UPDATE: Dreams As A Mirror Of The Self: dream

Dreams are interesting things. For millennia, mankind has attempted to interpret his dreams, to divulge their esoteric and other-worldly meaning. No doubt, our mindset, our waking thoughts, our worries, and the circumstances surrounding our lives have an influence over the unconscious manifestations in our dreams. You can learn a lot about yourself if you listen to the content. 

I always gage the quality of my sleep based on how many dreams I can remember in the morning. Some people can't remember their dreams, although I'm sure they still exert an influence on them while they're awake. Even our nightmares, particularly recurring fears and themes, are a means of getting more in touch with ourselves. Perhaps they represent an opportunity to face something that hinders you in your waking hours and challenges you to overcome your conscious fears.    

I know many expressive people who's dreams have made thier way into their poetry, painting, and music. Always reflect on your dreams in the morning to learn something from them and use them to enrich your life. They are, after all, yours.      

dream

behind these rancid eyes

hides a bag of hopes and a box of lies,

i push aside 

to find you still asleep

your eyelashes were fluttering,

a symphony of peace they spun,

just like the night before

until i woke up to find the sun

my mind was still a haze

as i erased the past few days

and found myself alone with thoughts

of someone i had never known

with her image in my head

i laid there in bed

and knew her love had still in me yet grown

yearning for that gift,

i fell silent once again,

awaiting if or when

into sleep i would drift 

as i did, she was there

and hadn’t moved a finger or a toe,

and as i crept closer,

i felt the lust in me grow

feeling her breath upon my lips,

in my head i begged, ‘a kiss’

‘a kiss for i and no one else’

‘a kiss for me’

‘for myself’

i knelt beside her breast  

and now the heart inside my chest,

the heart i held for years alone

and shared with no one else

had fallen silent hence no more,

erased the pain i had abhorred,

and beat faster,

ever faster,

far faster than before

my pulse felt shattered with delight

having found a love of which i’m sure

this loneliness in me i see will vex me no more

for now i lay my lips to hers 

and know this is no dream

her taste is sweet, her affection pure

and in that moment, i believed

but as i opened up my eyes,

the sunlight compelling me to weep,

i see 

i had never known true love 

for i had lived it in a dream 

UPDATE

My first book of poetry, Death By Active Movement, has officially released. You can order your copy by going to the link above.

#DBAM 

The Nature of Memory: I Remember

Memory is a funny, fickle thing. When we want to forget things, we can't, and when we want to remember things... we can't. Sometimes, a smell, a piece of music, even a place we haven't seen in so long can coax a plethora of old, dusty memories to assert themselves. Little time machines. Memories of trauma can lead to the development of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and in Alzheimer's patients,    newer memories disappear first, while older, mundane memories resurface.

In fact, from a scientific point of view, there is still so much we don't understand about the nature of memory. What is not debated is how important memories are to us and how influential they can be on us. They define a person and constitute their individuality. The idea of manipulating our memories or having them stolen away from us feels... heinous.

Perhaps the strangest and most precious gift of memory is when you rediscover something you haven't thought about in so long. A time, a place, a feeling, a sense, a being. Sometimes they're sad, sometimes their joyous, but each contributes to the person you are now. Let's do a writing exorcise: Write down as many things as you can starting with "I remember..." in 5 minutes. It's good to revisit old memories, to appreciate them, to cherish them, and to understand a little bit more about yourself.

I Remember 

I remember the fear I felt for my father.

I remember playing in the fountain in the front yard of my grandmother’s neighbor’s house when I was three. I remember playing with the pots and pans in my grandmother’s kitchen cabinets when I was three.

I remember the sound of the frog as it hit the water of Crescent Lake after he threw it from the shore. I remember its guts in its mouth.

I remember the scars on her thighs.

I remember the dream I had the night before last. I remember the car accident, being thrown through the windshield, landing on the hood of the other car, and the partial paralysis. I remember the grief when I realized I wouldn’t be able to perform poetry again. I remember the relief when I woke up.

I remember the necklace I threw to the floor in the hallway in high school, the Christ head with the engraving on the back that my godmother gave me when I was born. I never saw it again.

I remember the guilt when I let the wind take your tin full of meringues on Halloween.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for you to love me again.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for the strength to let you go.

I remember what my cat smelled like.

