Month: April 2022

More on auditory dreams from Merrilee

Dear Russ,

I appreciated your piece on auditory dreams.  I’ve had them too over the years though not as many as you (by the way I’ll be 80 this year).
One night in my late 40s a voice declared with God-like authority:  "SEVEN RULES ALL YOU DO!”  I’ve taken that as a powerful mantra and worked with it ever since.
And I certainly know what you mean by entering a liminal space when I’m writing.  In that space I often hear the voices of characters in the book, and they do speak with spontaneity & autonomy, i.e. on their own accord & with their own agenda for the the story.  In writing the second book more than one character informed me that Colum had to die.  I fought tooth & nail over that one!  Colum was meant to be the protagonist in all three books, but the Queen, Colum's mother, and a woman seer all seemed to know better — and in the end he dies.
Sometimes a voice will speak a whole line of dialogue.  It comes out of nowhere and surprises me with its content.  What the voice says often turns scene in an intriguing new direction.
You speak, too, of spider as the root of "spontaneous." It’s interesting that in Book II the Queen of the Cave shape-shifts into a spider.  Now and then, she spins a web for all the women (plus Colum) to dance on.  And, I must say, balancing on a web that is in constant motion is no easy feat!
Finally, I agree that the ego is resistant to such a voice — which means writing is a perfect way to practice loosening the ego’s control on one’s life.
Merrilee

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Estela dreams of Xhactu and a question arises…

“DEAR XHACTU”

An Exciting New Advice Column

(Sponsored by Owl & Heron Press)

Send in your burning questions, which Xhactu will answer—maybe.

1. Dear Xhactu: You appeared in a dream and the question that occurred to me was: Is there a cosmic or universal library, and if so, how can it be accessed? (Estela)

—Dear Earthling Estela:

Your question is dear to my “heart,” if we can call it that. Personally, I would prefer to use the galac-speak term for heart—WWQMPFOPPE*<>—which as you can see is vastly superior to, and more illuminating than, your Earth-speak term.

But I suppose we’re stuck with Earth-speak.

Anyway, yes, of course there is a cosmic “library” as you call it—not one, but many, many, many, many, many of them, in fact. The last estimate by the Intergalactic Council put the figure at about 1038 power, and counting. If you really want to count the so-called “libraries,” let alone to read any of the so-called “books,” you need to achieve fluency in what your so-called scientists call the “quantum realm.” (It embarrasses me to use Earth-speak in reply to your question.) Quantum computing, as it were, gives you three pathways into real intergalactic knowledge and wisdom: (1) the first lies with your so-called “animals,” most of whom are actually space-travelers marooned on your idiotic planet millions of your “years” ago (the animals are actually more inter-galactically-oriented than any of your two-legged Earthlings); (2) the second pathway requires learning the string-knot techniques of the quipu, an Inca term acquired during one of the first Inter-Galactic Exoplanet Exchange Festivals. You can still see the landing fields where the space-ships gathered in what you call the Atacama Desert in “Chile”; (3) the third and most direct pathway, of course, is to descend to the bottom of a “black hole,” where your so-called scientists are finally discovering that “Time stops” altogether. There you can read anything you want, to your “heart’s” content.

Of course, that takes some training. But perhaps the one called “Owl Man” could take you on a wormhole journey to the nearest “blackie,” as your “Queenie” called them, and you could practice the training. She was very nice to me, by the way, at that Ceilidh of Dreams.”

I’m sorry I had to resort to inferior Earth-speak to answer your so-called “question,” but isn’t that just the way the cookie crumbles?

Too bad my space-ship is still caught in that ZQPD#^X “loss of narrative thrust” (pardon my galac-speak language!). I think you’d like it, especially the Probing Facilities, of which I am very proud.

Your friend, Xhactu

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Mr. Pillar Man’s Visit, A question for Mr. Corn Man, the blind dwarf, and Xhactu

Hi Russ,

Tonight I was scrolling through a folder of old writings and came across this piece I wrote years ago in response to something you had written based on a dream of yours. You called your piece "Mr. Pillar Man’s Visit."

