sleeping with a mouthful

"The man who thought he had perished
dreams thus about himself:
I keep feeling
as if I had gotten home."

- Song of Qaqatcguk
Tlingit
songs from the northwest coast



the other day, wandering in the rain, i discovered a used and out of print bookstore that had just opened. this made me very happy. a stout old man with big, thick square glasses sat at a little desk and seemed confused when i addressed him with enthusiasm. a nest of ashy hair in his ears and hair white like sea-surf, i left him to his devices and wandered through the scant collection of books tucked on shelves that looked like they had been rescued from a thrift store or garage sale. always curious to read salmon rushdie, and a recent recommendation by a friend lodged in my subconscious, i was drawn to "the enchantress of florence" on display. I randomly turned the book open whereupon my eyes immediately caught this sentence,

"He returned to the House of Mars where the ruffiana Giulietta grudgingly agreed to let him have unrestricted access to the memory palace, because she, too, hoped he could wake that somnambulant lady up, so that she could start acting like a proper courtesan instead of a talking statue."

With emphasis on such somnambulation, it did seem a rather synchronicitous advertisement for purchase. the four dollar price tag also made for an easy seduction. and with the old man finally warmed to my presence, brought to full attention from his slumber as a bibliophiliac gatekeeper now suddenly made to concentrate on his neat little cursive script in the notepad, his owlish bushed eyebrows levitating ever so slightly and his nose crinkling perhaps from microbial bits of dust from slightly flapped pages, or perhaps in order to portion his thick-rimmed vision over the edge of his nose, he remarked, "hmmm. rushdie." a hmmm that sent me wandering back out into the rain with a tacit gust of approval. my suspicions were confirmed later, immediately enjoying the tale made to tantalize. it wasn't long before i came across another testimonial of we, the observer's dreams...

"As soon as he fell asleep half the world started babbling in his brain, telling wondrous travelers' tales. In this half-discovered world every day brought news of fresh enchantments. The visionary, revelatory dream-poetry of the quotidian had not yet been crushed by blinkered, prosy fact. Himself a teller of tales, he had been driven out of his door by stories of wonder, and by one in particular, a story which could make his fortune or else cost him his life."

I wonder sometimes how much we tell our dreams, or whether it is them who tell us.



My dream that afternoon:
n what seemed to be an open air church...rows of pews...a performance going on but just a few of us there...Lee was asking to bum a cigarette....the song being played was an eerie cover or rework- i wish i could remember the song but i commented on it and was dancing...i looked up at this very dark-skinned man in a suit- seemed like he was on some security detail- i looked him in the eyes dancing and he would not crack his stone cold expression...i told Lee i was off for a bit and wondered if i should say goodbye and give him a hug now or see him later as i was going to be embarking on some long trip the next day...then i was in the back row pew sitting next to an old high school friend Erin Dooner. the paparazzi was outside waiting for her or someone else i knew because they were a famous pop star singer and part of me wanted to be photographed in her entourage slightly mysterious and disguised like with my hoodie pulled over or sunglasses. but i left alone with no fanfare and wanted to find the perfect cookie which i knew could be found at some bar in austin(later upon waking i realized the bar i had in mind was actually from a previous dream last year and does not to my knowledge exist in the waking world)- i would just have to cut through the davis arboretum to get there...then i was getting indecisive about trying to plan the rest of the night before my big journey...i went to go scoop my friend Traci for the night's festivities...she lived underwater...i went to her house and she opened the door and i made some comment about the house being underwater and she looked very serious and just responded "glug glug" but then i realized she was being sarcastic and joking so i responded "bubble bubble glug blaub blaub" and she smiled and invited me inside. her mom was taking a shower. they were living together now. next i was having to escape for some reason and had climbed out of the third story window of the house...it was no longer underwater and now downstairs i heard an older gentleman and someone arguing...i got the feeling he was a professor and the other voice started as a woman or girl but soon turned into a young boy's. for some reason my pants and shoes were off and i knew i had to escape undetected...but it became clear in overhearing this argument that this professor was in some sort of love affair with this younger boy and i felt very uncomfortable. the boy came to the window and i tried to lay flat in the darkness but he saw me and opened the window and i told him "shhh don't say anything and i won't tell your secret" and then i scurried off and i think the boy was trying to follow me...there was an escape ladder built on the side of the house which i wrapped my pants around and slid down super fast then ran off into the dimly lit trees trying to get my pants back on though i was interrupted by an asian transvestite asking me directions...

use your tiger style

knew year of the metal tiger.
here is to feline dreams prowling us out...

