Mother Blue

I photo. I take day trips. I lightsaber battle. I analyze the stuffing out of myself.

Category: dreams

Pathos

Wired Intersection (cell phone pic)

Wired Intersection (cell phone pic)

My inner monologue was spastically riffing…

They shut off my water this morning. My hands feel so incredibly dirty. Germal colonies are setting up camp on my palms. I have spent the day Lysol-ing all the present and future surfaces I have or may touch. I need disposable gloves and a nap.

I can’t concentrate without water. I can’t help but obsess over the notion of anything being removed from my life or my general convenience. This whole thing began with a gas leak in February. Three months later my street still lacks infrastructure and functioning sidewalks. Each local gas company has to repair their own lines, every water company has to follow suit. New construction type vehicles arrive biweekly. What started out as a patch job has now become days filled with gas fume hallucinations, vibrating furniture from the constant jackhammering, and gravelled sidewalks by the same result.

My inner voice is that of a middle-aged man. I am not really sure why.

Water Rations. (cell phone pics)

Water Rations. (cell phone pics)

• • •

Pathos: Pathetic lump of emotions

The stockpile of words I use in my everyday life is staggeringly limited. PATHOS is one of those words I once learned a very long time ago, probably for some English lit exam, but then I carelessly shoved it into the recesses of my brain once it outlived my 16-year-old self’s usefulness. I have been obsessing over this word as of late, much like I am obsessing over my disgusting hands. I am typing this entry with the tip of my fingernail, just to keep the molecules of degenerate filth at bay.

I came across this gorgeous sentence: “oddball art-house flights of fancy, verite sex scenes and lump-in-throat moments of pathos. It’s funny almost as an after-thought.

My newfound obsession with pathos came after watching this.

It made me stop. Simple words of unrequited love delivered by an everyman. This show wasn’t what I expected at all: If you haven’t seen this show and you love cinema and great storytelling and humanity, I urge you to watch “Louie”. Check out this scene as well.

But there it was. Pathos. The revelation of that word was like lightning rod of everything for me. The road that I have been traveling for so long, my weirdness, my quirkiness, my obsessions, my neurosis all of a sudden made sense. I have been journeying so long and so far trying to figure out just who the heck I am in waves of enlightenment, comparisons to other individuals, and epic inner narratives. If I could be something intangible I would probably be pathos. I long for pathos. I lust for pathos. Pathos is my life projection through color televisions with emotive filters. At its very best, it appeals to a selected audience’s emotions; at its very worst, it can meander in rhetoric and pathetic inclinations. For me, it simply means the raw, unmuddied yet abridged version of the emotion in a moment. It’s like a capturing a photograph.

• • •

Bird on a Wire (cell phone pic)

Bird on a Wire (cell phone pic)

I love documentaries. My digital movie queue is filled with at least 50 of them, just waiting to be watched. Just Like Being There was at the top of the list. Focused on the artists behind the “gig poster scene,” this doc was a feast of illustrative screen printed gorgeousness set to an indie music soundtrack. Very inspiring watch, but I found myself wondering in my head and then later aloud, “does the type of music we listen to determine or predict our intellect or intellectual capacity?” The artists represented in the doc were not just emotive beings, they were what I would call skilled technicians whose thinking lies on a different intellectual plane. I love music, but my musical tastes merely skim the surfaces of most genres. I listen intently to what is laid out before me, but I always find that when left to my own devices my choices are uncomplicated. I want an emotional journey filled with crescendos. I found myself wondering if the way I think is too simple, too mainstream, too surface, too rooted in emotion, or in the consumptive nature of the masses.

Maybe I am mostly comprised of emotion. My mother was a die hard “someday my prince will come” romantic  realist. She was wrapped up in the cinematic notion of life and love; the polar opposite of her actual, real world existence. As much I pride myself in my realism, I probably am a pretty similar person. I see everyday people like actors on a screen. I imagine everyday conversations like poetry, even if they are just talking about Cheetos. I imagine the back stories of the people in the supermarket check out lines. I go on my walks and I am suddenly transported to a scene in a film. I imagine the camera angles. I photograph the everyday because the position of everything literally whispers some sort of story to me. It fills me with emotions. It’s the only way I can relate to the world. Sometimes Motown sings in the background, punctuating the mood of the moment in just the right way…

• • •

A musician once transposed the noted positions of birds on telephone wires. I think of that story often when I go on my walks. My hidden monologues, back stories of strangers, and overheard conversations make me think of how so many of us are like those birds. Unassuming notes on a make shift bar staff. Part of a larger hidden song.

Morning walk (cell phone pic)

Morning walk (cell phone pic)

Maybe I am just screenplaying everything so I have some sense of control. Sometimes I write things down. Other times I repeat moments in my brain over and over again in order to commit them to memory. Sometimes the words and moments float away like ether. In most circumstances, I can’t tell if I am writing myself as a hero or anti-hero. In first or third person. Victim or survivor.

I sat on my porch last night and attempted to read. I was mulling over a lot and feeling particularly melancholy about things I felt had no simple resolution. I whispered the word “mommy” to myself. I don’t know why. My pathetic cry for help. My 39-year-old self knows it won’t make a difference. It was one of those “you can either crumble or pull yourself up by your bootstraps” moments, but I needed vulnerable for a second. And in those vulnerable moments sometimes it only feels right to be just as vulnerable as the moment dictates. Either way, it was my own version of Mayday and my own way to reboot. A large black butterfly with blue spots landed next to me, flying wildly in my face, harassing me. It would fly very close to my shoulder and then sputter away into the trees. Seconds later, it would come back. Three times it did this, then it flew away for good. I sat in quiet for the first time in a long time. It had been a long time  since I had seen a butterfly. A long time since one tried to get my attention. One appeared to me on the subway shortly after my mother had died. One landed on my windshield when I was particularly broke and lost. Maybe this one was there because I just needed to feel less alone.