I was really struck by it, and Mr. Corn Man came to me back then as a spontaneous response.

As I recall, you published Mr. Pillar Man in Dream Network Journal (DNJ). So also, I sent Mr. Corn Man to DNJ. I found the date for your piece, by the way—Christmas 2013.

But tonight, as I re-read A Question for Mr. Corn Man, I suddenly realized that Mr. Corn Man—all irascible three feet of him—resonated strongly with Xhactu.

Mr. Corn Man derived from a dream I had had maybe twenty years earlier. That dream was simple and brief, but profound. It presented the strange, alien figure of a hairy, wiry, 3-foot-tall figure, along with the caption: “This is the Corn Spirit. It’s all that matters.” It was obvious that the Corn Spirit dream was presenting the figure of an old fertility god, almost like a garden priapus.

Xhactu is the same size, just as cranky, and just as priapic (witness how he and Irma got it on that first night in her Diner in Seattle).

I felt like the comparison between Xhactu and Mr. Corn Man was just, which suggests that Xhactu is beginning to take on the qualities of a pagan divinity.

Like so much else, this is an unexpected turn of events, and I feel it resonates as well with everything we’ve been writing.

I’ve wanted to place Mr. Pillar Man and Mr. Corn Man together, but DNJ was the only readily available venue at the time, and we were busy with other things. I just found the document for Mr. Pillar Man (2013). It’s still moving to me—as you were suggesting in your note today, about how things come to us so spontaneously that we continue to be surprised by them, and how they continue to be “fresh,” even years later. Remarkable!

So, now that Xhactu is taking on further dimensions, I wonder if you think there’s a place for both stories in the FC website. Maybe even somewhere else. There’s lots of shifting movement at the moment. Creative “cracks" opening up.

Let me know what you think.

Paco


Well, let's put both pieces together here. As I was posting this, I recalled this.

Conversation with a Blind, One-armed Dwarf

The dwarf was no taller than an ordinary desk, but this was

no ordinary dwarf. First, there is only one arm. Second,

wearing sunglasses and moving gingerly suggests at least

partial blindness.

“May I know your name,” I asked.

“Si.”

“Oh, you are a Spanish dwarf then.”

“No. That is my name.”

“That is unusual. What’s your last name?”

“Si. My name is Si Si. I have no middle name.”

“I see.”

“I don’t.”

“Do you always appear out of the blue like this?”

“Of course. Otherwise, everyone would avoid me.”

“Well then, what’s the purpose of your visit?”

“To deliver a message from The Committee.”

“The Committee? I don’t know what you are referring to.”

“No matter.”

“What’s the message?”

“Dwarfs are dedicated to seeing tasks through to completion.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”


Mr. Pillar Man's Visit

Tall and straight he stands

looking me over after walking

into my dream without knocking,

without invitation or permission.

"No need," he asserts.

"That I am here is enough; that's

the important thing after all."

He tells me he comes and goes

in dreams of mine and others.

"Very few know me, even

fewer know my name. Tell

the others I will be along soon.

I've some work to do. But don't

tell them my name."

For now, let's call him Mr. Pillar Man.

I'm sure you will recognize him

when he comes to your dream.

Then, sipping latte, in some cafe,

we can compare hints he has dropped.

 

From notes on a Christmas Dream, 2013.


A Question for Mr. Corn Man

by

Paco Mitchell

[This was written spontaneously, in response to Russell Lockhart’s dream-based poem about “Mr. Pillar Man,” printed in the last issue of DNJ. The figure of “Mr. Corn Man” comes from a dream I had about thirty years ago. In my dream he was called “The Corn Spirit.”]

In the remote garden where the Corn Man worked amidst green leaves, I walked quietly along the soft path until I stood a few feet away from where he toiled. He was sweating freely, his hairy body matted and streaked with rivulets. He was so intent on his work—stripping, binding, grafting—that I think he did not notice me at first. I stepped on a dry leaf to make a sound, having already learned that he did not enjoy being surprised by the sudden rudeness, the threat, of a human voice

"Who goes there?" he snarled.