I remember burning my tongue on chicken fingers in the New Hampshire fog.

I remember when I learned the word, “Fuck.”

I remember just a moment ago.

I remember sobbing hysterically on the bathroom floor of the boy’s room in tenth grade. I remember the sound of confusion in the other boy’s voice when he found me there and told me he was sorry for whatever it was I was crying about.

I remember the smell of marijuana on her clothes.

I remember when I lost my virginity. It was O.K.

I remember when I used to spit on my teachers, curse them out, and punch holes in the walls.

I remember white rooms.

I remember the shower in the hospital, the glue from my hair coagulating on my shoulders. It was a long shower. 

Self-Preservation: The Cafone

Pride gets a bad rep. Sure, there are instances where we need to set aside our pride, but pride is a healthy means of self-preservation. To some, the pride is easily bruised, while others take pride in the fact that they can laugh at themselves. Pride is a good way to gauge your sense of identity; take pride in your uniqueness, your strength, your experiences, and your positivity. When we sense our pride being threatened or offended, that is a good opportunity to step back and evaluate the situation. What has caused this sense to arise? Is my sense of self under fire or am I merely taking myself too seriously? It is a delicate balance that takes skill and confidence to consider. 

In certain instances, however, when the pride calls for your aid or recognition, your sense of self may be threatened by the situation at hand. In such situations, we need to make a choice: Preserve the self (ala pride) or modify the self. Such situations often represent moral dilemmas or call our values into question. Through it all, we must remember that the self - a self that is loved, above all else, - must be kept in a constant state of becoming. It is a perpetual fixer-upper. When such situations assert themselves, we must ask: What is right for me? What do i stand to lose? Never ignore the call of your pride and never throw your sense of identity under the bus.        

The Cafone

He served me a generous platter of oily pigs’ feet. The garcon was adorned in a glaucous vest with vertical gray lines, a cerulean bowtie, pleated pants, and a button up, starched and bleached, long sleeved dress shirt with silver cuff links. There was an orange grease stain on his wrist.

The man across from me was dredging his dirty fingers in a mound of pig appendages he too had been awarded, piling them without hesitation into his snapping jaws. Transfixed by the popping suction sound of his chewing, with wide, oscillating jowls as the meat was imbedded deep between his uneven, gnashing teeth, I watched his thick eyebrows thrash with jubilation. The mixture of liquefied fat and saliva dribbled down each of his multiple chins and seeped into the napkin he had pinched between his thick neck and taught collar. He laughed maniacally.

I watched a piece of meat, formerly perched on the back of his tongue, fly across the table and land beside the saltshaker. Droplets splattered all across the tablecloth. He undid his tie and frustratingly flung it onto the tabletop, while loosening the jacket of his $2,000 suit. As he did, his elbow grazed a pile of naked knucklebones in a hors d’oeuvre plate beside the dwindling entre, fossils left in the wake of his gluttony. One of them rolled off like a die and approached the edge of the table, tumbling off and onto the toe of his polished leather shoe with a tap. He inhaled sharply. Choking, he coughed up still more particulates to span the space between us.

“Enjoy!” he said, gargling protein and gesturing with his pruned hand toward my untouched plate.

I swallowed loudly against the clatter of colliding dishes and glasses in the half-empty bistro, the sound of its closing creeping in from all directions. I wondered then, wallowing in my disgust and eating only doubt, just how much I was willing to sacrifice at the expense of my ambitions. 

   

The Preciousness of the Mundane: Secret House

I think we all have the ideal conception of a home or event that we would like to experience or live; an imaginary place that soothes us with the possibility of its existence. The most precious places are often stumbled upon unexpectedly, causing us to stand in awe of their quaintness. To a child, these conceptions are far more rampant and seem to exist wherever they go.

Trying to recapture the fascination and imagination of childhood in adulthood is, ironically, a skill to be mastered. The world seems more inclined to make us leave it behind than to hold onto it. Try to recall that sense of wonder when discovering something new and mundane in the backyard; the creepiness of the basement; the looming presence of the attic; or that patch of woods around the corner requires patience and passion. As a child, everything seemed so strangely special and we would amass these incredible stories, ludicrous explanations, to account for them. A cardboard box suddenly became a castle, or a space craft, or a cave.

