Author: ralockhart

Merrilee responds to Russ’ dream scene poem

Oh, my, this seems a doubling of the Ragnarök dream!

I'm surprised that anything survived and wonder if the birds flying North are spirits of the birds (as in, they might be dead, too).  The same with the animals.

However, we humans seem to have a worse problem than alluvial swamping, hunger, and heat.  In the poem we have lost connection not only to our animal nature but to our spirits and/or souls.  This remnant of humans no longer remembers anything useful that can help us survive on earth.  However, Russ, it's your last phrase I find most chilling: “Not even dreams."   We are truly lost if we lose connection to our dreams.
There is no doubt our current crisis is ecological, existential, spiritual, political, economic, moral, etc. all at the same time.
I remember how exhilarated I felt reading Steven Pinker’s THE BETTER ANGELS OF OUR NATURE (published in the ancient days of 2011).  I felt pride in how far we, as a human species, had come.  I couldn’t believe all the rights we won: women, animals, disabled, etc.  Even the far fewer wars taking place on the planet were killing vastly fewer people.  On almost every level humanity was improving.  How fragile and brief that wonderful Pinker-blast of exhilaration!
Russ’ dream seems to confirm that our problems can’t be averted and any progress we've made isn’t nearly enough.  Our problems aren’t fixable, not even with our extraordinary left brain breakthroughs in technology.  We seem helpless to avert the “evil” embedded so inextricably in matter, i.e. in each of us.  Perhaps our darkest tendencies already exist in the non-existent world as well.
After my recent “Durga” dream — where the giant Durga figure wraps her “necklace”, a living serpent, around my wrists & ankle — I had another dream.  In that one I etch a beautiful snake around a martini glass (euroborus style).  My work is being shown along with others in the MOMA museum in NYC.  The man in charge of the glass etching exhibit puts my glass too close to the edge of the table.  I fear it may slip or be knocked off.  A second man comes in with an exhibit of his own.  He swipes his arm across the table smashing all the glasses onto the floor.  I feel fury but contain it because I don’t want to endanger the people moving through the room.  Then someone wheels in some coat racks.  I see 3 baby flesh-colored snakes on the floor crawling in and out under the racks.  A third man enters, sees the snakes, and kills them with a knife.  He skins them and hangs their skins like a curtain on a horizontal pole.  Now the fury I feel boils over, and I scream, “YOU KILLED OUR FUTURE!”  I wrest the knife out of his hand and kill him.  (I must say this is the only dream I remember where my dream ego perpetrates violence on another dream figure.  It made me wonder if Durga's serpent “bracelets” impelled me to kill the man.)
I’ve had several apocalyptic dreams, including the onslaught of a “Mother of a Storm” and Sekhmet rising out of Lake Michigan in Chicago, declaring, “Flee the cities!”
We live in this amazing multi-colored, multi-sensory world that exists in the midst of nowhere and nothing.  WHY???  And, today, because of the Internet’s ability to triumph over space & time, we exist in this flux of rapid change and instability that no one can keep up with, let alone control.  On top of that, we’ve learned there doesn’t seem to be any hard, objective “reality” anyway.  Our mental-rational structure of consciousness is unraveling.  And, as a result, it seems to be expressing itself — faster and faster — in more and more radical, fascist-like ways — as if trying desperately for one last time — to secure its dominance.  As if caught in its own trance of mass reactions, conspiracy theories, and “isms”.
Is the Cosmos aware of our crisis?
FEX & COO has shown us that our life is far more psychic and magical than our culture allows us to experience.  But if this world is about to end — forever, with no new shoots possible — does the FEX & COO experiment matter?  To let go of fear — to surrender in order to open up to meet the NEW, implies that there's a NEW to meet.
Russ suggests that one way to open our ego structure to the unknown can be found in Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ description of “one of the oldest ways of telling”, “a passionate trance state … in the world between worlds, where a story is attracted to the trance-teller.”
Jean Gebser in his THE EVER-PRESENT ORIGIN  presents what he calls different structures of consciousness, the oldest being the magic structure when we were nearest to nature.  He refers to early drawings at this time of dreamy, almost trance-like human figures moving so that their whole head and body merge with the surroundings.  The figures in paintings and sculptures during this time are “mouthless”.  There is one from 40,000 B.C. found in Western France.  Prehistoric cave drawings in Australia.  A figure in Russia dated 30,000 B.C.  What do these “older than stone" people “see” during their trances?  They don’t require language to transmit it.  Do they use telepathy?  Do they all “see" the same thing while in their collective trance state?
Once the mouth appears — letting us know that to utter words had importance — the mythic structure of consciousness arrived.  Now the images and stories experienced in trance states could be verbalized.  Trance sacrifices ego consciousness because of its lowered awareness of "this reality”.  Gebser conjectures that In a trance state you enter “the spaceless-timeless effectuality of the vital nexus necessary to create parapsychic phenomena”.
Russ’ poem provokes me to ask:  Is it too late for a FEX & COO style writing or Lorca's “Duende" to bring something new into existence, via our current and very heated “struggle between the light and dark”?!  Is it too late for us to learn to “look” in a new way?  Of course, we can open our "channel to the creative imagination”  simply for the pure joy of it — for our own sakes.
The Sufi in John’s tape believes "the outer world reflects the inner and real change takes place in the inner world. The inner is a prelude for what is about to happen out here, and what we've seen is that ‘the emperor has no clothes’.  It’s over.  It’s done.  It’s never going to get better.  There is no purpose.  You can’t save the planet."
What are Owl Man & Heron Man saying in FEX & COO?  Who do they speak for?  Are they the same personalities as Russ and Paco?  Fex & Coo is all about the inner or “other" side coming through to blend and influence its own characters, and perhaps its readers, too.  It models shape-shifting and transformation, but is it too late for us to transform?
What is in the Fex & Coo bank to rob?  What kind of enrichment would such a heist bring?  Is it possible to pull such a robbery off?  Do skills — such as robbing a psychic bank — create a new kind of trance state?  One that makes the subatomic world, where mind and matter interface, increasingly accessible?

