I said before that writing about my dreams was too disturbing, but that is a cop-out. This dream I had about two years ago. Its winter setting was emphatically a part of its ominous overtones.
I dreamt that I was in a frozen town with my daughter, who was very young in the dream, and a man I had used to be with. I became separated from them during some type of dreary, macabre parade. There was something wrong and sinister about it, but I wasn’t sure what, and I was caught up in looking for my daughter and the man.
Winter Carnival, 1909.
The procession of people were all bundled up in raggedy black clothes, like Victoriana gone to seed, and the “floats” were black carriages making tracks down a main street in the snow.
As I paced the street looking for the rest of my party, blowing on my hands and calling out for my daughter and the man, I saw a pulpy mess in the road and smeared, reddish-purple blood and tissue in the ruts left by the carriages.
They’d run over something that I had the impression was small and helpless but also somehow dear and marine, like an otter or seal or something. Each carriage kept rolling on, continually running over and through the remains of whatever this now bisected and strewn-out creature had once been.
I tried to escape the image by going down different side alleys in the frozen town, but they all lead back to the same main street. The sight of the gore and entrails against the snow was chilling and horrifying on a deep-down level which was out of proportion to the event, like as if it had some weighty significance that my mind was shying away from fully realizing. I woke myself up with the kind of shock and sweat that suggested it had been a terrible nightmare, but I could not, when recollecting the details of the dream, understand why it upset me so much.
I never thought about it until just now, but I guess it must have been my daughter in the street. I think that’s what my mind kept pulling me back from seeing.
This has not been an at-all uplifting or illuminating “Winter of my discontent” entry. But it does represent the second time I’ve attempted a Dreamtime entry. The first one was about a hanged woman. Based on that, you may think that I’m not doing so hot on the Dreamtime sharing, but that’s actually about the usual caliber of my dreams.
This entry was originally posted on December 3, 2009 at 10:01 a.m. I’d originally intended for Dreamtime to be a series of entries, but writing about my dreams was so disturbing that this ended up being a one-off.
Recurring dream — I am in a bedroom with my back to the closet. I turn around and find a hanged woman in a blue nightgown.
“It’s Hard To Say That I’d Rather Stay Awake When I’m Asleep Because My Dreams Are Bursting At The Seams” by inspire*dream*create on flickr
The air in the room feels thick but sounds tinny, like it does in a doublewide, you know, the way the sound and the air are different, I guess because it’s perched on a foundation poured in to the ground rather than dug in, so it’s not flush up against the earth?, and the windowsill is aluminum. She’s in front of the closet, which has a sliding door with inset slats. She’s always high enough up, on a short enough noose, that her face is angled down but very near the ceiling, and I have to tilt my head back and look up to see it. I do not know why I always have to look at her face.
“Hang’er” by Dominic Rouse. Click through to his website.
She doesn’t sway or kick or open her eyes or anything predictably horror-movie-ish like that. In a way, the certainty that she is absolutely dead and has been for some time is worse and even more uncanny than if I had got to the scene just in time for her death throes. Because I never realize right away that I’m in The Room with her, or that it has become That Dream until I turn around and see the closet, and her swollen feet and mottled legs with the blue nightgown at mid-calf.
Stock
The stultifying stillness of the trailer starts beating in my ears, this weird and distant rhythmic roaring, like living near the ocean but if all other life had been extinguished and only the water remained on earth, like the beginning of time is hurling toward me.
In Batman’s nightmares, he is not well-liked and he doesn’t understand why.
I had troubling, thickly plotted nightmares last night but too much was going on immediately after I woke that I didn’t have time to make a note of them. The last dreams like that I can remember happened while I was subbing for the Scamps, and I told them about it the next day:
I dreamt that my daughter was being held in this large industrial building and I was using the stairs to get to a certain floor before the elevator, and a dude started pursuing me and I turned around and first wrestled him, then kicked him down a short flight of stairs, then ran briefly down after him for, you know, “suresies” and threw him over the edge and heard him come down all wet and broken on a landing several flights below. I totally did not even lean over the rails to check on him after that because I was only focused on getting the kidlet and getting out.
Scamps in bio class action, but I chose a blurry picture for privacy.