"It is I," I said, "only I."

"Oh, you again. What do you want now?"

Several weeks had passed since I had discovered Mr. Corn Man and his hidden garden while out walking, and by now I was accustomed to his fierce, aggressive manner, and what seemed like his feral disdain for me. But this time I was not intimidated.

"I have come to ask you a question," I said.

"You have, have you? Well, I'm busy." His hands continued their swift magic. "You and your questions," he said as if to himself, and he muttered something unintelligible.

"Yes, and I think you know the answer."

At this he smirked, but he didn't seem to mind my impertinence.

"Well, then, out with it! I told you I'm busy! These plants don't grow by themselves, you know."

“Yes, I'll be brief. I just want to ask—ah—whether you happen to know Mr. Pillar Man. You know, the one who is tall and straight?"

Mr. Corn Man stopped momentarily and looked up from the dirt where he crouched. Then he cocked his head and looked at me sideways, like a bird, and snapped, "Who told you about Mr. Pillar Man?" He had regained the old brusqueness, and the uncanny air of menace that dripped from his naked body in waves.

"Does it matter who? It was just a friend, someone I know," I said, making bold. "He says that Mr. Pillar Man gets around, that he even paid a visit recently, and they talked. This isn't the only garden around, you know." Now I was almost taunting him, surprised at my own rudeness.

"Around? And just where is 'around' supposed to be, where Mr. Pillar Man just shows up?" he said mockingly, not rising to my bait. He continued working, as if racing the sun.

"Oh, you know," I said, having decided to go for broke. "Around. As in . . . dreams." I chewed my lip, waiting for his reply.

"Humph!" the Corn Man snorted. "Who dreams of Mr. Pillar Man any more? Few can see him these days. Oh, they may claim to dream of someone who resembles Mr. Pillar Man, but I'd wager they're only seeing their own reflections in a tin can."

But then Corn Man got a distant look in his eyes. "Was a time," he began . . .

"Yes?" I prompted.

He hesitated, then resumed, as if he'd made a decision.

"Was a time he and I, between us"—and he said this next part slowly and with emphasis—"ruled the world." He spit to the side and grafted a green stem onto a woody stalk.

"What do you mean, 'ruled the world'?" I wanted to keep him talking.

"The world! This! Here! Open your eyes! Look around! The Garden! Where else?" Mr. Corn Man was clearly annoyed. "Mr. Pillar Man and I. Together. He, with his feet in the ground and head in the air, straight as an arrow, and tall. And me, all three feet of me, crooked and twisted like these vines I'm growing. He swept the four corners and held the center while I—I—"

At this point he faltered, at a loss for words.

"Do you mean—" I began.

"Shut up, fool!" he yelled. "Let me think. Let me remember"—he paused, then said, almost affectionately, longingly—"how it was."

I held my tongue and waited. A breeze stirred the leaves around him and he seemed to swell—his entire body—as if pulsing with tumescence. I would swear he gained several inches in height, though he was still crouched and the sun was bright. Then he stood, and I saw it was so. He had grown six inches, maybe twelve. I stepped back, unsure of what was happening. Then he spoke again, this time as if from a distance.

"I was . . . everything. I was life itself. Together, Mr. Pillar Man and I marked the boundaries of the possible. Nothing came into being, except through us. We were"—his voice grew hoarse—"recognized then."

Now the only sound was the slight chafing of the leaves as he worked. I scarcely moved or breathed, hoping he would speak again. But he did not.

Finally I said, "Did you . . .  always look like this?"

"No, of course not. Neither did Mr. Pillar Man. He was a stone, needless to say, but snap your fingers and he could disappear in a gust of wind. Yes, together we were invincible. I was the fruit, he was the pollen. He was everywhere. We both were."

"Is he very old?" I asked.

At first he began to laugh almost convulsively at my stupidity, but when he calmed down he said, "Ha! Old? Is he old? You mean these so-called years of yours?" Then, shifting to what sounded like a low animal growl he said, "You don't measure us, bub. We measure you!"