(he)artists mean there dreams*

rediscovered this excerpt from an interview with devendra banhart this morning in a magazine i like called Tokion...
I once had this homeless man living with me for two weeks; I just picked him up on the street. I was getting a cup of coffee and he just started talking to me about some films that I love, The Color of Pomegranates and Holy Mountain. I thought, This guy is rad, and I was like, “Do you want to come over and take a shower?” He was going to stay indefinitely, and one morning I said, “What did you dream last night, man?” And he said, “I don’t like when people ask me that question so casually. Like, ‘Who won the game?’ Something personal like that really needs to be respected.” He told me that before he goes to bed he says, “I’m here, dream psychopomp. You’re going to lead me to the dream. I’m open to whatever you have to share and show me.”

He told me saying this is really helpful, so I thought I would try it. I was going through a tough time, and the dream I had showed something to me that eased my pain and gave me some real true understanding about the situation. I felt wonderful when I woke up, and immediately I get a phone call from a friend of mine, and she says, “Is there someone strange that you don’t really know living in your house?” I told her yeah, and she says, “Well, they got to get out. I had a weird dream about someone living in your house, and they have to get out of there.”

Normally in a million years I would have never kicked the guy out because some fool had a dream, but because of what he told me—“respect the dream”—I had to tell him to leave. He basically kicked himself out by telling me to respect dreams. Really strange. It was painful because he had been living on the streets for thirteen years, and he wasn’t an alcoholic or drug addict or mentally unstable. It was just one day he decided to walk into the desert and surrender his will, so he left his girlfriend, his car, his job and his apartment and gave himself to the kismet of exterior forces. If someone drives up and says, “Get in,” he’ll get in. It’s an attempt to be in the present.

Did you explain to him why he had to go? Yeah, he understood.

He told you his rules, and you applied them to him. Love it! I’m not a skeptic but I question—it’s important. A skeptic is a bummer. They’re always bummed out. You want to know why and how things work, but you want to see the magic in these things. An explanation should never be an attempt to erase the magic. You can ask why the caterpillar turns into the butterfly, you can explain it, but there is still some element in there that is magic. It’s the crossroads between God and everything.

You’re an accomplished visual artist as well. If you have a feeling, thought or idea, do you know immediately which medium you are going to express it in? No, not really. It’s like some mantra will arise, and I need to express it somehow. Yesterday it was, “No Destruction, No Creation,” over and over again. I need to destroy something in order to create something. I need to destroy something that I’m doing to myself in order to be in a different place to create something—to have that new perspective. Without destruction, there is no perspective. Without creation, there is no growth, and creation is change. Those aren’t literally the lyrics to a song, and that’s not something that I know what it looks like. I don’t know exactly what the drawing is, and I don’t know exactly what the lyrics are to convey that, so the place it comes from is a faceless, soundless, odorless, colorless place. The origin is more ethereal.

and to tie it in with last night's post, here is a music video that Michel Gondry did for one of Banhart's songs...



"i'd like to sleep sleep sleep with you..."

are we directors or directed?

aesthetics brim with surreal images and the playful imagination of a child- aren't most children constantly drifting in a sort of daydream in childhood, still retaining the ability to pass through a thin veil separating the waking and the hidden world of visions?

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (asleep, running about through a subconscious labyrinth of memories)

The Science of Sleep (do we ever really wake up?)

slivers-

UGO: What fascinates you about the idea of confusing reality with fantasy?
Michel Gondry: I don't think I want to confuse reality with fantasy. Reality confuses me with fantasy.
UGO: Do you have nightmares?
MG: Yeah, sure. Terrible ones. I dream that I bought an apartment in some weird street in Paris. A small workshop. I wake up and I'm like, "Oh that's true! Where did I put the key of this workshop?" I had to go through my hiding places for 20 minutes. I talked to scientists and they told me that there is a part of your brain that is not working when you're sleeping. When you wake up, part of the brain is lazy to get up. You can be fully operational and then believe what you dream is real so some of the stuff can be really scary.
UGO: So, much of the stuff in Science of Sleep is from your dreams?
MG: Yeah, not necessarily the visuals. I can't say I dream in cardboard. But I wanted to create a style that made you feel your imagination. It is not exactly how dreams are. You don't go into a world made from your hands, they are made from memories all mixed together.

and being interviewed by his 15 year old son...

PG: I really thought it was about you because you can never sleep and you always have these problems with dreams. You always write them down and talk about them.

MG: Do you remember your dreams?

PG: Yeah, but not always. When it's too much of a strong dream, I don't remember it because too many things happen and I get lost. I can't build a story. It becomes like a bunch of pieces, like a puzzle.

MG: Have you had the same dream many times?

PG: Yeah. You remember when we lived in Hollywood and there was this house that was covered with all these pieces of fabric? My dream was of that house. There's a tower in that house, and I'm in it just having a perfect view of the city. It's weird. You can't really explain a dream. That's why you did a good job with this movie because it's something that's hard to put on the screen.

