dreams

Dreams are weird

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And by weird, I mean it in the contemporary sense, which is bizarre, strange, a bit nutty.

However, I read a study recently where its authors propose that dreams are also weird (my word not the authors) in the word’s more historical sense, which is supernatural, a la the Weird Sisters and/or Weird Tales.

And by supernatural (again, my word not theirs), I mean it in its literal sense, or at least in the-word-defines-its-meaning sense, which is beyond nature…

Or at least nature as we I know it.

And by beyond nature as I know it, I mean portals to other dimensions of being (their words not mine).

To wit:

This paper seeks to elucidate dreams’ profound effects on our psychological landscape, shaping our perceptions, behaviours, and perhaps even ontological orientation. It aims to contribute to a deeper understanding of consciousness, challenging the boundaries between subjective and objective reality, and opening avenues for further interdisciplinary research into the mystique of the dreaming mind. Through this exploration, we aim to decipher dreams’ content and potential significance as portals to other dimensions of being (my emphasis, not theirs) inviting us to reconsider the essence of reality as experienced through the dream state.

Dreams as Portals to Parallel Realities and Reflections of Self by Dave Leong and Oxana Zinych, December 18, 2023

It amazes me how we humans are forever trying to find meaning from our dreams, as bizarre, strange, and nutty as they often are. And if they aren’t weirding us me out, then they are either befuddling me or scaring the bejeezus out of me. Rarely do I get one of those heavenly lucid flying dreams or any other kind that is wholesome and uplifting to the soul.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I actually enjoy having weird, befuddling, spooky dreams; and I appreciate them as one of those intriguing and mysterious spices of life. What I do complain about is how fleeting their details are. It is so frustrating to wake up knowing I just had an epic dream, but not being able to recall in detail what it was about.

But that frustration doesn’t deter me from slipping into one of my Jungian phases where I’m intent on recording as much about my dreams as possible so I can use them, via a kind of Jungian Active Imagination hocus pocus, to, not so much understand my dreams, but to use them to help bring me more in tune with the Universal Collective Soul/Conscious/God.

Jung is a trip (Ad)

Is that the right approach to discover one’s deeper meaning of existance? Who knows? Certainly not me. Which is why I put as much value in what a study or any so-called expert says the purpose of dreams are as I do in someone/anyone trying to tell me what to expect in the afterlife, which is just about zero.

But it is fun to speculate.

And it is from such speculation — about dreams and death, or more specifically our my fear of death — that Sorrow was born.

And which, hopefully, will be available at Amazon within the week.

A disillusioned aging white male forsakes all humanity, changes his name to Sorrow, and begins identifying as an it, just as its white son learns his Black girlfriend is pregnant, and you begin a murderous rampage targeting interracial couples just like them.

If you are interested in helping Kurt me out by reading and posting a review upon Sorrow’s release, you can request a prepublication copy by sending an email to hank@kurtbrindley.com.

Right on.

Where do all the dreams go

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In the 12-month period that ended in April, more than 100,000 Americans died of overdoses, up almost 30 percent from the 78,000 deaths in the prior year, according to provisional figures from the National Center for Health Statistics. The figure marks the first time the number of overdose deaths in the United States has exceeded 100,000 a year, more than the toll of car accidents and guns combined. Overdose deaths have more than doubled since 2015.

