streams down her side as a mythical waterfall of visceral lust, untouched and unrivaled by any substance beside. As I move in closer to her, weary as not to interrupt her occasion, a mirror image of her hair in the sky appears!

A black, icy fleece of cloud boils upside-down into the gleaming pasture, a wild tornado approaches! “This is a building of glass!” I scream weakly and run alone back into the stairwell to find sanctuary. The tornado crashes violently. A 9/11 of natural law brews gravely in the high destruction. The crude aftermath burns with electric ash as the ruins fume, awaiting the ever-darkening sky for yet another whiplash. Too afraid to return above, I journey onward outside of the city core, with instrument in hand, I dreamily invoke the unmoved trust of community in the survivalist reign of mounting fear from the shape-shifting sky above. Human vibrancy responds coolly in the aftermath of lost pain.


_________
Tornado
"If you dream that you are in a tornado, you will be filled with disappointment and perplexity over the miscarriage of studied plans for swift attainment of fortune...Tornadoes in dreams suggest you are very angry about a current situation and are afraid to express your feelings - which you need to do - for fear of hurting others."
________
Echoes from the polar wisdom of our earthly rotation
unraveling the truth in the thousand-worded letter
and pictographs of ethereal meaning
climbing through the bowels of a holy mountain
to the void of spiritual absence
in the land of prophets
unheard since ancient words lifted
to the ceiling of the temple built before time

On the sands of the strong & fuming,
leaving no one to posit an older order of belief

In sky temples & borders that signal friendship
enmity awaits in the selfish vine
a mark where the western mind strayed too far
to become its own enemy
in the reflexive mold of war
for basic rights.

- excerpt from "Royalty of the Weird" 

Monday, 19 December 2011

Uninhabited Island of a Friendship's Whispering

On the Volga by Abram Efimovich Arkhipov



My friend shared a dream with me last night:

He said he could hear my voice in the subtle ambiance of a clear Caribbean sky. My friend had returned from the Caribbean only recently in his conscious life. In his dream, he said I encouraged him to move towards an uninhabited island.

You see, he is with the girl who introduced me to my wife. My wife is about his age, and his girlfriend is about my age, my friend and I are both of European ancestry and our better halves are both from Asia. There is an interesting mirror-like quality to our gatherings which resonates with crystalline friendship and mutual love. My friend is almost finished with school, and in the summer will travel with his girlfriend to Europe and China before they live together. This is very much how the relationship grew for my loving wife and I. After finishing school, we sacrificed our living arrangements to travel together to Mexico and return with the intention of living together. In my friend's dream, he hears my footsteps above him, beckoning him forward, to fearlessly transition into a new form of intimacy and trust within his enduring relationship and our circle of friendship.

The uninhabited island is, I think, a symbol for the unknown, a fate of complete originality, a calling to live, without regret, a life of authentic individuality. In his dream, he moves toward it, however awkwardly, with rubber scuba flippers, peddling a small boat over the foreign water. He is almost there.

Saturday, 8 October 2011

Storm of Electric Eels Compels us Inward


Rock Arch West of Eretat (The Manneport) by Claude Monet


On the Mattapoisett bay rocky shore line, looking out over a concrete runoff, with my Dad and cousins from New York, we are observing electric eels in the water, as a breathtakingly immense storm washes over our feet and stings our eyes, the sky is dark with the most heavy cloud cover I’ve ever seen, and suddenly a plane dips through the sky and crashes careening in smoke as black and thick as the clouds above, and the sea begins to swirl and swarm with fantastic waves that rise above our normal conceptions of the ocean’s storm-driven madness, and we recede further away from shore, a spell of doom cast in the lowered sky

September 4, 2011