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Things Seen in a Dream Scene…poem in response by Russ

Things Seen in a Dream Scene

Clustered they were—here and there
Yes, remnants of humans remained
Living on mountains of human remains
No one knows what lies beneath
The alluvial deserting and swamping
The constant rain washes everything
Thirst is quenched but hunger is not
So very hot the wet rises steaming
But the birds do not notice, they are flying
While all the animals follow them northward
Humans not following, they’ve forgotten how
No children are seen, no babies' cries are heard
There is talk of what might have been, what could be
Forgotten now that humans were gatherers and hunters
Not remembering humans are animals, are mammals
Not remembering anything useful now, not even dreams

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“The Gateway,” a poem in response from Estela Bourque

The Gateway

Digging in the quantum field
An idea begins to take shape
Visually forming into a blank circle 
In which a gateway appears
A Dorje over its entrance
Symbol for non-duality
 
The pull into this space is strong
A bell sounds calling one
From the physical world
To the realms of imagination
Interweaving dimensions of reality
Glistening off of one another
Like jewels in Indra’s Net
Creating a kaleidoscopic resonance
Of emerging language and images

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Fictive Response from Mike Daniel

Bumbles Crosses the Line

Bumbles felt himself calm down a bit after his beer bath courtesy of CedrosCM. Jinney’s ministrations didn’t hurt either.  A few hours of celebration later he got up. “I’m going to call it a night blokes” he yelled as he stumbled towards the pub’s front door. “I’ll see’s you later, ta”. Bumbles made it to the door, opened it and froze. It was like something strange had passed through his body. He couldn’t tell if it was the beer, his supper of Buffalo chicken wings or a ghost. Maybe it was the cold night air he thought self soothingly. Confused by this conundrum, pondering “what” as deeply as he could, he began to step over the cill. This being an old English pub the cill had energy unto itself. It was if the cill reached up and gleefully tripped him. He tried to grab the door handle but it swung with him. With his immense girth underway a gentle recovery was not in the cards. Bumbles fell sideways in a gentle unrelenting pirouette landing face down in a thicket of brambles growing on the sidewall of the pub.

