Month: April 2017

[dream journal] 04.29-04.30: Aerial Silk Scaffold Deconstruction

Spent entire dream watching two nameless men dismantle six stories of scaffolding across an eighty-foot-wide apartment building. They worked for the most part in silence, communicating with hand gestures punctuated by the occasional “¡Mira!” “¡Cuidado!” or “¡Yo!”

The scaffolding was made of equal parts silk and metal. The men used the silk to climb up and down, raveling and unraveling themselves in an aerial silk performance to move in all directions. At times they also used ladders integrated into the metal piping.

Alternating working above each other, they released large pieces of scaffolding with the flick of one hand, then in the same motion, guided the debris’ trajectories downward. The awaiting partner below caught the falling pieces one-handed and stacked them on the sidewalk.

I was watching through an open window from inside the scaffolded building, feeling the air rushes created by the men’s silk dancing and the falling metal pieces whizzing by. The silk’s movement ruffled and flapped like sails coming-about in stiff winds. The synchronized work moved hypnotic and left me mesmerized, thrilled, frightened and satisfied – akin to watching a snowboarding half-pipe or big-wave surfing competition.

“They’re dancers,” I thought out loud, to no one.

{WAKE}

Dream Journal 04.26-04.27: “Full Archer Jacket”

Dream Journal 04.26-04.27
“Full Archer Jacket”

I paratroop onto a Chatsworth, CA, warehouse rooftop w/ another soldier. We recon with a tiny drone to find rebel militant locations in the building. They have dug an ICBM silo under the warehouse. We are here to shut it down.

We spelunk into the building through a busted skylight, pass all sorts of people, none of whom concern themselves with us. Find the rebel headquarters on the 1st floor. They think I’m one of them, bringing them my partner as a prisoner. Treat me like a hero, giving me a foot-long croissant and a huge gun with a Victrola Victor Talking Machine phonograph speaker-horn for a barrel.

“It shoots death frequencies,” the rebel leader tells me in Spanish. “Don’t fire it at the sky or use it at a zoo.”

The militants, who look like they’ve stepped out of the Archer Vice San Marcos jungle, keep giving me equipment (walkie-talkies, a Nespresso, etc). Over and over I escape out a basement door via a secret elevator with an apartment front door as its door. The rebels mistake me for one of them every time, and never figure me out. My partner never escapes.

The final time I escape across the street, the sun has just set, and the rebel commander appears on the warehouse roof. He shoots the Victrola phonograph horn gun into the sky as my commander yells “Goddamn!” in Gunnery Sergeant Hartman fashion.

A few seconds later a small yacht floats down from the sky, nose first.…

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Dream Journal 04.25-04.26

I’m the star of a reality show called “Surfin’ The Pole” where I tour the North Atlantic on a surfboard. One episode had me find a hidden river that led away from the ocean and took me through quaint Finnish towns.

The river was the de facto Main Street through all the towns, and I waved at people and stopped for food along the way, all the while never leaving my surfboard. The water was crystal blue, not all that cold, and looked like amusement park waterslide water.

{WAKE}

Dream Journal 04.24-04.25

Suburban Supermarket
(à la Harris Teeter or Piggly Wiggly)

I’m talking to my mother in the beer section, sitting on the floor with my back against a fridge door, looking up at her. Cases of beer piled high in the aisle lend us some privacy. I’m beyond agitated.

“All the meat used to convict these people had the same date,” I tremble and point off to my right. “They used the same packages! Not a single one of these people is guilty, Mom!”

In the distance, a “slow parade of the guilty” – six people shackled together, heads bowed – moves by a large deli case by the cashiers. Shoppers heckle, hiss and toss old cold cuts at them while onlookers laugh.

I flash back to a man (Samuel Jackson – type) in a hidden bunker letting me in on the secret, showing me clues on the cold cut packaging that unravel the mystery.

My mother says, “Get a grip on yourself, Dave.”

I point around. “But this is all a lie! Everything here.”

“Go buy some dinner,” my mom says. “Ease your mind off all this.”

I wander to the deli and prepared food section towards the front of the store. I feel exposed. In one case are two huge halves of red cabbage. They are so large that nothing else fits in the case. The next case has globular gray slabs labeled “World’s Best Chicken Parm!”

Seemingly friendly butcher says “Hey there! Hungry?”

{WAKE}

Write On The Exhale

medium.com mirror

analog truth, typos make

Communication is a form of respiration.

“You want to know what I think…?” is the same as asking, “You want to know how I breathe…?”

Resonant, meaningful discourse flows as a meditation, where we think on inhale and communicate on exhale. Thinking, writing, and speaking — these mirror different stages of breathing, and together form a respiratory cycle.

We draw our breath to prepare, to gird, and in doing so, leave ourselves vulnerable to enter the unknown. Will we take in enough air? Will we make the train? Is there anybody out there?

Conspicuous breathing in — the audible struggle for air — gasping — happens under threat of drowning, choking, or asphyxiation. Apprehension and uncertainty underwrite every inhale.

Confidence and awareness, by contrast, infuse every exhale. Breathing out means we have another breath to take, or that we will rest in peace and/or resignation, knowing the one just released will be our last. Everything renews every time our respiration cycle refreshes. You change the world every time you exhale.

Writing and speaking are subsets of exhaling.

Speaking comprises shorter inhales and exhales — faster thinking, quicker tongue. Writing involves longer breaths and slower output, more thinking, more holding your tongue.

Holding your tongue is not the same as holding your breath.

“Held my tongue,” lasted at minimum a full cycle and a half of respiration, in which you thought twice, and didn’t speak. You inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again. Then spoke.

Holding the breath is a frozen inhale.…

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