[This dream occurred at roughly 7am, after I had crawled back into bed following completion of all twelve steps of my morning qigong meditation.]
We were driving down a steep hill in a grey vehicle. I was in the passenger seat greatly concerned that we would crash into the debris that dotted the grassy hill - beams and bars of steel, piles of sandstone blocks, and stacks of cut wood. At the top of a rise we stopped, where I voiced my concerns to the driver, who merely stared forward, his face an unreadable mien. Below the rise stood the first tee of a disc-golf course next to a dead tree, but my companion turned and walked back up the way we’d come. I followed him back upward onto a dirt path that lead along a ridge covered in snow, from which we surveyed the surrounding countryside of cultivated fields, scattered woods, and distant farm houses.
Walking back down to the tee, we came upon a half dozen other persons kitted out for disc golf. Somewhere nearby but out of sight a person was screaming with horrible urgency, which scared me enough that I ran for shelter. The formerly dead tree had grown tremendously, great reaching tendrils of a hardened, textured, grey plastic that dug back into the ground, forming a wall. Finding my exit blocked, I turned to find the others standing close by, a massive newcomer in their midst. (He reminded me of a figure from my childhood, a giant scotsman dressed in battle fatigues.) The newcomer apologized for the screaming in a way that took my fear away, at which point the dream changed radically.
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
This author is changing his usual daily writing efforts, preferring haiku to prose in an effort to avoid speaking divisively. He finds that there is enough vituperation being posted online and appearing on paper, these days. Laboring to point out the faults and shortcomings of politicians and society at large is exhausting work; unless there are radical shifts in income and wealth distribution, a rekindling of compassion for the less fortunate, and an adjustment of the public mindset away from ego-driven materialism, trying to come up with feasible solutions to common problems faced by all Americans is akin to flogging a dead horse.
Hence haiku, the five seven five, which allows him to say something meaningful without saying anything concrete. Shadowed hints and subtle nudges are more likely than brute-force tactics to succeed in sewing useful doubt and shattering inflated egos. Among the primary purposes of the LieSmith and Americanifesto writing projects is to play the tenth man, to look at the world from non-habitual and irregular points of view. The ends he strives for are democracy, happiness, liberty, and prosperity; only his means are different.
To make weak butter
Skim off the layer of cream
Blandness remains, then
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
The first dream I remember was a waking one in which my eyes were open and I was looking across the room toward the door. A face slid out from behind a patch of darkened wall and I greeted it out loud, saying, “Hello.” Something scared me - either the face greeting me back or a subsequent but forgotten part of the dream - and I awoke into full consciousness.
In the the second dream I was inside a long, rectangular room that was filled with diner booths or work cubicles. There were people sitting in most of the booths, and the room was loud with conversation. For some reason I kept walking from the front of the room down the corridors separating the booths to my own cubicle, which was in the back. At some point I met a dark-haired man of about my age, whom I allowed to sit at my booth. I went again to the front of the room and when I came back there was another man sitting at my booth also, a bald and aged fellow. I was concerned for the valuables stored inside my booth and became angry with the two men, telling them to leave my area. Upon waking up soon thereafter, I remembered my expressed desire to be kind to and accepting of the people visiting me in my dreams, and felt remorse for yelling at the two men.
The third dream I remember involved me looking into a mirror, adjusting my hair. (This is unusual, since I rarely look at myself in the mirror while awake.) I was in a poorly-lit bathroom wetting my forelock when I noticed a crescent-shaped tattoo that ran across my forehead from one temple to the next. The tattoo was an image (such as the one seen here) of a sunset viewed from behind the little or seaside shrine, Pura Luhur Enjung, located in Canggu, Bali, Indonesia. Above my right eye were the curved tops of the shrine’s holiest of holies, above my left eye was a sun setting over the waves of Old Man’s surf break.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
dreamstate writing 3 April 2017
(After my pre-dawn qigong practice I had crawled back into bed, at which point these dreams occurred. It had had been a difficult, trying practice, the right side of my brain raging and intrusive.)
I was sitting with a blonde-haired girl on a concrete sidewalk next to an asphalted motorway. We were on the top of a low hill. It was bright, daytime; the sky was blue. Brick structures stood across the road to our front left and farther down the rise to our right rear. Walking paths had been worn into the scrub grasses that covered the now-empty lots around us where buildings had once stood. My bicycle lay in the grass behind us, and some part me remembers having just left a cluster of abandoned and crumbling single-storey buildings somewhere nearby.
A person drove past in a rocket-powered sled of some sort, gunning the engine to maintain speed. Though it was a warm spring day there was still enough snow on the motorway to allow the the sled to slide along quickly, without its steel skis kicking up sparks. I pointed it out to my companion, who seemed nonplussed, saying something like “Oh yeah, that’s a...” (I forget the name she used for the contraption.)
The next thing I remember was being in a house with colorful walls, watching a couple - a man and woman I knew well - getting ready to venture forth on an outing. They bustled back and forth within the large kitchen where I too stood, gathering things and talking to each other in quiet, friendly tones. Bright, golden light streamed into their abode from windows set into its thick outer walls to my left, warming the parquet flooring and wooden kitchen furniture. To my right was an inner wall painted an earthy red. The two were dressed in mismatched but colorful clothing, leggings and long-sleeved undershirts under shorts and t-shirts. Both wore what appeared to be straw hats with bandanas tied around their chins to keep the hats in place. They vacated the structure through a door to my rear, leaving me behind. I went to a cupboard at the far end of the room where I knew I would find a vacuum-sealed coffee thermos and a rolled up yoga-mat. The items were indeed there. I spoke with a companion, the blonde-haired girl perhaps, explaining something to her as I took out the items. I remembered, then, that I had similar items elsewhere, and put them carefully back into the cupboard.
Realizing that I had other places to be, I exited into an inner courtyard with red walls. Rectangular stones paved the courtyard, which was littered with wheeled contraptions, ancient wooden pushcarts perhaps. As I was walking toward the gate that led to the outside, I passed under a broad arch that led to the exit. In the adobe above my head, directly in the center of the arch, was an opening that appeared to have been hastily-patched with a rusted ventilation register, into which I peered, finding however little of interest.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑
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Among other things I am barber, bicyclist, surfer, vagabond, writer, and yogi.