These desires manifest themselves in ideals rekindled in adulthood: The dream house, the perfect wedding, or a happy career. That sense of wonder and appreciation of the mundane and trivial, however, is tossed by the wayside. I implore you to hold your inner child close and to allow his or her silly thoughts to cloud your mind from time to time. Slow down, anthropomorphize the monotony of your life, and add zeal to the bustle between dusk and dawn.        

Secret House

There is a place upon a mountain of crystal
High above city smog
A coveted place hidden in shadow
Shrouded in mist and fog
With walls clad with brick and stone
And windows of stained glass
Carpeted in kaleidoscopic flowers
With sunlight always cast
There are waterfalls and butterflies
A smell of honey and dew
A house of gingerbread, it seemed
Like a fairytale come true
Where no knees were ever skinned
But much mischief could be found
With adventures kept in every corner
And laughter thrown around
No memory was left behind
And no smiles to regret
Childhood stories forever told
That old minds could never forget  

The Smell of Money: Skullduggery

Cha-ching!

Have you ever rationalized through the use of money? Have you ever tried to trace back its original usage to discern how it developed into the way we use it today? I recognize the practicality with which it was employed, but in its present incarnation - everyone trying to maximize acquisition while minimizing loss, catching things while they're on sale, buying things with nonexistent money, and then accruing more money for not returning the money you didn't have in the first place - it seems to be no more than a farce. Morality is tossed by the wayside as the precession of the financial parade rolls by. A man is measured by the quality of his work, not the quality of his heart. In a corporate world, there are no allies.

There are some who have bowed at the feet of the Almighty Dollar, evoking its compassion and reaping of its supposed benefits. Though, it seems rather incongruent that our dreams and aspirations should come with a steep price tag. Is it non-negotiable? Sorry, but I'm on a budget. Why should we be limited by an economic reality? I see no Wall Street in nature. Does my soul carry a credit score? It seems ironic that currency is almost entirely made of cotton, while it rarely keeps us warm. I have met far more wealthy men with a poor character than I have met penniless men without a rich one.   
   

In whom does God's money trust?

Skullduggery

Walk alone

On a jagged road

No place to go

No home

To call my own

Want the best of this world with an empty pocket

Seal it up tight in a box or locket

Collect all the reveries and memories

And make a heart shaped balloon to take me far away from here

Thank God for imagination

My one way trip

My final destination

Wrapped me in the wounds of expectation

And sow me up tight

Don’t want any representation

No paperback dream

No voice to scream

No hands to bleed

And no eyes to free 

A faceless meaning in a blank dictionary

An insignificant dot in the obituaries

No synonyms

No acronyms

Wasted soul set to sail on a boat full of holes

Doomed to sink into this deep sea of wishes

That had to come true

Windowpane of longing

See, but don’t touch

No, can’t touch!

Need to prove to everyone something that can’t be seen

But you can lie to everyone, as long as you’ve got the “green”

Walleted world we live in

Everything is fraudulent

Set to mock and shun us

Make fun of us

The door to beauty stained

Tainted with the fingerprints of the deranged

Czar

President

King

Emperor

Ruler of the world

A filthy world

Lovely and once beautiful

She’s all that we’ve got

So you rape her

Deprave her

Try to escape her

Live in her womb while you try to claim her

Feeding off her insides

Glutton!

Tarring out her eyes

While you see nothing!

Bruise and break her

But she’s still prettier than you

So goodbye!

I won’t accept this play anymore

Theater of puppet strings

You pull while we push

Scars and calamity

Always dying in vain

Because we know

All those fingers

Are jammed back in your face 

Stringing You Along: Corsage, Croissant, Crochet, Croquet

We've all been backstabbed by someone we thought we knew. Someone we loved who reciprocated only to snuff it out; a friend we confided in who spilled the precious beans; a risk taken only to result in failure. Sometimes it is intentional. Other times no one can rightfully be blamed. Spite and anger always seem to be the first emotion resorted to in such instances. Perhaps there is some evolutionary explanation as to why. Perhaps there is a savage benefit to spitting in the face of something that once was.

Venting is a healthy way of dealing with such intense reactions, especially if they are out of our control. Sometimes, the powers that be ordain things that cannot be shaped by our attempts to change them; when one half of a duel party refuses to alleviate the situation, the other half must depart. Providing yourself with a robust route of dispensing of your anger and spite will prove far better for the heart and mind in the long run than bottling it up or even allowing it to burst forth. 

