Category Archives: Dreams

Dreams

Fall                                                              Harvest Moon

Dreams.  Since the operation, frequent dreams have come my way.  Peculiar, in the way of dreams.  Like standing in the center of a boulevard in a hot, small town, somewhere exotic–the Yucatan, Ecuador, Panama–chastising myself for not taking the shuttle back to the retreat center in the jungle.  Then, I’m in the lobby of the retreat center.  “What?  How did I get here?”  “Sir, you walked in only moments ago.”  “Yes, but how.  Did.  I. Get. Here.”  No answers.  A very puzzled me.

After that there were airline tickets, an airport, a plane to somewhere.

Another, set in a city, somewhere with multiple apartment buildings across from a park with a low concrete wall.  I went in an apartment, up to the flat of an older man.  “We are both quite intelligent, my wife and I,”  he said.  “We make our livings with our minds.”

When I noticed footlong, segmented reptiles crawling along the floor, he said, “Gila monsters.  That’s g-geela, not heel-a.  We find them amusing.”  They crawled all over.

In the same apartment building I found myself calculating selling our current house and buying a large condo.  This place was nice with wood interiors, a large common room and other owners who seemed a lot like us.

More than the content of the dreams though, is their pleasant, exploratory nature, a nature so inviting that I find going to sleep rivalling waking life as an interesting experience.  My dreaming life and my waking life have some inter-bleed.  This is an extraordinary and new experience for me.  You may have experienced it before, but I haven’t.

It’s as if I have two different realities, one somewhat predictable, the other changeable and magical, but both very real.  Real meaning in this case believeable.

(Odilon Redon, The Barque)

These are not hallucinations, I don’t have new ones while I’m awake, rather the images and feeling tones of the dreams offer an alternate place, an alternate realm in which I also exist.

A Dream, Become Real, Become Dream

Summer                                                Hiroshima Moon

“Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the action stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.” – Anais Nin

Horticulture.  When we moved in here now 18 years ago, we decided to spend money upfront on landscaping, figuring we could enjoy it over the life of our tenancy rather than putting in as an amenity at the time of a sale.  We hired a landscape architect from Otten Brothers and he put in a basic plan.  Two wild prairie patches on either side of a manicured lawn.  Norway pines, a spruce or two, some amur maples, a genus maple, an oak, some river birch.  Near the house he put on narrow beds planted with shrubs like euonymus, a dwarf lilac, shrub roses, viburnum among others.

A boulder retaining wall in the front shored up a long bed like a peninsula into the green ocean of our yard.  In the back we had them cut a three tiered garden, each tier marked off with boulder retaining walls and divided near the house by steps made of rail-road tie size square lumber.

The rest of our property, all now that is our “backyard”, was part woods and part scrubland covered with black locust trees, thorny and not visually appealing though very good for fence posts.  The first two years after our move I spent cutting down trees, using a commercial wood-chipper to  grind them up and hiring a stump-grinder to come in and rid us of the stumps.  The scrubland became, gradually, a place where we could build a shed, plant a vegetable garden and I dreamed of making it an expanse of prairie, as I had wanted to do with the entire property when we moved. Continue reading A Dream, Become Real, Become Dream

Strange Weather

Fall                                                 New Autumn Moon

A strange weather time.  A storm system and winds blowing in from the east.  Our weather systems almost always come from the west, following the planet’s rotation and the jet stream, but this raggedy storm system got stuck over Wisconsin and has begun to retrograde, head back west.

The quiet of night.  A healing time, the darkness.  A moment when the cares of the day can slide away and the still, small voice can speak.  The body can collect itself, relax, replenish.

Think of sleep.  Almost a third of our lives, maybe 25 years, think of that, 25 years asleep.  We are all, in this sense, Rip Van Winkle, unaware as the world changes around us.

In the sleep time our minds create the worlds we inhabit, pluck scenes from stored memories, movie clips, fears and joys, wishes and needs.  Vivid life, times of ecstasy and insight flow through our brains, a stream of cobbled together life, chunks of invention.  We are each novelists while we sleep, drafting narratives with characters about whom we care deeply.

Here’s the tricky part.  If I understand modern neurology, we do the same thing when we’re awake.  Our minds take sensory data and create worlds.  Narratives form so we can keep the world we create coherent, so we can remember the plot of our lives.

