Took the train to Center City. Then bought a new pair of shoes to replace an old pair full of holes and covered in paint. Walked to Callowhill. Walked to Fairmount. Walked back to Northern Liberties. Walked up to Kensington. Walked in the daylight. Walked in the sun. Drank tea and walked further.
Saw the tired. Saw the homeless. Saw the crazed. Saw the 9 to 5ers and the unemployed. Saw people up all night and people just starting their day. Saw the soup kitchens. Saw the cafes. Saw the backyard barbecues. Saw the empty park benches. Saw the morning air fade. Felt my slanted nose with sudden pain and walked on further into the day.
I dreamt I was a simple man, walking in the woods. I imagined the skyscrapers to be giant mountains and the roadways little streams. Trees everywhere. People’s voices distant bird calls. And so much greenery. I thought what it would be like if every day I started with a walk, and instead of a city I had an endless wilderness to call all my own. I thought this and I continued my walk home.
an excerpt from a forthcoming book of love poems devoted to the inner muse
The muse floats in on a breeze set from far south.
A springtime celebration of all that is.
Satiate the writer with your arid flow.
On the opposite end of the dream is a new reality.
Crossing oceans. Crossing continents.
Bliss is a fail safe for the undramatic.
A king’s ecstasy in love for the one who created him years ago.
Passion. Satisfaction. Exactly what was meant to unfold.
an excerpt from the Dream Dialectic, The Little Death, released in March 2014. You can grab a copy either in person or by sending me an email. More information about the book is available here.
Sitting on top of an RV on top of a mountain outside of Brattleboro in southern Vermont I stare up at the night sky and become completely unnerved as stars swirl like galaxies above my tiny insignificant head. The feeling drops like a brick to my gut and I shiver with new found consciousness shocking light down my spinal cord in quick painful succession. The old ego dies. Its back breaks in two. I feel it. A quick snap and I am thrown through a wandering black hole of infinite nothingness heavy with the weight of a thousand stars. My hands legs and feet all fall out from beneath me. I tirelessly grapple with the sleeping bag trying to block out this insane vision of vivid reality. Sweat runs down my brow. I am cold sober and yet I am having the first purely hallucinogenic experience of this lifetime.
I am nothing. And therefore I am everything.
The Little Death often creeps up on the spectator like a ghost under frozen water. His density is the same as the blackest sun in the galaxy. His potency is as soluble and possibly more explosive than McKenna’s fabled “hero dose”. To some the Little Death is an actual life ender. To everyone a response of absolute fear is most likely. There are very many who exit this space of the mind insane and very few who come out with a full understanding of this wholly singular moment. But everyone who experiences the Little Death is forever changed.
In those stars I see my own insignificance. They are infinite and I am only one. I have never seen stars like those. So many. So pure. Eternal flames burning longer than time. Circling around each flame an even more infinite number of planets just like ours. Or drastically different. Life forms the human mind cannot comprehend. Life styles the human being was never meant to understand. Dimensions parallel and tangential. Everything is infinite. And I experience the ego shudder back in horror as it realizes its own lack of significance. It literally turns white with fear. A coward by nature. It sees its own death of importance and then goes on and actually dies. I an empty shell am left there for a multitude of moments without a single thought. No inner voice. Nothing.
And that is when the beauty starts.
The Little Death is the great life bringer. Out of the ash grows a truer soul. Once the ego is peeled back and discarded reality opens up like a flower. One experiences a connection with their own values and from this a better understanding for the workings surrounding them. For once they are allied with the earth the heavens and the hells in a counterbalance of various flat lines and linear meanings. They are no longer alone. They have infinite being in front of them. And behind them lies only more greener infinity. Past lives past traumas past confusions suddenly seem all that more wonderful in their dissolution. One and everything. The dreamer awakens and realizes his visions of extraordinary are finite and yet everlasting. One with everything. No other truer self than the self that stands allied with all that surrounds him.
In the dark the stars continue to swirl and a close by stream continues to trickle. Other than this there is absolute silence. The fear lies in the silence for at any moment something monstrous should come out and rip the boy to shreds. But it does not come. The boy lays there waiting and with each waking moment he feels lighter and lighter. With his own insignificance comes a release from all guilty delusion and bad tide. A final surrender to the flow that is his nature. He is nothing by pure calculation, and yet the ratio that briefs his untimely end is a golden ratio. He burns bright in the night like those innumerable stars. A star himself finding his own gravitation. For the first time everything is transparent. Nothing and everything. He shines brighter. The ego is long dead. The night consumes him. And he shines brighter.
