Dream Objects and Joan Miro’s Ghost Gifting Me Holy Words

art, Essay, update

I’ve recently returned to visual art after a much needed hiatus. I will be posting new paintings, sculptures, photographs, and collages as I see fit, but first wanted to outline a new long-term project entitled Dream Objects.

Dream Objects is a project that will span the next few years, as well as reaching a few years into the past. I’ve been fascinated with dream logic and the narratives told in dreams for over a decade, and have often incorporated my dreams into my written and visual material (notably the short film Dove Sta Amore, which offers the most dream appearances in one place to date). I’ve kept a record of notable dreams for a while, but have only recently been keeping them in one notebook by my bed, writing down all of my dreams, however mundane they may seem at the time, as well as taking notes on possible interpretations, interesting juxtapositions, and, most importantly, dream objects.

A dream object is an object or group of objects that becomes the centerpoint of a dream. Many times these will be things that do not exist in the waking world (an aim of this project is to remedy that) or odd juxtapositions of a few objects. A parallel can be found in the Dadaist’s found objects, of which I consider the dream objects to be a part of, found in the unconscious as opposed to “reality”.

Gift by Man Ray, an example of the found object.
Bicycle Wheel by Marcel Duchamp, a further example of a found object.

Over the next few years I will create and document these objects for inclusion in a book entitled Dream Objects. The book will feature the created object beside the corresponding dream journal entry. Below is the first example of a dream object (better photographs to come once I get my camera fixed).

The Miro Bible
The Miro Bible Cover.
The Miro Bible Spine.
The Miro Bible Back Cover.

The Miro Bible comes from a dream encounter with the artist Joan Miro in a forest. I was in a tight clearing as Miro approached. He pulled a retractable ladder from his coat pocket and used it to climb a tree. At the top of this tree was a large beehive, into which Miro whispered something I could not hear. He plunged his fist into the hive and produced this bible without getting stung. Once back on the ground he licked it clean of honey and hive fragments before presenting it to me with the words “and you’ll be needing this” before collapsing his ladder and walking back the way he came.

This dream occurred many years ago, while I was living in Goldsboro, North Carolina. I’ve recreated the bible to the best of my memory and ability. Just after I initially had the dream I created a version that I mailed to poet and musician Christopher Gorrie (Boychick, Retra). I will have him send photographs of my original creation to compare to my recent iteration.

Objects from more recent dreams that I have created extensive notes on to ensure accuracy include: a bed made entirely of living moths, an altered gas mask, and a pair of gloves covered in nails.

I will continue to post updates on this project as they occur.

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Four Poems at The Collidescope

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I’m honored to have four poems (“four figures in the desert, by a rock, or a stone”, “centipedes (no. 3)”, “shoebox found under bed”, and centipedes (no. 6)”) featured on George Salis‘ new online magazine The Collidescope.

The poems can be found here. Other features include an interview with Ian Drew Forsyth, poems by Barton Smock, and an interview with Salis, himself.

Submission information can be found here.

centipedes (no. 12)

poetry

in the dark of noon we painted the rose
a new shade of red in honor of the
resurrection of life on the planet
Tomorrow. my eyes don’t believe in you,
but could you tell me the color you saw
upon leaving your ghost behind? was it
a satisfactory tone of yellow?
or was it a cruel orange, waiting for
its chance to dance under a sea wearing
a mask with eyes that can only breathe you?

///

the night watches over the excavation of newly invented artifacts; eyes and the images of heaven, escaping us both.

centipedes (no. 11)

poetry

like two candles sharing a flame, we’ve birthed
an exponent; the walls watch as I taste
your geography, the clocks speak in hushed
whispers as I sculpt you with fingertips
and glances–we breathe the same songs as the
paint we create drips from our noses in
cannibalistic ritual under
the evening’s tired eyes, it drips as
we recycle ourselves back into it,
back into ourselves, all over again.

///

what blind truths comsume us now, and in how many bites?

the broom and a happy tear

poetry

forever, the cigarette pretending to
be a lover on the beach,
the rain trying on discount suits
before an elaborate mirror,
our faces painted,just like before,
and I remember the water and the
other places the poets refused to walk-
paper turning the headboards into
mist and my grandfather’s face
arguing with the door, tempted, but
not afraid in the sand,
here we are once again, my love, with
a kiss in the downpour and a
thousand words parked on the sides
of streets we have yet to see,
quiet, the songs smelling like memory,
turning roses into dandelions and
back again before someone weeps
and learns about quantum milk and
the dances we’ve never forgotten, the
broom and a happy tear, waiting
for the other side of the morning
to gather its flowers and construct
its pyramids for the goddesses and the saints,
alike.

a prayer

poetry

good morning my sweet angel, may your beaches be full of pianos soaked in gasoline, and may the fires born from the stars light your way back home. may the heat keep your soul wrapped in seafoam and dust, may the pyramids we build become beacons for song, and may our hands heal in the water, and may they forever swim in a smile of disastrous carolina fevers, knowing that the sun is theirs, that the sun is yours.