“Ow, shite. I’m going to kill you, you damn bushes” he screamed. The brambles were unperturbed. Thrashing in his attempts to free himself only made his pain worse so he stopped. Facedown in the thicket Bumbles realized he had well and truly bumbled this time. Any attempt to lift his head caused the thorns hooked in the skin of his face to cut deeper. “My face, it’s on fire” he sobbed.  “I’m going to die, bled to death by a bush”. Pull yourself together Garth (his true name) came the voice of his mother. Lying still he began to sort out a plan to get free, to LIVE. Wriggling his arms he found they were only lightly hooked. Moving eel like, he broke free of the thorns, slowly moving his hands up to his face.  Feeling around with his fingers Bumbles was able to unhook his skin from the crown of thorns ringing his face.

Lifting his head away from the thorns Bumbles noticed an odd disc like thing mixed in with the dirt and blood. Wrenching free he hauled his bulk up grabbing a handful of dirt and hopefully the disc with his left hand.  Finally released from his thorny prison he staggered to his feet only to hear Jinney say “Bumbles what an arse, you’ve destroyed my dessert bush”. Bleeding profusely from multiple lacerations he didn’t have the energy to bellow some profanity at her. Shaking his head Garth staggered down the street toward home, #10 Drowning Street. A block down the street he remembered the odd object he had tried to grab. Looking down he opened his hand. Mixed in with the dirt and clotted blood was an oddly shaped cobalt blue disc. Stuffing it all in his pocket he began to whistle. “Things might be looking up”, he thought. Little did he know…

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Poetic Response from Tony Albino

BAKERSFIELD

 

He sat on the edge of the bed

waiting patiently for his memory to return.

He knew he’d find it again,

like the left shoe to

his dress-up brown wing-tips

that he liked to keep polished

more than any other pair.

The shoe turned up again,

didn’t it?

Why not his memory?

He looked at his bandaged finger.

Someone said he caught

it in the toaster

trying to fish out his burnt bread.

He didn’t remember having a toaster.

Looking at a photograph of someone

whom he thought he must know,

he had to admit he didn’t.

'I am not sure I ever met that person.

I don’t think I would associate with someone who looked like that.’

Maybe he left his memory in the penny jar:

‘A penny for your thoughts’, he thought.

‘I’ve a penny, but no thoughts.

What are they worth if I can’t remember them?

Now let’s see, I’ve my nice,

polished brown wing-tip shoes on,

but where was I going?’

He sat back down on the bed

to think it over.

He looked down at this shoes and asked them:

‘Do you know where we were going?’

I like my brown wing-tips, he thought,

and don’t want to get them scuffed.

I will take them off.

Maybe they will find their way without me.

But if I don’t know where I was going,

how do they know where they were going?

He untied his shoes and turned them over

so as to keep the soles clean.

He couldn’t help noticing the precise stitching of the rubber soles.

Looking closer at the embossed lettering

He slowly pronounced the word he saw: Bakersfield.

He drew a blank; ‘Never heard of Bakersfield.

Don’t remember being in Bakersfield.’

He looked down at his shoes and asked:

‘Do you remember being in Bakersfield?’

He wondered if Bakersfield was where bakers baked in a field.

Dozens of ovens lined up puffing out smoke

and sweet smelling plumes of sugar and cinnamon.

He realized he was hungry but could not remember

when he ate last.

‘What is wrong with me?

I need to lie down and dream.

I remember my dreams all right

But nothing when I am awake.’

That seemed, to him, very odd.

Should be the other way around, he thought.

Unless, of course, he was not the dreamer

but the dream.

So, of course, then he would remember the dream

since that was his true reality,

while the man with the two brown shoes

was caught in some nexus between waking and sleeping,

and thus quite a fragmentary and forgetful figure.

Unable to decide the matter, he quickly fell asleep

and in his dream, he remembered everything

he knew he had forgotten,

Including his misplaced memory.

It was right there all along.

Right there next to his pair of black shoes,

the ones he bought before the brown ones.

Come to think of it, he remembered, he didn’t buy them at all,

He won them in a lottery, a lottery with a catchy slogan:

IF YOU WIN, YOU CAN CHANGE THE FUTURE;

IF YOU CAN CHANGE THE FUTURE, YOU CAN WIN.

Now he was confused.

