Had a dream the other night. Standing outside a men's room on the beach; the structure was a rather taupe, sandy color, bricks and stucco. Like most public restrooms in government parks the doorway was actually a little curly-cue. I stood facing the building, the ocean to my back. The doorway was positioned so that one would exit from the side and then - by virtue of a well-placed wall - hang a left out toward the beach.
This was a short dream. I stood there for a moment and out walked a boy of five or six, wearing blue overalls, his hair a dusty blond. He had a contemplative disposition that usually doesn't show in kids until their teen years. He walked out and to me, and said nothing. Yet, I knew he was my son.
End of dream.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Dream Adventure
I awoke early this morning - around 4:45 - and could not get back to sleep. Insomnia kicked in for the first time in ages. After a considerable amount of time I was able to relax myself, clear my head, and doze off.
I dreamed that Mom and I were back in the old house on Azuer. We were the ages we are now, as I recall. Quickly it seems, I realized that this was a dream - and held on, not wanting it to end. I just recall walking around the house, looking at things. I remember looking at a collection of photos on the wall, but they weren't quite the right photos, as if someone were trying to recreate this house from my youth and knew to put pictures there, but wasn't quite sure which photos they should be. In fact, this was exactly the case. I was the someone, trying to recreate this house.
It was a strange feeling, holding on to my presence in this dream. It was like a tug of war. Something was constantly trying to pull me away, but my force of will kept me there. So, I just had fun with it, patting myself on the back for holding my ground, investigating this ghost of a home. Mittens wasn't there. No pets. I recall that it felt like I could hold on almost indefinitely. Then, Dad walked through the front door. He was my dad as I most fondly remember him - dark hair, hardy, athletic. As if that wasn't enough to throw me off, right as he arrived I turned about - and saw Linda, in a brown, floor-length cocktail dress. Was she more the Linda from 10 years past? Or the one from Michael's wedding and more recent? I'm not sure. This one two punch was what finally loosened my grip, sending me back into the waking world.
I dreamed that Mom and I were back in the old house on Azuer. We were the ages we are now, as I recall. Quickly it seems, I realized that this was a dream - and held on, not wanting it to end. I just recall walking around the house, looking at things. I remember looking at a collection of photos on the wall, but they weren't quite the right photos, as if someone were trying to recreate this house from my youth and knew to put pictures there, but wasn't quite sure which photos they should be. In fact, this was exactly the case. I was the someone, trying to recreate this house.
It was a strange feeling, holding on to my presence in this dream. It was like a tug of war. Something was constantly trying to pull me away, but my force of will kept me there. So, I just had fun with it, patting myself on the back for holding my ground, investigating this ghost of a home. Mittens wasn't there. No pets. I recall that it felt like I could hold on almost indefinitely. Then, Dad walked through the front door. He was my dad as I most fondly remember him - dark hair, hardy, athletic. As if that wasn't enough to throw me off, right as he arrived I turned about - and saw Linda, in a brown, floor-length cocktail dress. Was she more the Linda from 10 years past? Or the one from Michael's wedding and more recent? I'm not sure. This one two punch was what finally loosened my grip, sending me back into the waking world.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Creative Spirit
Yesterday I was able to sleep in until such time as I felt 100% ready to get up. First time in many days. Weeks?
I then went for a run and wrapped up with a meditation on the park bench I favor. When the time was right, I asked to be "imbued with the creative spirit", as I was going to write that day. Moments later, I received the notion that I should revisit Alan Moore's interview, titled "The Craft".
Returning home, I grabbed the article and started reading. I probably got about six pages in before I felt compelled to pour into "Sinbad". It was like jet fuel. Not in terms of speed - though much did come quickly. It was just dynamic. I had to write a scene of mourning between Sinbad and Aladdin, bemoaning the death of Badoura and their failure to stop the Caliph. I knew the scene could be a huge piece of shit if handled poorly. I needed something fresh and original and - above all - honest. Reminding myself that no one else would ever read this first draft - and therefore I could do ANYTHING - I proceeded to conduct a writing exercise in the middle of the script. I had the characters speak as if they were aware they were indeed characters under someone else's control. Puppets. Eventually, this conversation turned to Aladdin discussing his lack of faith and Sinbad recounting the death of his father and his vision of death itself as a black shadow. Really powerful stuff. And straight from the heart.