That's why the arts are so important: Music, painting, photography, writing all provide the most successful and healthy routes of attenuation. Hatred never helped anyone - Go write a poem!  

Corsage, Croissant, Crochet, Croquet

Swallow your tongue…

Digest your own weak imaginings!

Essence I shall bung;

Oh, how I would love to cleanse your muddy footprints

From this place.  

Demystify the fossils;

Fill in the cavities with concrete,

Like the lungs you falsely filled,

While you don’t deserve to breath!

You cauterized the dagger

That now wriggles in my back,

A joystick that you grab

To lead me along

This Mobius path.  

I will take quick pleasure

In ripping it free!  

A champagne rain to bath and boil bloody mead.

I pulled you from the sand, but left you dangling from a string;

Freedom isn’t gathered with a shackle or a stitch,

It doesn’t matter if you feed or beat the bitch,

It will bite you back.  

I found myself in a bathroom stall,

I was fading painting on a peeling wall,

It was a porcelain kind of forever

In a plastic canon ball.  

I’ll throw shrapnel in the eyes of all you so fiercely guarded

And all the opportunities you so sweetly pardoned.

A figment of fiction is truth in all its vindications

And now the threat is imminent,

A valedictorian vendetta;

A glistening inscription.

Your accord has been cut,

Raped in your wedding dress,

Grinding off the malaise

As the partitions you press

To get drunk off the plaster.  

I’ll place the coin beneath your tongue before the trumpets begin to play

If that’s not proof of a foreclosed heart,

Than what more do you want me to say?

I HAVE A BOOK COMING OUT

I'm still working on the title, but it will be a collection of poetry with an overarching theme of death. I'm shooting for an April, 2013 release. Stay tuned for more details! 

Destructive Criticism: The Worst Decision

A lot of people are self-defeating. We take external pressures, flaws inherent in others that are too often deposited on ourselves, and allow them to persuade us to change. We attempt to conform to the demands of society, the people around us, or even global trends without a thought for the consequences. There are a lot of people walking around with a skewed sense of self - a definition of identity built from years of constantly attempting to quell the murmurs of others. As a result, many of us are disillusioned and unhappy, and are sincerely unaware as to why. We have inadvertently and systematically killed ourselves.

A path to find yourself...

All ultra-violence aside, a flawed self-identity is precisely the catalyst that leads to flaws in the self-identities of others. When we are unhappy with who we are, we impart onto others that unhappiness, which breeds further self-damaging behavior in both parties. One is far too often the cause of their own demise and the seed-sower of others'.

With the harkening of 2013 upon us, a time for unkept resolutions, it is time you began listening to who you are and began committing to your own sense of self. When others pressure you to conform or modify to fit their moulds, instead of objectifying yourself to pull out the "flaws," fortify the uniquenesses you know and strengthen the self you deserve to be. Idolize yourself, learn to love every "mistake" and "shortcoming" that makes you you, and commit to changing things about yourself for you and no one else. You must make it a habit; the self is in a constant state of construction, of becoming. You have the potential to be your own messiah or your own murderer.

Down, but not out!

In the end, 

it's you who listens to the bullshit others have to say.             

The Worst Decision

Death is not an easy prize to gain:

You can’t just fill out the slip and,

‘Please, clearly sign your name.’

Suicide is not something I would prescribe,

No matter how you deem it worth the loss,

There’s no reason you should have to die.

Hold tight to what you have,

It's more than just evolving remnants of mom and dad,

It's choices that carve up the past

And shape the future

That only you can make last.

May I proceed to cure the beast,

To solidify the righteousness conceived?

Are these the weights you wish to bequeath,

To pin the guilty hand on me?

Ring you out like a sponge;

Set you off like a gun;

Sever the cord of a broken spine;

You’re a book, but they judge what lies inside.

Whet the palette and rub the scars.

Dig your own grave to reach for the stars.

Sharpen a knife on a fork;

Buy into family, but shoot down the stork.

Bundled up peace – beat like a dog.

Swallow the key – sleep like a log.

Let go of all the things you've lost.

Don’t kill yourself to survive the battles fought.

Self-destruction stops permanent construction;

Soul disjunction nullifies finding your function.

Never choose to be the victim or the killer,

Or, even, the weapon of your own murder.