Did I change the future before or after I won the shoes?

Then he remembered what he did do about the future and he smiled.

Upon waking, he looked in the mirror and saw that he was smiling,

but could not remember why.

He looked down at this nicely polished brown shoes

and thought maybe that is why I am smiling.

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Dream Response from Merrilee Beckman

DURGA’S NECKLACE   (9/25/21)
I’m in a living room looking down at the carpet and notice a large V-pattern.  The V is made of bright red flecks in a field of gray.
Someone says, “That is Durga’s necklace.”
Then Durga enters the room.  She’s a giant.  My head only comes to her mid-chest.  She's wearing something red and leans over to pick up the V-shape, which begins to separate from the carpet.  Durga puts in on her neck where it becomes a living snake.
Durga motions for me to lie down on my back.  She then takes off the living snake and drapes it around both of my wrists and my left ankle.
Next, another pattern (a black spider over 3” long) in the carpet’s upper left corner begins to rise out of the carpet, travels over to where I lie, and spreads it’s body across my knees.

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Fictive Response from John Woodcock

I receive Russ’ invitation
I do not hesitate.
I take his advice from The Fictive Purpose of Dreams:
I faced the blank page and began falling into a state of receptivity to what presented itself. I let go of intentionality to open more the potential of the dream story. 
So now I stop and look at the blank page in front of me…
In one week I received five new people
who actually want to explore dreams and the imagination
I’ve been in a desert
Now I hear running waters
They need no convincing or argument
To cough up a dream or two
Before dumping it in my lap with a gesture of
“do something with the shapeless mass I give you!”
No I am refreshed by this new eagerness
To swim or even dive in deep
I have worked so long
To persuade thirsty others to come to new pastures
Only to find they prefer their
Dry dusty fenced-in corrals
My efforts led me to face the bitter wind
But this is different
Water rushing to meet water
Story evokes story
Trickle becomes flood
And we are replenished
The Persuader speaks: People just don’t see this. You must work on persuading them. Get them close enough to see, touch, feel the possibility of a new way. Then they will joyfully leap that fence, free of the corral and luxuriate in the green grasses.
ME: Ok, you have had your way for a long time. I tried it your way which is to persuade people’s minds to take the leap. I don’t think that is the way anymore. Remember what Jo Campbell said: if folks today had to choose between going to heaven and hearing a lecture about heaven, they choose the lecture!
TP: But I am trying to persuade them to leap out of their viewing chairs into life, with my rhetoric.
ME: How has it gone so far?
TP: O dear, maybe I have been trying to persuade myself all along.
ME: Well, don’t be hard on yourself. We all carry the burden of the scientific spirit which is skeptical of just about everything and finds its satisfaction in the skepticism. You had to find a way through that skepticism and persuasion has a place in that process. But, my friend, having persuaded yourself, there still is the question of the leap.
TP: I feel a bit lost. I have been turning toward that bitter wind as you know.
ME: So that was you in that dream, was it?
Silence
A poem recalls to me from my doctoral days:
Are you afraid of weakening my son?
Are you afraid of that sweet fire
From fixity to fluidity you go
Let it go! Let it go! Let it go!
Letting go!

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Fictive responses to F&C and DCL?

Hi all,

I am wondering if Fex & Coo and Deathling Crown Lottery have stimulated any fictive

responses in you, whether in dreams or otherwise? If so, I invite you to send anything

of this nature to me and I will post. Do not hesitate!

 

Russ

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A new poem from Tony: Tully’s Is Going Out of Business

TULLY’S IS GOING OUT OF BUSINESS

 

First there was one,

but the one said, let there be two.

Then the two imagined others

and a curious thing happened.

The others started reimagining the two.

And then all hell broke loose.

There were books and banks

and rings and things.

There were birds of the night

and birds that could pluck a fish

swimming fast and alone in its murky canyon.

There were dreams and visions

and people erased with the touch of a key.

One minute they were here and then they were not,

only to reappear to ask, ‘Where did I go?’

There was confusion and mystery,

There was then and there was now,

the two sliding over each other

as easily as water in a glass.

There was the incandescent smell of flowers,

of jasmine and heather,

and a fox named Agatha.

