My fellow Amerkins, if you don’t have a little black book, I highly recommend it. They’re old school, lightweight, and never run out of juice. They’re also a lifesaver if one gets the impulse to doodle in s moment of “Dull.”
If you’re on the facebook, check out the birdsong dreambook page*. It’s updated with new dreams and new drawings more frequently than this site. 🙂
*If the link above gives you any trouble, punch it in the nose. Then copy and paste this link into your browser:
POPCORN PLEASE, WITH EXTRA R.E.M.! (Inside the Company That Wants to Be the Netflix of Lucid Dreaming: Luciding
Would YOU want to control your dreams? Let me know in the comments below.
Inside the Company That Wants to Be the Netflix of Lucid Dreaming
Jun 01, 2016 | 420 videos
Video by MEL Films
To me, half the fun of dreams (and later recounting/recording them through my art) is the LACK of control I have in their content; it’s very freeing and (I think) GOOD for us as a species to relinquish control in a world where we’re becoming more and MORE controlling with each new gadget that comes along.
Every time I go to sleep it’s like some mystical-neurological superpower has given me a free movie. I wouldn’t want to go to the movies if I already knew the ending. Popcorn please!
I’ve been spending a lot of time at the McDonald’s drive-thru lately.
My mom recently developed a habit of ingesting one double-cheeseburger a day. Here’s the thing to remember should you ever find yourself in the position of assisting my mother with her home hospice care:
She likes her double-cheeseburgers PLAIN.
“Make sure you tell them that you mean no sauce and no pickles and no lettuce or anything. Nothing except the burger, the bun, and the cheese. And promise me you’ll check them before you leave the McDonald’s. Okay, Mary? Okay??
And with that, I give you…. last night’s dream (pictured above) in which I was driven through the McD’s take-out window by police escort. I was threatened by an angry mob to my right, and the female cops didn’t want to shut the doors or windows on that side of their squad car.
I traded in my Southern California digs for this- to spend some quality time with my mom in chilly, Trump-lovin’ South Jersey. She’s now in stage four of, um… of the conditions that now qualify her for the large hospital bed sitting in the middle of her tiny living room, and a wonderful nurse’s aid that visits every weekday for an hour or so.
My daughterly duties involve a lot of wrapping and unwrapping lonnnnng bandages on her pain-filled legs.
Other than that, I mostly shuffle between her house and a Walmart that has its own zip code, a medium-sized McDonald’s, a ShopRite more sprawling than Los Angeles county, a Phriendly Pharmacy and the SuperWaWa™ (a must-have for any self-respecting, scrapple-eatin’ South Jersey community.) After that it’s home again to my mom to sport some “Ultra Latex Super Gloves” and change Mommy back into a Mummy.
This is my “home hospice hiatus” ya might say- administering morphine, hydrocodone, Xanax and other assorted, highly-prized, controlled-candy-substances.
That’s all for now. I’ll figure out what the dream “means” later. The mummy calls.
If I were to ever have my own cop show, I’d play this dame- Melody Morphos, P.I. Seems they only let a woman be a superhero or a Cracker Jack detective if she has some strange, pre-existing pseudo-disability, or a supernatural mental quirk she refuses to use. In the end, she always manages to use her particular dis/ability to her advantage to enforce the law.
If Patricia Arquette can use her brain’s psychic powers to fight crime, I don’t see why MYYYY heroin can’t use her brain’s over-active hub of musical neurons and her speaking/singing synesthesia to capture bad guys.
http://www.newsweek.com/only-dreams-430107I really enjoyed the article (link above) by Alicia Kort in a special edition of Newsweek this month.
The fact that Newsweek chose to publish such a piece speaks to the fact that the unconscious is no longer being relegated to the distant corners of fringe science or new-agey, public access talk shows in the 3am slot. Dreams and all they encompass (neurologically speaking) are enjoying some mainstream media coverage and even a bit of scientific legitimacy thanks to more methodical studies and advances in brain imaging technology. I hope to someday play a part in the study of dreams and how they work. I know only this- in the process of writing down my dreams every morning for the last ten years, especially when I expand the journal entry to include a drawing of any images I can remember, SOMETHING about the physical contact between the muscles of my hand and the pen and the paper almost always jiggles loose some tiny plug that is holding all of that water back in the dam. And if that ONE LITTLE PLUG is removed?
Gush!!!! Deluge!!! Here comes the flood. And suddenly my hand is racing to keep up with the tsunami of images and storylines tumbling out of my subconscious into my conscious mind. It’s a JOY when this happens and always feels like such a victory. Like forgetting and then remembering that I made five feature films while asleep and now I can keep them on DVDs.
If anyone reading this has had similar experiences while recording their dreams (especially regarding VISUAL representation of their dreams), please comment below!
And if you enjoyed this musing, please repost/tweet, etc! 🙂
Dreaming- it ain’t just faeries and goblins these days. It covers so many areas of study, too- psychology, neuroscience, biology, anthropologie, anesthesiology, and on and on…
Heck if I know… But on Instagram, I am partial to the “LoFi” filter, and LoFi has a very saturated and contrasty look, which is my wont.
What does that say about me? I bet if Freud still had a shingle up somewhere in 2016, he’d be making strong assertions about the personality traits of “Perpetua” enthusiasts as compared to “Hefe” lovers.
And of course Freud would be talking out of his arse-hole about all of it. Or would he? I do tend to live my life with a deep-seated desire for each day to be a sort of overly saturated, contrasty snapshot. Intense. Extreme.
And I detest beige.
That’s all for now. I’m gonna make a point of posting here more often. I’m still drawing pictures of what I dreamt the night before every morning, but I tend to get in a spaced-out, blissful fog when I’m drawing or painting, and can easily lose track of time. This usually ends with me looking up at the clock, gasping, and then rushing out the door with ink all over my hands, having no blog post to show for it.
I feel absolutely RESENTFUL that our planet decided on a skimpy 24 hours for each day.
But I hope YOUR next 24 hours, dear dreamers, are smothered in a blissful fog.
But if you’re serious about the art of worrying (as I am) you’ll do it in an optimal location. Mine happens to be my desk. My desk is the safest place I can think of. When my legs are twisted up like a pretzel on top of my rolling chair, and that chair tucked far under my massive black desk, it feels more like an armored tank than a desk. And I like it that way. (I absolutely refuse to purchase a table or desk not high enough to tuck my lap under it. It’s a thing with me.)
Okay, gotta go. Time to worry about the broken world. Or rather, time to worry about the world that is probably gonna break annnnnny second. Just wait.