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.
Charging a Sigil: The Old Fashioned Way
A few days ago, I charged my first sigil using what Morrison refers to as the "wank method". I've charged one or two before in other ways. One, as I recall, involved my exhaustion after running in the morning. However, this time, I saw the sigil ablaze in lightning, part of a massive, dark storm cloud. What a powerful send off!
Did it again this morning. This time, though not as over-the-top, the sigil did seem to manifest into a sort of tentacled, living thing. Pretty cool.
Did it again this morning. This time, though not as over-the-top, the sigil did seem to manifest into a sort of tentacled, living thing. Pretty cool.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Post-It on Mailbox
This was over a month ago. Outside the library near Janna's place. An old-style mailbox on a post, stuck in the grass near the sidewalk. A post-it note stuck to it read:
Why are you here? What is your address and purpose?
See the signs and all they're speaking to you... to you......
Why are you here? What is your address and purpose?
See the signs and all they're speaking to you... to you......
Monday, September 3, 2007
Not Really a Magical Post....
Just remembered this quote from Hal Hartley's "Surviving Desire":
Yet, every now and then, there would pass a young girl, slender, fair and desirable, arousing in young men a not ignoble desire to possess her, and stirring in old men regrets for ecstasy not seized and now forever past.from "The Gods Will Have Blood" by Anatole France
To Exit the Tunnel, One Must Act
During meditation in GGP this morning, I had one of my usual visions of a tunnel or cavern leading me somewhere. Typically, these paths seem endless, but every once in a while I'll glimpse the light at the end. Today was one of those occasions. The tunnel stretched forward many yards and offered an exit to the right, white light glowing there. I felt that I should be able to project myself forward to this doorway - but then received word that it was not to be, that one could only go so far in this meditative state. A goal, a target can easily be sussed out in meditation. However, execution and attaining a goal must be accomplished through a will manifested in the physical realm. "Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action."
"I believe that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness, always remember that you are on the right road, and try not to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to others and to yourself. What seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear, too, though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own faint-heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened overmuch even at your evil actions. I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the stage. But active love is labour and fortitude...." (from Brothers Karamazov)
"I believe that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness, always remember that you are on the right road, and try not to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to others and to yourself. What seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear, too, though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own faint-heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened overmuch even at your evil actions. I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the stage. But active love is labour and fortitude...." (from Brothers Karamazov)
A Dream, A Trance, A Woman, and A Voice
Last night I was in the middle of a dream when a woman with long, black hair stood up and said my name. The sensation was like those times when you're dreaming and you hear something in the dream, then you wake up and realize it was something from your waking reality - phone, alarm, etc. So, accordingly, I woke up. Of course, there was no one in the room and no one calling my name from outside my door or window.
I then felt myself slip into what I'll describe as a trance state. Similar to being half-awake, half-asleep. I remember seeing large, white plates or panels before me, staggered and layered into some architectural design. Each one pulsed randomly with flashes of white light. And now, a disembodied voice spoke to me. I believe it belonged to my friend Chris; I'm staying at his place right now. The voice asked, "What is the money game called?" I said, "Monopoly." "What is the word game called?" "Scrabble." It then tried to ask me a longer, more detailed question, but the words failed to form an actual sentence. It was babble. The voice tried again, with no success, words overlapping with words and on and on. I returned to a waking state and later dozed off again.
I then felt myself slip into what I'll describe as a trance state. Similar to being half-awake, half-asleep. I remember seeing large, white plates or panels before me, staggered and layered into some architectural design. Each one pulsed randomly with flashes of white light. And now, a disembodied voice spoke to me. I believe it belonged to my friend Chris; I'm staying at his place right now. The voice asked, "What is the money game called?" I said, "Monopoly." "What is the word game called?" "Scrabble." It then tried to ask me a longer, more detailed question, but the words failed to form an actual sentence. It was babble. The voice tried again, with no success, words overlapping with words and on and on. I returned to a waking state and later dozed off again.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Rip, 1492
After a long walk and meditation in Golden Gate Park, I strolled back up 6th Ave. My eyes glanced at one doorway and say that someone had spray-painted:
R
I
P
in the space above the doorbell and below the address. The address: 1492.
Columbus? The New World? Ongoing personal discovery? Dunno. I feel that this is only another piece of the puzzle, or more accurately a breadcrumb that will tie into something else later....
R
I
P
in the space above the doorbell and below the address. The address: 1492.
Columbus? The New World? Ongoing personal discovery? Dunno. I feel that this is only another piece of the puzzle, or more accurately a breadcrumb that will tie into something else later....
Thursday, August 30, 2007
King, Rip
During meditation, I saw the image of a large king. Henry VIII style.
Later, returning from the Academy, I was in the elevator at Forest Hill Station. The closed stainless-steal doors had, well, stains - or at least wide streaks running down. I focused on this. The stains kinda stood out a bit more and the word "Rip" came to mind. "Rip" as in Rest in Peace? "Rip" as in here's the world behind the world and it's ripping through? Dunno. Answers aren't necessarily the answers.
No idea about the king either.
Later, returning from the Academy, I was in the elevator at Forest Hill Station. The closed stainless-steal doors had, well, stains - or at least wide streaks running down. I focused on this. The stains kinda stood out a bit more and the word "Rip" came to mind. "Rip" as in Rest in Peace? "Rip" as in here's the world behind the world and it's ripping through? Dunno. Answers aren't necessarily the answers.
No idea about the king either.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Doors and Hope
Read Combined Chaos on MUNI. Got off MUNI & saw large man with a t-shirt that read "HOPE". On the escalator, I was behind an Asian man, whose backpack had a silver zipper-pull shaped like a small door. Ascending to street level, I was aware of every door. They all jumped out at me.
At the end of the day, walking back home, I passed a closed door. Inside, I thought I heard a woman ask for help, but it was not enough for me to stop. I walked a half-dozen more paces when I heard something drop behind me. I turned to see a doorknob laying on the sidewalk beside the door. I stared at it for several seconds before walking up to it. I then saw a hole in the center of the door with the rest of the locking mechanism exposed - and the end of a screwdriver working around the space. Someone was trying to open the door from within. I watched this for a little while, too. Noting a shirtless young man in the alley between the houses, I determined that he was working with the woman. Instead of offering to help, I moved on.
At the end of the day, walking back home, I passed a closed door. Inside, I thought I heard a woman ask for help, but it was not enough for me to stop. I walked a half-dozen more paces when I heard something drop behind me. I turned to see a doorknob laying on the sidewalk beside the door. I stared at it for several seconds before walking up to it. I then saw a hole in the center of the door with the rest of the locking mechanism exposed - and the end of a screwdriver working around the space. Someone was trying to open the door from within. I watched this for a little while, too. Noting a shirtless young man in the alley between the houses, I determined that he was working with the woman. Instead of offering to help, I moved on.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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