The audience, caught in the vortex

of time and impaled on its unmoored imagination,

could bear no more and promptly fainted.

 

Everyone now had a time problem

and did not know when they were to be

where they were supposed to be.

Everyone now worried about tomorrow,

since no one was sure if being time-stopped
would matter to tomorrow if tomorrow never came.

But they did not worry about dreams and bones

and the future since the future could be changed,

unlike tomorrow which was just an invention of the mind.

Just an silly trick to keep us from side-stepping

the whole slavish obsession with what comes next.

But what comes next did not matter

because no one knew what could possibly come next.

All these birds and flowers

and troupes of players

armed with kisses and bullets,

razor tongues and opaque ears,

flew from the moment

towards the past or the future

and upon arriving there

did not not know where they were.

They only thing they actually knew

was that none of the innocent were injured

and everyone else won the lottery

but could not collect until on their deathbed.

Then Tully’s announced it was, sadly, going out of business.

The audience fainted once again

and for the last time.

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How shall we think about Next?

 

It is natural to think of sequence, what follows what. Or, being called, when standing in a queue, "Next!" So, we might ask, what follows Fex & Coo. What is next in line? Simple notions to be sure. But thinking this way would not be accurate. Yes, we have posted the ten original installments of Fex & Coo, and there will follow, in the traditional sense of next—what is made available to the blog members.

But things are more complicated than this.

Fex & Coo began in Tully's Coffee shop on October 10, 2010. Just over seven months later, on April 12, 2011, I had a dream. The dream was very explicit and clear: there was a title, a subtitle, and the first paragraphs of what was the beginning of an unusual narrative. The title was The Deathling Crown Lottery. The sub-title was, “A Cautionary Dream Tale.” I wrote out the text as best I could remember it from the dream. Here is what I sent to Paco a couple of days later:

 

The Deathling Crown Lottery

A Cautionary Dream Tale

Arthur Compton, 63, died peacefully in his sleep. This was usually the end of it, but not this time. His death was one of the jackpot prizes in the Deathling Crown Lottery.

The winning ticket in the narrative section was purchased by CedrosCM, a frequent player, and one who dreamed often of winning the chance to narrate a life back into existence. Most of his ongoing narratives remained just that: dreams that floated perpetually in his head, never finding their way to the written page, often involving females he imagined narrating to his pleasure.

That would change now, of course.

He knew the rules held no restrictions whatever on the narrative text. Whatever he wrote would come about in the new life of Mr. Arthur Compton, soon to be among the living. Whether he remained as CEO of Reticular Medicinals, Inc., was now completely up to CedrosCM. There in fact was only one rule: the winner must write a minimum 100-word narrative addition each day, weekends and holidays included. No exceptions were permitted. The penalty for failure was spelled out as well. The winner would himself become a prize in the Deathling Crown Lottery.

As with Fex & Coo, Paco sent back a continuation, and once again we became fully engaged in writing in a back-and-forth manner. We were writing both narratives at the same time. So, The Deathling Crown Lottery was not next in the sense that it followed the completion of Fex & Coo. A more accurate image would be something like parallel lines, that sense of "next to each other" from Old High German nahisto, meaning “neighbor,” or the Anglian (nesta) meaning “closest in kinship.” “Next door neighbor” is an English expression that captures this sense.

We were writing these two narratives as two different projects but being fictions and both intimately emerging from the imagination of the authors, they became in various overt, subtle as well as hidden ways, intertwined. This became more obvious and direct as the writing went on. You can see that the final episode of Fex & Coo describes Owl Man as having the above dream and that he is on his way to London, the setting for The Deathling Crown Lottery.

Perhaps a more accurate image of the relation of these two narratives would be the double-helix, stranded form of DNA, with all sorts of connections between the strands eventually giving rise to manifested life forms. One can certainly conjecture that there is something similar going on in the psyche’s DNA.

I will begin shortly to post installments of The Deathling Crown Lottery. This will be followed by various pieces and ending with Caleigh of Dreams. “Caleigh” is a Gaelic word referring to a Scottish party full of spontaneous poetry, music, dancing, and, in this case, attacks on the Queen.

Where we go from there is unknown at the present time.

Russ

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