There are parts here that elude me, standing just outside my peripheral understanding.  Who is that watches the movie?  Who is the narrator?  Where is the narrator?  Is he a reliable or an unreliable voice?  Can we count on this movie?  By that I mean does it conform to what we, at least in a common sense way, take as real.  True.  Out there.

 

What Get’s You Up In The Morning?

Beltane                                                         Waxing Last Frost Moon

Several years ago, maybe twenty, I sat down with my friend Lonnie Helgeson at the Walker cafe, a table overlooking downtown Minneapolis and the Sculpture Garden.  Lonnie, I said, I could die now.  I feel good about what I’ve done with my life and would have no regrets.

Lonnie looked at me, thought a moment, then asked, “But Charlie where’s your passion?”

Oh.  Yeah.  A passionate man would not declare he was ready to die, he’d be asking, what’s next!

Now, at 64, I can honestly say, “What’s next!”  Not sure what was going on at that moment in my life, but I think I’d hit a caesura, a pause in the melody of my life, a rest stop on the way.  While there, I mistook the rest stop for a destination, rather than a place to catch my breath, consider what direction my path now lead.

Older now and several caravan serai of the soul moments later, I welcome those times when life ceases to press with urgency, when the TV or  a novel or a long vacation beckons.  These are moments of consolidation, a time perhaps to welcome the god Janus for a good look back and a strong gaze forward.

It feels like one may be coming.  Last night I finished my literal translation of Ovid’s story of Diana and Actaeon.  The legislature ends this session (we think) on May 20th or so.  The touring season begins to loosen as schools close down for the summer.  Then I’m left with the bees and the gardens, the novel, too, of course.

These kind of moments when the pacing changes dramatically often yield breaks.  Often, as I’ve looked back over my life, I’ve responded to these breaks with melancholy, a drifting down, moving into a sense of purposelessness.  What do I do now?  I might die.  That would be ok.

Probably where I was that afternoon long ago having lunch with Lonnie.

The melancholy is ok, too.  It’s an old friend, one I’ve come to appreciate as a gathering in, a time to be with myself, in myself.  The melancholy slows down my appetite for life, forces me to pay attention to subtler, inner things, so when I reemerge, I’m ready for another road on this one-way trip.

So, if you talk to me a month from now and I seem a bit distracted, maybe a little down, you’ll know I’m really just resting, getting ready to come out of my corner.  Again.

Dreamin’

Imbolc                                                  Waxing Bloodroot Moon

Still adjusting to this early rising, write, then do the rest of the day which included, today, my 2 hour mentoring session with Leslie, more writing, the legcom call, then doing a quick study on the mourners for a brief tour of them tomorrow.

So, I didn’t have much time to get here today.

Here’s an idea I had before going to sleep last night.  What if our dream life is our real life and the process of this embodied life is the aberrant condition which death resolves?  Actually, the Mexica had a similar idea.  Crazy I know, but maybe worth a story or two.

Dream a Little Dream of

Winter                                                             Waning Moon of the Winter Solstice

Inception.  Kate and I watched this last night here at Artemis Cinema.  Kate, who doesn’t tolerate much fiddle-faddle when it comes to movies, said early and often that it wasn’t clear.  Later on, perhaps around the time they’re navigating a well-defended ego, complete with snow camouflaged Hummers with tank tracks in place of tires, snow mobiles and white clad gunmen protecting a concrete gray fortress, we both decided that we had something of a grip on things.

A Russian nesting doll movie with plotlines and concepts connected but difficult to unravel, determining what was real or not became a challenge.  Which was, I suppose, the whole point.  Mol, Decaprio’s wife, kills herself because he convinced her the world they shared inside a dream was not real.  She carries with her, back into waking life, the idea that the world she is in is a dream, an illusion, and that killing herself will cause her to wake up and be with her real husband and her real kids.

This is, of course, a neat cinematic version of solipsism turned inside out.  A solipsistic thinker believes the world to be a creation of their own imagination.  In this case the solipsist believes the world cannot be her creation and therefore must not be real.

This is a movie more about epistemology, how do we know what we know, than it is about psychology or ontology.  In the end we’re left hanging, not sure whether the world Decaprio’s character has returned to is in fact the real world or only a figment of a dream, “A slight disorder of the stomach… You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!” Scrooge faced the same epistemological problem with a strong dose of skepticism.