MG: Your dream of this place may have something to do with lots of events that have happened that may be emotional. I have millions of dreams of the house where I grew up in Versailles.

and

this morning i dreamed of walking across people's front yards in an old neighborhood with tall trees, including a twin redwood, as well as a towering stone wall in one part that i was wondering if i would have to climb. it felt like the Northwest. i enjoyed not walking on the sidewalk or even the street but i also felt maybe i wouldn't be so happy if people just wandered through my yard. then i was wandering about some sort of retreat center. there was an older couple buried to their neck in what looked like a giant cheese block except it was actually some concoction of enzymes and minerals meant to do wonders. they were the inventors and smiling but it looked rather uncomfortable to me- rather like being paralyzed in a bowl of stale porridge. behind them was a huge aquarium tank with most beautiful blue water and it was filled with people doing aquatic yoga- little bubbles drifting from closed mouths as men and women held various poses suspended a dozen feet below the surface. one very fit man caught my eye as he extended his arms and throwing his weight into the soft pressure of absent gravity, spun himself about in whirling circles...

later in my waking day i heard from a friend in portland who told me she has been doing a yoga teacher training recently, feeling increasingly stronger with the daily practice amidst her circus of activities...

their tongues slip with dreaming loves

The skull of St Valentine in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin


for this day of lovers, their ghosts and saints...

(for the saints)

WHEN, WITH YOU ASLEEP...

When, with you asleep, I plunge into your soul,
and I listen, with my ear
on your naked breast,
to your tranquil heart, it seems to me
that, in its deep throbbing, I surprise
the secret center
of the world.

It seems to me
that legions of angels
on celestial steeds
-as when, in the height
of the night we listen, without a breath
and our ears to the earth,
to distant hoofbeats that never arrive-,
that legions of angels
are coming through you, from afar
-like the Three Kings
to the eternal birth
of our love-,
they are coming through you, from afar,
to bring me, in your dreams,
the secret of the center
of the heavens.

-Juan Ramon Jimenez (his eros bio)




(for the ghosts)

I was trying to find this interview I remember reading with Michel Gondry in which he discusses love and lovers- how old lovers will still often show up in our dreams long after separation and leave us waking with a sense of their presence...

...I remember returning home to Austin heartbroken on a greyhound bus from Chicago when I was around 21 years old. There was a coffeeshop I frequented called Mojo's and i had been building a soft acquaintance with a woman, Kate, there before I'd headed to Chicago. She had big, round opalescent blue eyes and it was mostly with those that I had mostly been speaking. On the bus I had a very intense dream that she was with an abusive lover. I think she had a black eye and bruises and I was very concerned, taking her under my protection. When I arrived back in town, I headed over to Mojo's around two in the morning for a pack of smokes, as well as a cure for my restlessness. There was Kate with her big eyes sitting in the corner. I walked over and told her about my dream, after which she immediately grasped my arm and said, "you're coming home with me." We began a brief and tempestuous affair that felt like a riotous dream. It turned out she was a bipolar manic-depressive who had not been taking her medication and had recently embarked on her annual breakdown tantrum. There was a little black cat, lots of Sufi poetry, channeling of a dead grandmother, other spirits- mostly in the radio, watercolors, laughter, and appropriated forms of voodoo. She soon earned the nickname, "The Tipsy Gypsy" and she followed me about with the hypnotic allure of a tornado, scraping me with gazes from those two bulging blue eyes. Despite her conviction, as told to others without my knowledge, that we would be getting married; our escapade as companions lasted only a month or so. She became my first, and hopefully last, stalker- waiting for me at work hours before my shift, then sulking and cursing when I wouldn't serve her any alcohol, returning later at night wobbling drunkenly in the arms of some stranger demanding money for a taxi. I found trinkets on my staircase- a gum wrapper, a little plastic doll. A wine bottle went missing from above the fridge- I learned later that she had crept in one day in my absence, and drunk it in its entirety before having sex on my bed with someone else. For at least a year after that she would show up in my dreams here and there like a silent witch, always leaving me anxious. I can still remember an image of her in a dream: it was night and i was wandering through a neighborhood and looked up to find her perched like a vulture on top of a roof nearby, staring at me with those saucer eyes. Back in the waking world, she eventually calmed down and in fact, last i heard, did end up getting married. And once we had reconnected after some space and forgave each other whatever grievances had lingered, i was relieved to find she no longer haunted the house of my dreams...

we all have sometimes dreams

Chucky: It's quiet here.

Fresh: Yeah I like to come here.