I took a break after that. When I returned, I needed to write the scene wherein the priestess resurrects Badoura. I hadn't given myself much to work with in my outline/synopsis; it simply said something about a rite or somesuch. I had no idea. I grabbed bits and pieces from wikipedia entries on shamanism and smudge sticks. I didn't want it to turn into grass skirts and jumping around, a la "King Kong". I followed my instincts - and it wound up getting a bit sexy, a bit risque - something that would no doubt be altered, were a PG feature film made. Then, in a hard right turn, the sexiness gave way to an horrific action involving fire, a small stick, and an eyeball! I freaked out everyone! Future audiences, readers, the characters, and me. So, I must have done something right there. And, the best part - it all made sense! The fire - djinn's are made of "smokeless fire". The priestess was basically reigniting her soul.
Anyway, enough back-patting. It was simply a great day, resulting from an awesome beginning.
I then went for a run and wrapped up with a meditation on the park bench I favor. When the time was right, I asked to be "imbued with the creative spirit", as I was going to write that day. Moments later, I received the notion that I should revisit Alan Moore's interview, titled "The Craft".
Returning home, I grabbed the article and started reading. I probably got about six pages in before I felt compelled to pour into "Sinbad". It was like jet fuel. Not in terms of speed - though much did come quickly. It was just dynamic. I had to write a scene of mourning between Sinbad and Aladdin, bemoaning the death of Badoura and their failure to stop the Caliph. I knew the scene could be a huge piece of shit if handled poorly. I needed something fresh and original and - above all - honest. Reminding myself that no one else would ever read this first draft - and therefore I could do ANYTHING - I proceeded to conduct a writing exercise in the middle of the script. I had the characters speak as if they were aware they were indeed characters under someone else's control. Puppets. Eventually, this conversation turned to Aladdin discussing his lack of faith and Sinbad recounting the death of his father and his vision of death itself as a black shadow. Really powerful stuff. And straight from the heart.
I took a break after that. When I returned, I needed to write the scene wherein the priestess resurrects Badoura. I hadn't given myself much to work with in my outline/synopsis; it simply said something about a rite or somesuch. I had no idea. I grabbed bits and pieces from wikipedia entries on shamanism and smudge sticks. I didn't want it to turn into grass skirts and jumping around, a la "King Kong". I followed my instincts - and it wound up getting a bit sexy, a bit risque - something that would no doubt be altered, were a PG feature film made. Then, in a hard right turn, the sexiness gave way to an horrific action involving fire, a small stick, and an eyeball! I freaked out everyone! Future audiences, readers, the characters, and me. So, I must have done something right there. And, the best part - it all made sense! The fire - djinn's are made of "smokeless fire". The priestess was basically reigniting her soul.
Anyway, enough back-patting. It was simply a great day, resulting from an awesome beginning.
Performance
Just watched "Performance" the other night. While I wasn't altogether into the movie, Mick does recite, "Nothing is true, everything is permitted." First time I've seen it used in a film.
I Dream of Alan Moore
This was actually 3-4 nights ago. Subsequently, I've started reading "The Forty-Niners" and have revisited the long interview with him called "The Craft" that has revitalized my writing.
I had a short dream last night wherein I met Alan Moore. He was a somewhat younger version than his current self, somewhere in his mid-to-late forties I’d guess. Still, he had the long hair, the long beard. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and had a walking stick. We were in a large room of some sort with various pillars, and we were alone. I went over to him with all the nervousness and awe that I would expect in “real life”. I made my introduction, shook his hand. I believe I said something typical ~ “I love your work” or somesuch. He gave me a somber “thank you”. Then, I struggled for what to ask, having been granted this rare opportunity. I recall that all of the typical questions popped to mind, the one’s you’d like to think that YOU’D never ask – Where do you get your ideas? What’s your next story about? Etc. Even in the dream I knew these were lame questions. I remember starting to ask something, then stopping myself, and asking him to forget what I’d started to say. Honestly, I don’t know if I ever managed to engage in any kind of real conversation. He seemed mildly annoyed – as if he was thinking, “It’s your dream. You brought me here. Do something with me.” The dream ended all too quickly.