We’ll watch inception again.  See how it fares on a second pass.

Ol’ John Henry Was A Pile-Drivin’ Man

Samhain                                              Waxing Moon of the Winter Solstice

In the John Henry versus the pile driver, Watson versus Jeopardy competitions I come down on the side of the poor schlubs trying to prove we’re not over with as a species.  It comes as a special insult then when I can’t make a particular machine work.  After all, if the machine doesn’t work, we cannot prove our mastery over it.  Neither can we get anything done.

50%.  That was my results.  I got the snowblower going, coughing and sputtering, blowing blue flame from the air filter, chugging like an emphysemic senior citizen climbing stairs, but, nonetheless, blowing snow.  All the gasping and gurgling came from the year old gas still left in its system.  I siphoned the tank, but there was still gas in the engine itself.  It will, gradually, calm down unless the carburetor has too much varnish on it from the aging gas.

The chainsaw, on the other hand, would not come back to life.  I fed it new gas mixed with the proper amount of oil, filled up its chain lubricant reservoir, pulled out the choke, set the kick-back safety bar and yanked.  And yanked.  And yanked.  Not even a murmur.  At some point in the process I began to make physical fitness resolutions.  Lose 10 pounds.  Do resistance work.  A machine I can use and I can’t get the damn thing started.  So, after much huffing and puffing–me–I decided to let it and me rest for a while.

Now I’m back at a machine that I understand better than the chain saw, though not much better, but one with which I am much more familiar.  This is my 8th or 9th computer, orders of magnitude faster than the others with storage so great that I struggle to fill a third of it and programs that can do wonders.

Palmer Hayden and John Henry

In 1944 he embarked on what became a three-year effort to create his most famous group of paintings, the John Henry series. The idea, however, stemmed from his childhood when he heard his father and others sing the ballad of the “steel drivin’ man” and when he first made sketches of his hero.

His efforts to make the series were helped when his wife found a book titled John Henry: A Folklore Story by Louis W. Chappell which indicated the story of John Henry was based on a real person by that name. Hayden corresponded with Chappell. Chappell, an instructor at West Virginia University, answered Hayden’s questions and, in a letter, urged him to make John Henry’s woman a red head. He said, “I hope she will look like something fit to go home to when the day’s work is over and the night’s work is ready to begin, and such a woman is not altogether a matter of clothes.”

He also stressed the importance of John Henry’s hammer. “I have an idea that Henry’s hammer might well create a number of problems for the painter,” he told him. “I have yet to see a picture of Henry holding his hammer in his hands, or swinging it in driving steel, that has the slightest touch of reality in it.”

Hayden heeded Chappell’s urgings. The Dress She Wore Was Blue depicts a woman with red hair that probably satisfies the request to make Henry’s woman “fit to go home to”, while Hammer in His Hand shows John Henry holding his hammer in a realistic way.

The John Henry series was exhibited at the Argent Gallery in New York City, January 20 to February 1, 1947. A New York Times reviewer said “…the story of John Henry is unfolded in a dozen oils by Palmer Hayden, who has captured something of the combined literalness and imaginative quality in Negro spirituals in these paintings of that ‘steel-drivin’ man from childhood to his fatal competition with a steam drill….The artist has found and utilized illustratively the picturesque material in the saga of the black Paul Bunyan.”

Hale Woodruff wrote in the guest book for the show, “very good, Palmer!”

Hayden later said in an interview that Henry was “a powerful and popular working man who belonged to my section of the country and to my race.” He also related to him because Henry was so much like the men he grew up with. And, in The Seine at St. Cloud, the two symbols of Hayden’s hometown, the railroad and the river, appear in There Lies That Steel Drivin’ Man.

 

Not Stepping In The Same River Twice

Samhain                                                      Waning Thanksgiving Moon

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  You, too, tiny Tim.

Stayed up late last night reading a novel about a Chinese detective in Chinatown, NYC.  Not sure how it happened but China has become my favorite country, much like Germany used to be and Russia before that.  Instead of Buddenbrooks I read Romance of the Three Kingdoms, instead of Steppenwolf I read Chinese mysteries.  No more War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, though I could read them again, I choose, as I always have, to plow new ground, read things I have not read before.

