‘Twas my speaker, not me. 07.14.21
Tag: writer
I have entered the dream world
it is dark
madness ensues
I’ve come unglued
monsters lurk and
a peculiar quirk
has taken hold of me
reality not what it seems
I have entered the dream state
it passes over my waking eyes
a film, betraying a wild guise
a darkness taking over me
absent absent is the light
in a nightmare world
full of haunting fright
how could it feel so right!
I have entered the dream
I see its walls surrounding me
seemingly limitless,
yet I cannot run further
than my limitations
in a meat puppet state
I cannot wait any longer
to start becoming stronger
I must lucid make
my dull dreaming mind
I cannot afford to become unkind
— not now! —
and forget …
I must remember the dream
has taken hold of me
it’s pulled me in and under
and threatens to rip asunder
all that I’ve worked for
all that my continuum has worked for
to lose all I have and more
futures of past work
I cannot be the jerk
that throws it all away
and yet,
I cannot be the one to stay
I must wake up!
Still, I have been pulled under
I have metamorphosed as a cicada
to scratch my way to the surface,
crawling above ground
to birth such sound
and to shed such skin and skeleton
like the selfless king
abandons his crown!
while in samsara’s sea they drown
no more
I must wake up!
In the dream world
imagination is the creator
of all sights and sounds
and smells and feels and fears
and tastes and don’t forget
the touches you don’t get
— your mind creates those too
in the dream world
the artist thrives or dies
depending on will and disposition
— or is it now our despotism?
for it is time I must remind
(who?)
it’s pure imagination
— creepy factories aside —
I have entered the dream world
and so I say goodbye
to the ordinary people I once knew
to the human race in which I grew
to the good friends, in numbers few,
oh how when I write, I will miss you!
but only a solo journey ensues
(the synonym is madness)
for it’s certainly not entirely lonely
with all those characters arguing in there
CAN YOU SHUT THE HELL UP
FOR JUST A SECOND
SO I CAN PRETEND
TO BE NORMAL?
Nope.
Not fair.
This familiarity is based on
past impressions
with no guarantee of
future impressions
(& little return on investment)
you think I’d shift gears
Alas! like so many lifetimes
before me
I write
I enter the dream state
I strive
I will realize my mind
this time,
with a qualified Spiritual Guide.
Categories
Artist’s Way | FF 19
Are we artists all the same?
we, the multi-disciplined
divining a spiritual path
questioning unquestioned reform
Novelist, short story author, essayist, poet, painter
We have a list beside our names
objectifying our existence
and grounding us a permanent fixture
While we strive for freedom
against false gravity
the weight of awards and titles
the pain the being misunderstood
consistently
The artist is but a reflection of the mind
the life a play, a temporary gimmick
a genius’ work is rarely critiqued
by a mind of equal stature
The spiritual path appears to isolate
and still we cannot help but wonder
when others will understand
that it was worth it in the end
Categories
Solipsist | Letter 5
To My Muse,
A figment of my diabolical imagination. Silly lustful yearning, for you, a character from a fantasy novel I have written. You’re just the right amount of work, and we are ever unwittingly competitive. Keeps things exciting for an airy mind. Don’t you agree?
Of course, every dialogue we’ve held, every discourse exchanged has been in my mind. I try to throw you into my material world, but you don’t hold fast. I watch you release yourself time and again. So I have become addicted to the yearning for you, my muse, more than friend, almost lover, pedestalled perfection. Unconquerable, you stole my heart.
You are no strawman, and I cannot set you alight. You burn with your own passion and you spark something within me. I press on, inspired by my muse, yearning to show you what you’ve never before seen in this lifetime.
In quiet moments, when we can visit, I set us in the most unromantic places, so that a stolen glance is worth more than gold and the brush of an arm is too much. That touch, a subtle message for skin, instructs to flush. Grasping at flesh beneath clothes is knotty and taking too long. I worry the forbidden entanglement be discovered.
Out of this reverie, I am bound to chair and desk only by my own resolve to commit a fictitious tale to tablet, entertaining who it may. Spurred on like my muse’s mare, pressed with gentle kicks, cropped with supple whip, and treated with ultimate kindness though used at his whim.
My heart stolen, when you pressed yourself upon my chest. Your bosom lay where no man’s did, and so you have taken it, locked it away, like chastity, rare and precious.
I feel as though I watch you from behind a thick tapestry. Perhaps one revealing the fairytale of us, the almost ever afters, spiraling toward oblivion, time immaterial.
I whisper, I’m going to make one of those shifty eye paintings, and you shall be my star.
You lean over me once more, whispering your muse-like song:
I shall take your mind to moorelands far away. I shall dance you through the night and day. Joy and fun and boundless love and romance between us, this is where I long to stay.
And then, once more, you fade away.
My muse has gone away.
Just for now,
Adieu
The best discipline I ever received from a teacher in elementary school was, “I’m not telling you not to do it. I’m telling you not to get caught.” He was referring to my poetry notebook confiscated by a substitute teacher. She had taken particular offense to the metaphor I drew of my homeroom teacher as the falling sun.
Mr. Watson was one of few teachers who did not actively try and kill my childhood dreams of becoming a creative. The first time I received in-school support was from my grade two teacher: he laminated one of the first stories I wrote.
I carefully crafted my dreams in secret for most of my young life. Teachers and many other adults were unskillful at nurturing big ideas. They were small dreamers, and they functioned to place limits on all young lives they touched. This was my experience anyway.
There is a Bob Dylan quote that goes, “Destiny is a feeling you have that you know something about yourself nobody else does. The picture you have in your own mind of what you’re about will come true. It’s a kind of a thing you kind of have to keep to your own self, because it’s a fragile feeling, and if you put it out there, then someone will kill it. It’s best to keep that all inside.”
I feel this truth. When you have a special idea or dream or talent, it’s important to keep some of it to yourself. You have a personal legend, a treasure, and it’s perfectly okay to guard that. In fact, I believe you should. Not everything is meant for the world to see. People kill ideas. We see it every day. Not one idea can be agreed on by all people – so why try and make it so?
Keep doing what you love, what’s precious to you. At the right time, you’ll be able to reveal it to a select section of the world: your special audience. In its infancy, you must guard your personal legend so it can’t be torn down by people who take joy in setting other people’s limitations. In the meantime, work on removing self-imposed restrictions. Encourage others wherever you can, and this gesture will be returned tenfold.
Your potential knows no bounds.
The Halfwit Writer 