The kids were shocked and exhilarated by this vivid story of unmerciful ass-kicking and I said it was all on their heads because they’d asked me anxiously the day before during Social Studies what would happen if the President’s daughters were ever to be kidnapped. I’d reassured them and theorized that not only would the Secret Service prevent such a godforsaken thing from ever happening, but that my guess was Michelle and Barack Obama, besides being loving parents, are pretty hardcore and good at taking things in their own hands, and that I definitely would not want to be in the shoes of an attempted kidnapper of their girls were he to be caught.
In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have told a classroom of ten-year-olds that I dreamt I straight up dropped a motherfucker, but, on the other hand, it could be part of why I had practically zero discipline problems in that class.
Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
This May 22nd will mark the forty-third anniversary of the death of the dashing, amazing, trailblazing and talented Harlem Renaissance writer Langston Hughes. I totally don’t know shit enough about him or the width of his body of work as I ought to, besides the obvious anthologized poem choices and blurbs I’ve read in textbooks through the years, and I don’t like that. I’d like that to change this month. Join me! I’m starting … now.
Gather out of star-dust,
Earth-dust,
Cloud-dust,
Storm-dust,
And splinters of hail,
One handful of dream-dust,
Not for sale.
At the bottom of the ocean lives a Sea King
He was my king
He was so proud, diamonds in his crown
He was so proud, always so proud
The male of the species is the Nokk. He lives in lakes, ponds, rivers, and waterfalls. The Nokk drags people down if they play too close to the edge of the water or attempt to pick water lilies. He is most dangerous after sunset. To see or hear the Nokk means someone will drown. He is often heard shrieking during shipwrecks.
(A Field Guide to Demons, Fairies, Fallen Angels, and Other Subversive Spirits. Mack, Carol and Dinah. 1999. New York: Macmillan. p. 33.)
I’m going away,
I can’t stay
and I pray he finds out someday…
Sea King,
Sea king,
can’t you see that you’re so silly?
Sea King,
I know things,
and without love you won’t get far.
The Nokk has been seen as a horse or half a horse, as half a ship, or a gleaming silver coin or ring. The Nokk plays music on a golden harp to lure his victim closer if his precious-object disguise doesn’t work. (Ibid.)
It was all he ever knew
It was all he ever knew
It was all he ever knew
and that’s sad.
“Oahu 2” by Allen Birbach, Spider Awards nominee.
Sadko entered and pursued his fleeting bride through the endless torturous crypts of four sea-oceans; at last he found her in the palace of the Sea-King.
“In sooth, Sadko, thou art a master-player on the gusly,” smiled the monarch, “prithee, play for me upon thy harp.”
Sadko perceived he could do no other than heed the behest of the Sea-King, wherefore, setting his harp in tune, he plucked the strings.
The heart of the Sea-King’s daughter beat in tune to Sadko’s playing, so that with sweet blandishment he won her back, whereafter they dwelt in love and felicity in the coral-chambered castle beneath the sea.
(Romance of Russia, From Rurik to Bolshevik, Elizabeth Williams Champney and Frère Champney. 1921. London: GP Putnam’s Sons, p. 178.)
I realize I am inundating you with these Italian ad calendars, but I don’t know what to tell you — Italians just do it best! These are gorgeous, hi-res pics, so be sure to click to see them full-sized.
Luigi Lavazza S.p.A. is a 115-year-old, Turin-based coffee company. Since the early 90’s, Lavazza has put out a yearly artistic promotional calendar somewhat akin to Pirelli and Campari, full of beautiful women, although usually with less trumpet-blasting and more clothes on. This year’s campaign appears to be centered around music, chiefly opera. It was shot by no less than Miles Aldridge (past photographic artists have been Annie Leibovitz, Helmut Newton, and patron saint David LaChapelle) and features models Georgia Frost, Bianca Balti, Lydia Hearst, Daisy Lowe, Alek Alexeyeva, and Alexandra Tomlinson. (To the opera end, click below to hear while you’re browsing the pics, which will open in their own windows, my favorite recording of “Nessun Dorma (None shall sleep)” from Puccini’s Turandot, performed by Katherine Jenkins, who I normally don’t tremedously like, but this is a great arrangement, almost as good as Pavarotti’s, without treading on it. It really takes off at the :43 mark for me.)
Katherine Jenkins – Nessun Dorma
Alek Alexeyeva: “Va’ Pensiero (“Thought Goes,” aka “Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves,” Verdi, Nabucco).”
