August 17, 2010

Dream: Painting, poetry and fish

Filed under: art,General,Oneirica,Poetry,Writing — crcb @ 10:10 pm
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I don’t usually blog my dreams, but I have a far, faint intuition that this one might be about writing.


I’m part of a group on a mission.

One will create the painting. She acquires a canvas, and pictures keep revealing themselves on it — a portrait of a lonely young man, a Kandinsky-like abstraction. The artist will have to find the true painting that is already there.

Another will create the poetry. She meets her literary idol, a middle-aged man, gray-haired but vigorous, who agrees to participate. As they travel around together, she realizes that he typically gets the title and the “occasion” (her word), then declares the piece finished. Only later, and only sometimes, does he write the real poem. But he is a poet, when his ego and laziness get out of the way. She suggests going to the lake and waiting. He thinks it will be a waste of time, as seeking inspiration outdoors usually is, but she prevails.

The “lake” turns out to be indoors: an oddly-shaped irregular solid of a wooden room, with a rectangular pool in the middle which holds a single, immense fish, as large as a person. The room has a chapel feel about it, with people sitting respectfully on wooden benches. I’m with the poets at this point. The fish wants out. The pool goes under one wall to join the outdoor lake, but the opening is too small for the fish to swim through. I make a joke about going to the attic and letting it out, and immediately a female security guard is there. When she understands that I was joking, she says, “Well! You took me somewhere different!” Then we all realize that the fish is gone.

I’m walking to buy something. I wear my green jacket (for the pockets), even though it’s summer and I’m in shorts and a hawaiin shirt. It’s raining, with white particulate matter in the air. Pollution, I think, and now everyone can see it: the game is up for the polluters. Or is it snow, or hail?

Our group is at a garden party. So is our opposition.


October 20, 2009

“Living on Lunesta” Journal, 10-19-2009: Milk

Filed under: General,Litlets,Oneirica,Prose — crcb @ 7:22 pm
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(Some nights when I need to take Lunesta, I swallow the pill, pluck a random word from a handy book, grab my pen, and start writing as the drug takes effect.)

Milk does not make an impression. You probably don’t remember the best glass of milk you ever had, though you may remember the worst, especially if it got stuck between your teeth. People might brag about Mom’s cooking, but nobody says “My mother gave the best milk!” Nobody you’d want to know, anyway.

Humanity has been defined as “the animal that makes boxes.” Equally characteristic is our relationship with milk. All mammals drink milk when young. I don’t know of any species besides humans (and those domesticated by us, like cats) that drink it as adults, or that regularly drink the milk of other species. We turn milk into various solid and semi-solid forms, with or without flavoring: butter, cheese, yogurt, ice cream. We consume it cold or hot. We use it in coffee and in cocktails. Human: the animal that refuses to be weaned.

But there’s something innocent in this, something Edenic, even if the factory farms that result are evil. In the Bible, Canaan is described as a land flowing with milk and honey. My father, who was a preacher, concluded that these were the healthiest foods you could eat. My doctor, who is a doctor, disagrees.

Milk and honey are the foods of nature’s abundance. No creature is killed to gather them, and they are renewed. Milk is the fruit beneath the fur.

I’ve gone from whole milk to 2%, and I’m learning to tolerate skim. I get egg-beaters at IHOP, too, which are indistinguishable from synthetic eggs. On weekends or special occasions I treat myself to half-and-half in my coffee or some pizza.

It might be interesting to wean myself by way of experiment, to give up dairy altogether including substitutes. If I do I should keep a dairy diary. (Bet nobody’s come up with that one before!)

My thoughts are getting confused with dreams now. I wonder if this is a way to do differently, in class or watching numbers. any way as I tried to [two illegible words] the politics wasn’t really greed it was’t [illegible] a [illegible]

[drawing of a half-shadowed face]
The silent partner is angry & has much to say
time to listen to
the men? who stole the fairy nector
royal jelly to those with names

[drawing of a humanoid head, furry, with pointy ears]
he was not as smooth nor as stylish as he thought, but he gave freely of his mate’s milk

Did we say to quit looking or was that you? the last ollie-ollie-sfree. Put a quarter in milk wont get bigger yo [illegible] a operators ver[illegible] t[illegible]one.

September 8, 2006

From the Encyclopedia Oneirica: Human, Composition of

Filed under: Litlets,Oneirica,Prose — crcb @ 8:30 pm

The disputed “ego,” or “self,” is a euphemism for a cerebro-dorsal collocation of ill-disposed jurors who constantly shuffle positions while chattering like chipmunks in loquacious disagreement. The “id” is a consequence of these soi-disant selves straggling from their factitious conference room to frolic with ancestral rats in abandoned factories. Meanwhile, the aloof “super-ego” stands hips a-canter in a posture of titillating liberalism, ravishing herself in the mirror. Taken in a mixture and kneaded into a roughly star-shaped form, these unconscious yet assertive mechanisms make up that mainspring and bane of the spiritual world, that unmistakable rack on which the fragile denizens of sentience are broken while their flesh is sprinkled with torturer’s tears, the Human Soul.

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