Chucky: It's lonesome. You know what's whack? When I'm down with the posse or at home and shit and everybody be screaming and yelling and shit, it gets real lonesome. It be like crowded and noise and screaming and suddenly it feels like I'm the only one there.

Fresh: The more people there is, the lonelier it get. I have this dream.

Chucky: Yeah, like what?

Fresh: Nothing. Sometimes I have it, that's all.

-from a film I love called Fresh.

evening escapades on the stages of our making.

this makes me feel like i've snuck into a dream. even the little girl sneaking out at night makes me think of her escaping into a wild place found only in the hours of slumber. feels like our waking imagination is also a kind of dreaming. and creative expression the closest medium capable of revealing slivers of the mystery. the ethereal threads like little silk connections between our states of being and seeing, eating and sleeping. always on the prowl to scout out signs and hidden meanings...

JumpTrumpRumpBump from Molasses Murphy on Vimeo.

Slash And Burn

EXT. WOODS-DAWN

The Boy opens his eyes, he hasn't been asleep, listening to the Man cough, worried. The Man returns and eyes the worried boy.

Man: What's wrong?
Boy: I had a weird dream.
Man: What about?
Boy: I don't want to tell you.
Man: Why not?

The Boy considers it.

Boy: I heard you coughing in the night.
Man: Were you awake?
Boy: It was in my dream. Then it woke me up.
Man: What else was in the dream?
Boy: Just you.
Man: What happened to me?

The Boy's face crinkles up, he starts to sob.

Man: Listen, when you dream about bad things happening it shows you're still fighting. You're still alive. It's when you start to dream about good things you should start to worry.
Boy: Do you dream about bad things too?
Man: All the time.

The Road

I watched the film adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's novel "The Road" yesterday. I haven't read the book though I had been told it was a rather bleak and depressing tale and that the film translated accordingly. A landscape washed free of color then filled with fire and ash, shadows and blood. Though filled with suffering and despair, I found the film to be hypnotic. Violence left in ruby ribbons splashed against the snow of an endless winter. In such a hopeless universe, gestures of compassion burn like flares. I found myself, like the characters, turning to stone or having my heart constantly shattered. A father and his son wandering a desolate world of bones and the barely living. There is a sense that this boy reserves one of the last slivers of divinity and innocence left in the world, and his father will do anything to protect it as it is the last piece of himself, may be the last piece of any of us...

Man: You have to keep carrying the fire.
Boy: What fire?
Man: The fire inside you.

Which ties into another McCarthy adaptation that made a huge impact on me- the film "No Country For Old Men." Another journey through a sparse landscape riddled with bullets, tense flights of escape, men and all their darkest questions...it ends with the telling of a dream:



Despite all these terse images, my dream in the afternoon was rather tame:

I got a call from a lover. She was at work but it had been turned into some sort of gallery and she had several pieces that had been chosen to be in it. i went walking to the cafe to get an espresso. it was getting dark and i noticed some change on the ground. i bent to scoop it up only to find more and more change appearing. i was most excited about a handful of quarters and felt like iwas becoming greedy and protective when a middle-aged couple stopped to gather coins too. i got to the Delta and an old foreign man with a thick accent began asking me questions in a somewhat condescending tone. he said he needed some scuba gear and seemed annoyed when i told him we didn't have any but for whatever reason i was amused and politely told him to go to the store across the street. He insisted that others had given him terrible directions to things before and he didn't trust me so i offered to walk him across the street. the cafe at this point had turned into Rutamaya, the cafe i used to work at in Austin. I didn't recognize any of the stores and quickly apologized to the man, admitting he was right about misdirections, but excusing myself with the fact that i hadn't lived in austin in a long time and i no longer knew its landscape as well as i once had. this frustrated me a bit...

p.s.sst

albums that soundtracked today-

MV & EE with the Golden Road "Drone Trailer"

Jose James "Black Magic"

Ekkehard Ehlers & Paul Wirkus "Ballads"

Cocteau Twins "BBC Sessions"

When you lay me down...

in sifting slips, seeking what from lips might lean towards the dreams, i flipped through Roots and Wings where my finger pointed this:

"Darken me, erase me,
Blessed sleep,
As I lie under a heaven that mounts
Its guard over me."

-Jorge Guillen
from Quiero Dormir(I Want To Sleep)

which eventually led me here:

"I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea."

-Federico Garcia Lorca

from the beginning of Gacela of the Dark Death

Very fitting, as Lorca gave me the Somnambulist kissing in my ribs, brought back Luna, and sent me on the drift...

inception.

initiation.
in sleep- walking, waking, and talking.

my self.
all selves.
ourselves.

textual sketches.
reference points.
marked
and
marking.

works in progress.
nebulous,
curious,
and
unrehearsed...