I had a short dream last night wherein I met Alan Moore. He was a somewhat younger version than his current self, somewhere in his mid-to-late forties I’d guess. Still, he had the long hair, the long beard. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and had a walking stick. We were in a large room of some sort with various pillars, and we were alone. I went over to him with all the nervousness and awe that I would expect in “real life”. I made my introduction, shook his hand. I believe I said something typical ~ “I love your work” or somesuch. He gave me a somber “thank you”. Then, I struggled for what to ask, having been granted this rare opportunity. I recall that all of the typical questions popped to mind, the one’s you’d like to think that YOU’D never ask – Where do you get your ideas? What’s your next story about? Etc. Even in the dream I knew these were lame questions. I remember starting to ask something, then stopping myself, and asking him to forget what I’d started to say. Honestly, I don’t know if I ever managed to engage in any kind of real conversation. He seemed mildly annoyed – as if he was thinking, “It’s your dream. You brought me here. Do something with me.” The dream ended all too quickly.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Death Dream 11-1-07
I was at a cocktail party being held in a ruined building surrounded by a ruined city. Everyone was dressed in fancy clothes, somewhat futuristic in style. There was a girl who was rather oblivious to a guy standing near her with a futuristic shotgun; he was taken as “normal” by everyone present. However, I said something to her about being a little less cavalier in front of him.
Jump to sometime later. Most everyone had gone. There were only three of us. Me and two guys – one of whom was Dennis Farina. He stood beside me with another shotgun in his left hand, casually pointed my way. I asked if we could at least wait until we got to the car. He said, “Sure, we can do that”, as he reached his right hand around behind me, as if friendly, escorting me. Suddenly I hear what sounds like a metal balloon popping, and I realize that I’ve been shot. I remember lying on the ground, surprised that it didn’t hurt. However, I can feel myself bleeding internally, my abdomen filling with fluid. Then, I think, “So, this is it. I’m dying. This is what it feels like.” Finally, I realize that I can either lie there and die, or I can get up and struggle my way to someone who might be able to help me.
And I wake up.
Jump to sometime later. Most everyone had gone. There were only three of us. Me and two guys – one of whom was Dennis Farina. He stood beside me with another shotgun in his left hand, casually pointed my way. I asked if we could at least wait until we got to the car. He said, “Sure, we can do that”, as he reached his right hand around behind me, as if friendly, escorting me. Suddenly I hear what sounds like a metal balloon popping, and I realize that I’ve been shot. I remember lying on the ground, surprised that it didn’t hurt. However, I can feel myself bleeding internally, my abdomen filling with fluid. Then, I think, “So, this is it. I’m dying. This is what it feels like.” Finally, I realize that I can either lie there and die, or I can get up and struggle my way to someone who might be able to help me.
And I wake up.
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Donnie Darko Method
A few weeks back, I found myself in the unenviable position of having both a bursting bladder and a famished stomach at the same time. I held said bladder much, much longer than anticipated, figuring I would find a restroom with greater ease than I was ultimately able. We're talking a good thirty minutes past what I would normally considered the breaking point. Naturally, I parted with my fluid to great relief. However, the hunger then stormed forward. Again, I found that my next meal was farther away than anticipated. Roughly an hour later I feasted on a rather mediocre burger and fries for some exorbitant price.
At this point, I found myself in the Westfield, the rather posh, touristy mall in downtown SF. I had some time before my next appointment and decided that I wanted to sit down in Borders and read from a script or two, knowing that I would resume work on Sinbad sometime soon. I settled on the script for Donnie Darko - which I have, to date, seen only once and a couple years ago. I sat in a cozy Borders armchair and proceeded to read roughly thirty pages, finding myself rather engrossed and entertained.
Realizing the time for my next appointment was at hand, I shut the book and made my way to return it to the shelf. Much to my surprise, I had entered a very open state. Colors were bright and alive. The air rich and full. It was very similar to being high, but without any sense of paranoia or the like. It lasted for a good half hour. I laughed and enjoyed it very, very much.
At this point, I found myself in the Westfield, the rather posh, touristy mall in downtown SF. I had some time before my next appointment and decided that I wanted to sit down in Borders and read from a script or two, knowing that I would resume work on Sinbad sometime soon. I settled on the script for Donnie Darko - which I have, to date, seen only once and a couple years ago. I sat in a cozy Borders armchair and proceeded to read roughly thirty pages, finding myself rather engrossed and entertained.
Realizing the time for my next appointment was at hand, I shut the book and made my way to return it to the shelf. Much to my surprise, I had entered a very open state. Colors were bright and alive. The air rich and full. It was very similar to being high, but without any sense of paranoia or the like. It lasted for a good half hour. I laughed and enjoyed it very, very much.
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