At that he took up a runner and said, "Look at this." And with his shears he snipped six inches off the growing tip of the vine, the delicate leaves and tendrils tinted yellow and green. "This is you," he said. Next he shoved the stem and leaves into his mouth, chewing and swallowing until they were gone. Then he gazed directly at me, grinning broadly. In the bright sunlight, the irises of his eyes seemed yellow, and a small, leftover fleck of green leaf shone on one of his gleaming teeth. I couldn't say, even now, what was in the look he gave me in that moment. Was it evil? Was it beatific? It was both, really. I shuddered and turned away.

As I walked from the garden he called after me, once again with mockery in his voice, saying, "Don't you have any more questions about Mr. Pillar Man's visit?"

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Long Raven Haiku for Tony … A poem by Paco

Long Raven Haiku for Tony

by Paco Mitchell

I watched a raven

On the parapet today

Solve the wind problem

 

If he walks in line

With the parapet, the wind

Will blow him over.

 

But he cannot drop

Through the dense, whipping branches

As on calmer days.

 

Today, he has to

Do the “parapet sidestep,”

As ravens call it

 

What is that? you say.

Yes, the “parapet sidestep”—

Beak facing the wind!

 

Ravens are not dumb.

By facing the howling wind—

He keeps his balance.

 

Wind whips the branches

And he can’t attain his goal:

Reach the suet block.

 

What’s his solution?

I just told you what it is:

Face the howling wind.

 

Or get blown over.

It’s a simple choice, for birds,

When it comes to wind.

 

They know what they are

Doing. Reach the suet block.

The wind is their friend.

 

Sidestep, if you must,

They will say to anyone.

But don’t let the wind

 

Get the best of you.

Sidestepping is no come-down—

For Masters of Wind!

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Xhactu’s “Declaration of Independence”

Xhactu’s “Declaration of Independence”

 

Attentio- all Earthli-gs! Now hear this! I, Xhactu the Magn-ficent, have performed a swift, highly-tech-ical and, might I say, brilliant star-field repair of my inter-gala-tically-certified universal translator. It has now bee- restored to a 36.788 % Earth-speak func-ioning status. Better tha- before, eh?

 

This of course will dis-ppoint all of you Earthling fan- of silly, so-called—crackle, sputter—sci-fi fictio—crackle—like The Day the Ea-th Stoo- Stillll!

 

You no longer nee- to watch tha- inf-rior movie wi- Mikae- Re-nie as Klatu. Goo- ridd-nc-!

 

Ah, excuse m- whil I ad-ust this ci-cuit. [Bzzzz-wheeeeeeng-bong-bon-, etc.]

 

[Testing, testing. There, that’s better, ain’t it? I mean, isn’t it? Yes, now we’re back to 88.9963631 % efficacy of Earth-speak. We’re “back on track,” Earthlings!]

 

Let me start over. I know many of you are anxious to ask me more galactic questions. I’m more than happy to answer them—maybe.

 

Now. First question. Anyone? Yes, you in the corner.

 

  1. Uh, dear Xhactu, if you inter-galactics are so superior, how come your universal translator broke down? Thank you. Rocky the Gremlin.

 

Xhactu: Dear Rocky, what kind of a name is that? You’re wasting my space-time, Earthling! “Rocky” sucks! But Gremlin is supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Don’t you have technical faux-pas all the time, with your so-called computer “upgrades”? The ones that just make things worse? And don’t your computers “crash” all the time? Like when space ships crash into asteroids and comets?

 

Rocky: Well, yeah, sure, but …

 

Xhactu (turning green): Yeah what?

 

Rocky: Uh, well, I don’t …

 

Xhactu: Of course, you don’t! Next question?

 

  1. Dear Xhactu. You don’t have to get so bent out of shape, do you? Thank you. Glenda.

 

Dear Glenda: Weren’t you the Wicked Witch of the West?

 

Glenda: Why no, Xhactu. I was the Good Witch. I mean, the Good Fairy!

