Watch out for me, I will make you free
So I was looking at listings for jobs and internships, and came across some online fashion magazine seeking contributors and editors who fit the description of "fashion lovers who love fashion." •headdesk• I guess they're serious about needing writers and editors. Aside from that, this process intimidates the life out of me.
I get overwhelmed by things that aren't even happening. And that's why they're not happening. I'm trying, or I'm trying to try, to change my ways.
I've said for years, as in probably since middle school, that I would like to keep a dream journal. But I never do. The prospect of writing stuff down while still in the sleep-haze (because once you're too far out of it, so much is inevitably lost) is so unappealing. But even more unappealing than that is the way that people, including myself, casually write about dreams. There's too much "and then" and the inevitable preface of "and for some reason" and uncertainties like "or something like that." The few times I've written about dreams in the past, I've forced myself to leave out "for some reason" because it is a self-defeating phrase, and the urge to use it when discussing dreams is strong. Even with that constraint, it always felt like I was doing myself a disservice by trying to put these pieces of weirdness (or little slices of death) into words.
Today, in an unusually abrupt stroke of something, I found the solution. The solution may sound pretentious, but it points toward productive. I'm going to keep records of my dreams in the form of quick poetry. No masterpieces I'm sure, but I sincerely think that they could eventually be gleaned and edited into something legitimate, and I could even envision doing a series based on the dreams. It seems so head-smackingly obvious now; talking about dreams in a linear way actually makes the opposite of sense, and yet we insist on doing it. Not only will the form fit the content in this case, but it may be the best way to eradicate self-conscious qualifiers and insidious explanation-giving. And because my purpose will be more for writing exercise than psychological probing, the concrete details matter less than the mood. I'm excited. I have a little low-key project now.
In the bold spirit of giving myself this assignment, I'm actually going to share my first one. Goodbye, comfort zone.
***
I dreamed that I was an accessory after the fact
to a murder committed by my oldest friend in another city
while I was deciding whether to buy whiskey or gin.
Whiskey was too expensive and I stood on the liquor store
counter admiring the hexagonal bottles like perfume decanters.
She took me and my gin to a park between tall apartment buildings
and showed me aged photographs of her crimes.
A gray woman lay behind a funeral veil, and she says to me,
"her neck is blind now," as if reading lines written for her
by David Lynch. I fear that they will haunt me, but I forget
soon after her heels echo in panic, running though darkened alleys
to a parking garage from the blip of tired sirens.
It is too late for me to do anything but follow-
momentum will be my killer.
***
In other news, in the last two weeks I did my first two (public, paid) sideshow shows. I stripped out of a straight jacket, quite literally, burlesque style. I'm really not sure what to say about it. They went technically very well, but something about it makes me feel like a dancing monkey. More on this later.
I get overwhelmed by things that aren't even happening. And that's why they're not happening. I'm trying, or I'm trying to try, to change my ways.
I've said for years, as in probably since middle school, that I would like to keep a dream journal. But I never do. The prospect of writing stuff down while still in the sleep-haze (because once you're too far out of it, so much is inevitably lost) is so unappealing. But even more unappealing than that is the way that people, including myself, casually write about dreams. There's too much "and then" and the inevitable preface of "and for some reason" and uncertainties like "or something like that." The few times I've written about dreams in the past, I've forced myself to leave out "for some reason" because it is a self-defeating phrase, and the urge to use it when discussing dreams is strong. Even with that constraint, it always felt like I was doing myself a disservice by trying to put these pieces of weirdness (or little slices of death) into words.
Today, in an unusually abrupt stroke of something, I found the solution. The solution may sound pretentious, but it points toward productive. I'm going to keep records of my dreams in the form of quick poetry. No masterpieces I'm sure, but I sincerely think that they could eventually be gleaned and edited into something legitimate, and I could even envision doing a series based on the dreams. It seems so head-smackingly obvious now; talking about dreams in a linear way actually makes the opposite of sense, and yet we insist on doing it. Not only will the form fit the content in this case, but it may be the best way to eradicate self-conscious qualifiers and insidious explanation-giving. And because my purpose will be more for writing exercise than psychological probing, the concrete details matter less than the mood. I'm excited. I have a little low-key project now.
In the bold spirit of giving myself this assignment, I'm actually going to share my first one. Goodbye, comfort zone.
***
I dreamed that I was an accessory after the fact
to a murder committed by my oldest friend in another city
while I was deciding whether to buy whiskey or gin.
Whiskey was too expensive and I stood on the liquor store
counter admiring the hexagonal bottles like perfume decanters.
She took me and my gin to a park between tall apartment buildings
and showed me aged photographs of her crimes.
A gray woman lay behind a funeral veil, and she says to me,
"her neck is blind now," as if reading lines written for her
by David Lynch. I fear that they will haunt me, but I forget
soon after her heels echo in panic, running though darkened alleys
to a parking garage from the blip of tired sirens.
It is too late for me to do anything but follow-
momentum will be my killer.
***
In other news, in the last two weeks I did my first two (public, paid) sideshow shows. I stripped out of a straight jacket, quite literally, burlesque style. I'm really not sure what to say about it. They went technically very well, but something about it makes me feel like a dancing monkey. More on this later.