On various occasions, it has been suggested that “Va’ pensiero” replace the Inno di Mameli as the Italian National Anthem, and more recently has been appropriated by the Italian Northern Separatist movement, the Lega Nord, as the National Anthem of the unrecognized state of Padania. (the wiki)
Cool, huh? But the rest is going to focus on “Nessun Dorma.”
It is sung by Calaf, il principe ignoto (the unknown prince), who falls in love at first sight with the beautiful but cold Princess Turandot. However, any man who wishes to wed Turandot must first answer her three riddles; if he fails, he will be beheaded.
In the act before this aria, Calaf has correctly answered the three riddles put to all of Princess Turandot’s prospective suitors.
Daisy Lowe: “Con Te Partirò (With You I Will Leave/Time To Say Goodbye).”
Nevertheless, she recoils at the thought of marriage to him. Calaf offers her another chance by challenging her to guess his name by dawn. (As he kneels before her, the Nessun dorma theme makes a first appearance, to his words, “Il mio nome non sai!”) If she does so, she can execute him; but if she does not, she must marry him. The cruel and emotionally cold princess then decrees that none of her subjects are to sleep that night until his name is discovered. If they fail, all will be killed.
Alexandra Tomlinson: “Guarda Che Luna (Look, What a Beautiful Moon).”
In 2009, singer Antony Hegarty, lead singer of Antony and the Johnsons recorded the aria with the Roma Sinfonietta Orchestra, which was released for free by the Italian coffee company, Lavazza. While the orchestration of the recording is Puccini’s original, Hegarty performs the song with his famous, quavering delivery. (the wiki)
Bianca Balti: “‘O Sole Mio (Oh, My Sun).” (my favorite version is Elvis Presley’s.)
Oh, my sun, like, did you want to hear that version of “Nessun Dorma” where hipster darling Antony Hegarty jacks Pavarotti’s signature piece for profit and makes it all about himself? Go find it yourself; until he proves to me he has a shred of redeeming value as a person that isn’t dripping with deliberate ironic self-references, art school bullshit, and materialistic perpetual adolescence, I do not care for that pretentious twat and I won’t be part of his making money.
Lydia Hearst: “Baciami piccina (Kiss me, little one).” (I had a dream a while back that had Lydia Hearst in it, but she was still a redhead in my dream.)
Don’t get me wrong, here. I don’t mind a dork even at all but I prefer if they are not hipstery, cynical, judgmentally snobby deliberate nerds. I like that kind of un-self-aware, loveably sweet, dorky-in-spite-of-themselves type of dork and I always go much more for a geek of any stripe (computer, academic, video game, sci-fi television, music, biting-the-heads-off-chickens, etc) that has got a little bit of heart and soul. ie: Kindness, faith, charity, optimism, forgiveness, non-materialism, and no jeans in the closet that could be mistaken for mine. Super-sorry!
Recurring dream — I am in a bedroom with my back to the closet. I turn around and find a hanged woman in a blue nightgown.
“It’s Hard To Say That I’d Rather Stay Awake When I’m Asleep Because My Dreams Are Bursting At The Seams” by inspire*dream*create on flickr
The air in the room feels thick but sounds tinny, like it does in a doublewide, you know, the way the sound and the air are different, I guess because it’s perched on a foundation poured in to the ground rather than dug in, so it’s not flush up against the earth?, and the windowsill is aluminum. She’s in front of the closet, which has a sliding door with inset slats. She’s always high enough up, on a short enough noose, that her face is angled down but very near the ceiling, and I have to tilt my head back and look up to see it. I do not know why I always have to look at her face.
“Hang’er” by Dominic Rouse. Click through to his website.
She doesn’t sway or kick or open her eyes or anything predictably horror-movie-ish like that. In a way, the certainty that she is absolutely dead and has been for some time is worse and even more uncanny than if I had got to the scene just in time for her death throes. Because I never realize right away that I’m in The Room with her, or that it has become That Dream until I turn around and see the closet, and her swollen feet and mottled legs with the blue nightgown at mid-calf.
Stock
The stultifying stillness of the trailer starts beating in my ears, this weird and distant rhythmic roaring, like living near the ocean but if all other life had been extinguished and only the water remained on earth, like the beginning of time is hurling toward me.
The Thought Experiment 