 

Xhactu: Intergalactically speaking, there are no Good Fairies.

Glenda: Why?

 

Xhactu: Because all the Good Fairies went bye-bye.

 

Glenda: Where did they go?

 

Xhactu: Over the rainbow! Where else?

 

Glenda: Oh, now I see. It’s all crystal clear now.

 

  1. Dear Xhactu. Were you really a Basque shepherd in the Pyrenees in a past life? Thank you. Joey Beetlebomb.

 

Xhactu: Of course. Don’t you see these scars? (Points to orange strips on center foot.) That’s where the wolves got hold of me, and started dragging me away from the fire.

 

Joey: Why did they do that? Thanks.

 

Xhactu: Why? Why, the better to eat me, idiot. What do you think?

 

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New Advice Column: “Ask Xhactu”

DEAR XHACTU!

An Exciting New Advice Column 

(sponsored by Owl & Heron Press)

Send in your burning questions, which Xhactu will answer—maybe.

  1. Dear Xhactu: What is the nature of love? (John W.)

—Dear John: Love is what you inferior Earthlings call “mush puppies.” We superior inter-galactics call “love” the Super-Glue of Everything (i.e., the gravitational field of dark matter).

  1. Dear Xhactu:Is the power of dreams growing?(Merrilee B.)

—Dear Merrilee:  It could grow, if only Earthlings would open their eyes and try imagining for a change. But … unfortunately … they don’t … [crackle, crackle, universal translator heating up]

  1. Dear Xhactu:Will there be a Second American Civil War?(Anonymous.)

—Dear Anonymous: What you mean “will,” Earthling? Civil War already happening. Open your eyes!

  1. Dear Xhactu:Will I find fame and fortune?(Fred F.)

—Dear Fred: Sorry, Earthling, the answer is no.

  1. Dear Xhactu: Donald Trump says you are a “fake alien.” Are you? (Anonymous.)

—Dear Idiot, Here is your answer in glalac-speak: DWUKKPQZIT!!!! 

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Post from Merrilee Beckman

Russ and Paco.

Are you acquainted with Adam Haar Horowitz’s work and the device he calls a Dormio?  He and a team of professors and researchers at the MIT Media Lab developed it to induce “dream incubation”.  He says he wants to create a “community of dream incubation”, i.e. a community of culture to open a new route between dreams and public life.  Thousands or millions or billions of people hooked up to Dormios.  And for what?  Apparently, we'll only discover that answer through the practice of dream incubation itself, and what it reveals to us.

Adam, however, is afraid that it may be used by companies or politicians to infiltrate our subconscious as a way to further control us.

On the other hand, the Dormio could make us aware on a mass level of how “unbelievably, compulsively, naturally, and irresistibly" creative the mind becomes once it slips loose of conscious control.  But there’s a fear here, too — a threat that our awareness may come apart under the pressure of such a torrent of creative energy surging through.

The ancients intimate that beneath our consciousness lies a ceaseless swarm of chasms & metamorphoses (the kind you & Paco express in “Fex & Coo”).  A few minutes in the hypnagogic state is all we need to enter a world where everything is change.  It’s a little scary to realize the sluggish movement of regular experience is made up of “millions of shining, vibrating filaments”.

The creativity of the dreaming mind is a transformative force that can’t be distilled into intellligible writing, paintings, or even music, no matter how hard we try.  I’d like to ask Xhactu if the power of our dreams is growing?  Too bad he has left the planet with his broken transmitter!  Do the dreams feel an urge to spill over into our world through devices like a Dormio?  Or more “Fex & Coo” type novel novels?  It’s all play, isn’t it?  A cosmic dance, indeed, although I sometimes fear what this incessant stream of forms and worlds, leaping and diving beneath our conscious mind, will reveal.  And not just to me or you — but to itself?!

Anyway, I was curious if you knew about Adam and his Dormio device.

Also, I appreciate hearing again the story of your fall as a nine year old, and why the owl became your totem.  So glad the owl spoke — and you heard its voice!

 

 

 

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