End scene.

image

Telephone Wires (cellphone pic)

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Shadows

There is a story to be told here and I am writing it as we speak

There is a story to be told here and I am writing it as we speak

I was exhausted from this week so I nodded off mid task, mid morning. “I had this dream through a vintage filter.”

These were the notes I scribbled down when I woke, my eyes still partially closed.

_________

I had this dream through a vintage filter…

Walking a long path, in nature, taking photos. Trying to figure out my Photo of the Day. The theme is shadows. My two siblings were in front, talking. We were all both very young and of our age.

We were making our way to a house. Not home, but it felt like home.

I saw an old chair under the stairs that were underneath the back porch. Told my siblings to go on ahead. Apparently my Dad was following us as well, like he belonged there, even though he had passed many years ago. He was skipping and jumping behind us. Aware we were there but not really engaging. (It has been four years since he passed and even longer since we talked. The reasons are varied and necessary.) I wanted him to go on ahead with the rest of the family. I just wanted to get my shot. Dad ignored my requests and subtle gestures. He was climbing around like a schoolboy. Skipping steps. Leaping. Singing “Dad is great, he’s a special boy, la la la.” I don’t know if he was referencing his own dad or calling himself dad. He was doing awkward splits between a stair and the armchair.

I kept moving around the room. The under the stars was both a basement and outdoors simultaneously. He would not let me take my photo due to his goofing around. When he did finally clear the shot, the original photo angle I saw was now terrible.

He somehow took the shadows away.

I kept looking at him and he was still laughing, giddily. I smiled. Then I started crying. I caught sight of my sister’s face. She was tearing up. I said in a very heartfelt way, “I’m sorry, Dad.” He stopped his playing. He looked like someone else. Like a mixture of my Dad and Pierce Brosnan. He said “Don’t be. I’m really happy now.” I grabbed his leg. He was wearing the same brown polyester pants he wore in the 80s. Business suits. The kind he wore for meetings.

Photo of the day

Photo of the day

Exploring dreams: A CALL FOR ARTISTS AND OTHERS

Bathroom Routine, Doorknob Dream

I announced a new project last week but have not had a chance to post it here until now. I have been pondering this idea for quite some time. In fact, my subconscious had been trying to give birth to it for the last year or so, even by coming to me in a dream last September. It has something to do with the call for artists I posted around that time. I think this idea has legs and is ready for the world. I think this is my little attempt at giving us all the chance to make something happen, to change things. Call it art, delusions of grandeur, catharsis, whatever you will. I think every dream starts off sounding impossible and delusional, and then… well…

…well, I really believe this could really be amazing.

BUT…

I need your help to get this thing going.

Take a look at the site. Spread the word. Consider making art. Tell the world your dreams.

I will be making some announcements about this later on this week and posting some community made art as well. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

THE TLATSEG PROJECT

Exploring Berlin, Waiting for Others (reminder)

Compartmentalizing

***

Exploring my own “Berlin”. Wish you were here. Will call when I return.

Please Leave a Message…

***

CALL FOR ARTISTS >> OCTOBER 9, 2011

Hope to see you soon.

***

Message

Terminal

Conflict

Nightmare

Waiting

Poem Art Project

Dreaming

My dream poem (as promised from last week) followed by a request.

THE DREAM POEM

A traveller sat down on my solitary dream bench and told me this story. I am not quite sure where these words came from, but I woke up on my birthday morning with this poem in my head.

_____________

unfinished business

i dont want to turn 40 one day.

there are checks to cash and bills to pay.

i need to catch a plane today.

i need to find a lover to play.

and then the rhyming stopped

i knew i should have left this shore ages ago.

what i needed was never here,

it was out there,

somewhere in berlin.

in the night,

with rocking hips and sailing ships,

and in the oohs and ahs of peircing midnights and mountains of regrets,

that at the time seemed like a good idea.

i need a voice to make a movement,

the movement i sidestepped,

the movement i stood still for.

i need to seize now, the voices are quieting.

it is amazing how your voice have moved the words,

the words inside i never could pronounce.

i need you to take me to chelsea, to lodger, to low,

you need a janitor a maid and a housekeeper.

i need to take myself.

i am drawn to your dark place, your weird space,

your lies, your backhanded neglect,

your gravelly voice,

your unfiltered cigarettes

are we always all born restless?

or is it only me?

i spent 10,000 days alone,

spent 10 years getting famous,

10 years getting rich,

then 10 years getting forgotten (by the time i’m 66)

will i get what i need by the time i’m 66?…

_____________

It was a very weird, very visceral dream. He was a silhouetted traveler adorned in a fedora and trench coat. His outline looked like the love child of William Burroughs and Leonard Cohen. He smelled of lucky strikes. He told me this “story.”

THE REQUEST: A CALL FOR ARTISTS

This poem isn’t Shakespeare or some brilliant lost beat poem, but my head was whispering to me that day so I thought a response was warranted. To that end, I began to realize that it might be kind of cool to use this dream poem in a type of artistic exercise, or as some sort of art collaborative. I am reaching out to the masses to find a way to illustrate these random words in a way that makes sense using film, dance, music, illustrations, comics, graphics, design, etc. in order to make a fantastic blog/Flickr/etc. online art show. Here is where you come in. Read the poem, examine the words, come up with something brilliant or brilliantly mediocre. Deadline for submission is October 9, 2011. Send me a link to your work in the comment section of this blog post (whether it be through Flickr, Vimeo or what have you) and I will post and promote your works in an online gallery on or shortly after the deadline.

I look forward to seeing your dreams.

Awake