I tend not to read things twice, except poetry.  A big part of reading for me is the journey to somewhere new, following a trail with no known ending, a similar joy to the one I find in traveling, especially to countries where the culture disorients me, leaves me little room for my old ways.

New disciplines give me a similar boost:  art history, Latin, writing, vegetable gardening, bee keeping, hydroponics.  I’m sure I miss something in my search for the novel, which may explain why I find living in the same house for 16 years, driving the same car for 16 years, being married to Kate for 20+ years soothing.  As Taoism teaches,  life is a dynamic movement between opposites, the new and the old, the familiar and the strange, the taxing and the comfortable.  The juice flows as the pulls of masculine and feminine, life and death, youth and age keep us fresh, vital.

My buddy Mario uproots himself and moves along the earth’s surface, finding new homes and new encounters.  He changes his work with apparent ease, finding new friends and new experiences as he does.  Brother Jim, Dusty, constantly challenges his present and his past, leaving himself always slightly off balance.  Both of these men take the juice and mold it into art.

There are many ancientrails through this life, including intentional disorientation, familiar surroundings, ambition, compassion, politics, nurturance, keen observation, delight, dance.  The key lies in finding yours and staying with it, getting to know it and to be it.

When you can, you will find every day (well, most days) are Thanksgiving.

In The Right Spot After All

Samhain                                      Waxing Thanksgiving Moon

“To think is easy. To act is difficult. To act as one thinks is the most difficult.” – Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Goethe captures the crux of a dis-ease I felt at the dam conference, a dis-ease that probably explains more of why I didn’t end up in academia than other explanations I often give myself.  In short there was more talking than acting and even the references to acting were talking and more it was talking about talking to partners and allies in their language.

Thinking of the caliber in this dam conference is, however, not easy; in fact, it is hard and many of the people who spoke were clever, insightful, giving a new spin to old ideas, my favorite example the delta subsidence problem. People who can take a long held belief and shake it inside out until it reveals it’s underpinnings have my utmost respect.  I hope sometimes I can reach that level in my own thinking; it’s the way change can get started, the reframing of the old in terms of something new.

Who would think, for instance, that sea level rise inundation of coastal delta areas might be alleviated by removing dams upstream?  So, first you have to have the new idea, the problem and its source carefully linked before action can target a plausible solution.

Still, I find myself impatient with just this kind of thinking, that is, root and branch thinking that stops without corollary action.  In the end I’m more of an action guy, much as I love the abstract, the analytical, the historical, the exegetical and the hermeneutical.  I want to change the way dams impact rivers and streams, whether it be by better design or by removal or by prevention.  I want to leverage the way dams have become visible issues into victories for the planet, victories that turn us toward a benign human presence on the face of the earth.

In the end I would have been unhappy as an academic, I see that now.  I would have strained against the confines of the classroom and publish or perish.  As it happens, I’ve been able to continue my learning on my own while engaging pretty consistently as a change agent.  Probably led the life I was meant to lead after all.  Good to know.

The End of Days

Fall                                           Waxing Harvest Moon

The end of days.  No, not that one.  Just this one and the others.  The end of days is an important moment for me, a time of reflection.  Often, not always, but often, I will sit down and write, thinking as I do back over the day, the anxieties of which, as the New Testament said, were sufficient unto it.  So, here in the quiet, the gathering darkness headed toward the Solstice of Winter, I cast off those anxieties, trying to get to sleep.

Most of the time, over the last few years anyway, getting to sleep has not been a problem for me.  Sometimes, rarely now, I’ll awaken and not be able to sleep.  I’ve learned that instead of railing against it, I just get up and read until I feel sleepy again.  Won’t be a problem tonight.  I hope.

Most of the time sleep comes with difficulty when I’ve either been over stimulated during the day, an exciting debate or tour or new idea keeps kicking around even after bedtime; or, I’ve got an event upcoming in which I need to perform well.  Sometimes that causes me to lose sleep.  A speech, a tour of Chinese art for the Chinese Heritage Foundation, finishing a sermon.  Not often in either case, but they do happen.

I love sleeping.  And dreaming.  Off and on over the years I’ve kept records of my dreams.  I like to do it on a regular basis, but it doesn’t hold my interest for long, in spite of my intense curiosity.  The dream time has given me many important insights.  Right now my body is telling me I need to go dream.  Good night.