Overdose Deaths Reached Record High as the Pandemic Spread, New York Times, November 17, 2021

~~~~~

where do all the dreams go
when the hope for tomorrow
dies along the way

Memories Like a Dream

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My father and I are struggling to mount his just purchased used dirt bike to the back of our black VW bug and I’m giddy as a child because I am a child and then as a family we’re out in the field that runs past the yard with scythes hacking out trails that run past and around the old sagging barn and then beyond into and out of the wood as we sweat under the intense mid-summer sun but I don’t care because I know the reason why we’re all out there and I had never worked so hard and with such purpose and then finally I’m on the back of that bike with my arms tight around my mother’s waist as we fly through and around those trails that I had helped to lay as spiteful thorn bushes strive futilely to slow us down and thick burrs glom onto our pants and socks and hang on for their own lives as I hang on for mine and when we finish the ride that seemed to have lasted only seconds and mom powers the down the motorcycle in the driveway and I holler out jeez that sure was fun! she whips her helmeted head around and fires off one of her patented scolding looks at me thinking that I had just taken the lord’s name in vain…

#fromoutoftheblue
#amdreaming

 

YOUR DREAMS ARE DEAD | A Relating to Humans Women’s Issues Feature

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YOUR DREAMS ARE DEAD
by perfect_mayhem

These four words flew into the forefront of my brain along with what felt like gallons of blood as I was bent over the floor around my son’s desk retrieving his crumpled up artistic attempts. He is nearly 7 years old and a truly gifted artist. I do not say this because he is my son. A sharp pencil or pen and paper is his chosen medium and from the depths of his soul he creates beautiful and intricate abstracts and hilariously haunting caricatures. We are a homeschooling family therefore he is privileged to practice and delve deeper into his art every day for hours on end. I encourage it, I love it. This is what I want for my children, why I homeschool, so passion can arise organically and be nurtured.

As I am in his room tidying up and thinking “your dreams are dead,” I shout out to my husband “is this it for me, is my life over?” “Yes,” he says. He always answers my nihilistic questions nihilistically. To a large extent, he is right. In a permanent way that you cannot change your mind about like you can the dream of wanting to be a successful blogger or to own a Louis Vuitton bag, bringing children into the world is a dream all to itself. The dream of children trumps all other dreams. I remind myself of that anytime I despair about not having an aspiration to call my own or even an uninterrupted shower to call my own. I wanted this. These children were and are my dream realized. It is exciting to watch the unfolding of these beautiful human beings. And I am their mother. I am honored to be their safe-space, the place-holder as they venture in and out of their artistic worlds through play and meaningful work.

However. As I near my mid-30’s, I find myself being less and less content with this idea. I still have something to offer, I have ideas that flood my head nightly once everyone else is asleep and the silence settles in. There have been times when I felt disgruntled about life and have thought about this character that I have seen portrayed in television and movies of the overbearing mother who regrets that she never did anything with her life so she nags, meddles, cuts-down and eventually alienates her children. It could have been different if only she had made a life for herself outside of her role as wife and mother. This persona would top the list as the worst version of myself. I don’t want to envy my children and begrudge them of their dreams.

There is another way. And I already know where to start. I have been cultivating hopes and desires for people in my family for years. For a passion to bloom, a person needs tools, space and opportunity to create. My children deserve that. I deserve that. You deserve that. As adults, we have to make that happen for ourselves. There is no mother or father around to do it for us now, or maybe, ever. We are creative-space incarnate. No. More. Excuses.
 

perfectmayhem.org

 

Our vision for our short film LEAVE is to create a cinematic work of art that both entertains and inspires positive change. If you are a #WomeninFilm Los Angeles-based Director interested in captaining our production, please contact me.

 
 

Wishful Thinking

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There have been many o’ mornings throughout my life that I have laid in bed, fighting with the snooze button on the alarm clock, wishing that something would happen in my life that would make work go away forever.

We all know the old saw: Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.

Well, I got my wish.

I just didn’t expect it to be answered in the form of a debilitating lung disease.

I was hoping more for…oh, I don’t…newfound riches…being elected king for life on a small tropical island…alien abduction…just about anything other than what I actually got.

But as the new saw goes: It is what it is.

So now what?

Before the lung disease, I was messing around with that leukemia thingy for the past year and it had kept me and my family plenty busy. I was back and forth to the hospital so much and feeling so crappy I didn’t have the time or effort to do much more than sit around, take my meds, and feel sorry for myself.

But just when I was starting to feel somewhat like what I used to feel like before all that leukemia thingy…just when I was beginning to ponder what it was going to be like returning to a normal life (normal meaning back to the daily morning battles with the alarm clock, the cursed commutes, and, of course, work)…just then…without any warning…BOOM…the doctor dropped the bomb on me.

Lung disease.

A lifetime with the constant feeling of slow suffocation.

A lifetime of high, daily doses of steroids.

A lifetime with the constant threat of diabetes and of osteoporosis.

A lifetime with a degraded immune system.

And, by the way, a lifetime of no more work.

I didn’t see that coming.

So much for my dream of helping to build a small company into a megarich, international conglomerated corporation and becoming rich enough to buy a professional sports franchise.

I guess I’ll just have to stash that dream away with my other unrealized dream of becoming an international rock star.

It all still hasn’t really sunk in yet.

I’m only forty-five years old. Regardless of my disease, I plan on hanging around for a very long time.

What the heck is a guy who has reluctantly been holding some form of drudgery…er, I mean, a job…since he first started delivering newspapers sometime around the time our nation celebrated its bicentennial birthday supposed to do with all of his newly “free” time?

What the heck am I supposed to do with myself for the next however many years I have left on this rock?

Well, I do have other yet unrealized dreams.

One of them is to write.

Not just bloggery writing like I am doing right now.

I mean to really write.

To write books.

And not just to write them.

To have them published.

And not just to publish them but to write them in a way that people want to read them.

I want to write in such a way that enables me to be able to proudly call myself a writer…An Author!…and not feel like a creepy, amateurish dork when I do.

So that’s what I’m doing.

I’m writing.

I’ve written.

I’ve written a novel called THE SEA TRIALS OF AN UNFORTUNATE SAILOR.

I’ve written a collection of poetry called POEMS FROM THE RIVER.

They will be available via e-book and pdf on (fingers crossed) February 19, 2011.

You can read a synopsis and first chapter of the book at bojiki.com/book.

But you know what? I wrote most of the novel and the poetry collection before I had all this free time that I now have. I wrote them slowly, sporadically, painfully, over a fifteen-year or so period when I was a working class stiff.

Now that I can fully devote myself to writing I should be able to blissfully write for hour after hour every day, right?

I should be able to crank out a novel every six months, or so, right?

Well, maybe…but, I have quickly discovered that writing fulltime is hard.

I am finding it hard to be disciplined enough to write every day.

It’s hard to sit down with laptop in hand…er, I mean on lap…and to think of stuff that other people might want to read.

I am finding that writing is like…

work!

Back when I was writing while I was still working out in the real world, writing was more like a hobby. I didn’t have to do it. I did it because it was fun…or at least cathartic.

It was fun writing crappy poems and crappy short stories and a crappy novel because I didn’t have to worry about feeding my children from the proceeds of their sales. I could pretend I was a writer without actually having to make the commitment of calling myself a writer.

Sure it stung a bit every time I received a rejection slip from publishers, but who cared. I still had a day job.

But now I have no cover. I have found that writing full time is hard work and I have no fallback position.

Well, I’m on disability so I guess I could always fall back onto the position of doing nothing. Do nothing but sit around, collect my monthly payments, and…

wait…

for…

something…

to…

happen.

Zzzz…

Who the hell wants to do nothing for the rest of your life when you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to recreate yourself into whatever you want to be (provided that whatever you want to be can mostly be accomplished within the confines of your home…and the internet)?

I have declared that I want to be a writer.

And I find that’s it’s hard work.

And now I feel a little exposed.

And a little vulnerable.

And a lot like a creepy, amateurish dork.

But I don’t wish for it to be any other way.

Because we all know to be careful of what we wish for, right?