We are all stars in a great sea of stars shining brighter than the universe ever saw possible.
You’ll want to take a gander at Jeffrey Joe’s introduction as well. It’s probably the strangest and most accurate summing up of my life here-to-now that I’ve encountered. As far as the reading, it is the usual slapstick meditation with brief moments of transcendence. It was a great chance to tell new and old friends the stories of my travels over the last two years. Afterwards, I was told I should look into a career in stand-up, to which I replied the Zen Lunatic is always standing up pausing only to catch his breath. You can find him always on top of his individual mountain with his head drifting through the clouds.
So on the magic day of 4/20 I held a Good Vibes Party at my house. Once inside the Dream Oven, I led people into an installation inside the middle room which I kept referring to as “My Mind”. This was perhaps the first actual dream exhibition that I have ever held as it featured a tv installation based on a dream I had while in Berlin. Previously the so-called dream exhibitions I have hosted have been more about creating a dream space that engages the audience member into having their own dream. Here was something different! Something new! The audience was entering my own dream!
Over the last year, I have been working towards transparency and openness and it was very exciting to bridge this pursuit with my art acting as tour guide and telling viewers “This is my mind, this is what it looks like in there, welcome! Let me tell you about a dream I had!”
Welcome to the inside of my mind! You can enter and enjoy the ambiance below:
This is a prototype flame for the revamped cover of my first collection of short stories “The Sleepers / A Midsummer Day’s Dream”. The flame is made up of the collaged image of a fire I helped stoke on top of a mountain in Binghamton, NY last April while on a book tour promoting this very book. Ten feet from the fire stood a tall weathered teepee and the scene resembled something out of A Midsummer Day’s Dream. Well, except for the last gasp rebirth orgasm that haunts Thomas Venireal through his untimely end.
It is my intention with digital renderings such as this to take a piece from a photograph of something very real and mold it into a greater surreality. My hope is to capture the essence of that specific moment and multiply it exponentially sharing its energy with others. It is like treating the reality as material and through a digital process reshaping it into a new one. The process for me feels very much like lucid dreaming, where anything is possible. Time can be frozen and certain aspects can be handled roughly, molded, and dyed creating a new environment. It is the dream labors of the digital generation.
from the forthcoming Dream Dialectic, The Little Death
The ax flows like the wind striking into the fallen tree with fervor. At this point it makes more of a dent in the wood than a clean cut. Slicing through the air it comes down with a loud whack hitting the tree at various angles trimming more and more whey from the thick of its yellow interior.
I stand there sweating. At my back stands a large bonfire with many fellow revelers who journeyed here in the dark through a valley of tall thicket and bramble pushed back by our hosts to form a path. In the city, hedges this high are considered weeds. Out here in the mountains this is nature. Untouched and untrained by man’s hand until a few hours ago earlier tonight. And the forest. Oh, the forest that surrounds us. Dark and mysterious. Full of the old preamble of fallen logs and there is no one who lives out here to tell it.
And here I am, miming the energy of Neal Cassidy holding an ax high over my head, jargon and random curses spitting out of my tongue, on top of one hill looking up to another, attempting the impossible, and not quitting until the task is complete.
I look into the tree and I see its rotting sinews still strong with sap and wet with the morning dew. To chop it down is to set it free. I want so dearly to hear that satiating crack. A limb splitting in two. But I go against the grain and all I hear is the dull thud of this impressive mass of earth pushing back at me.
I remove my shirt sweat stinging my eyes. My arms feeling limp in between each swing. All the strength of my spirit being grounded with each bounce of the ax back into the valley floor. I begin to doubt this meditation and the possibility of me ever completing it.
I have to remind myself that man once was capable of splitting logs this way. Still some men exist who don’t need a chainsaw to have their fill. In the olden days men built log cabins out of trees much thicker than this one. They conquered the wilderness with only a few handmade tools in their possession. They walked into a sea of redwoods and one trunk at a time they built their home.
I am not one of those men, but if I can I will have my moment as one.
More people arrive for the party. Some perceive me with curiosity and ask if they can also take a swing. Others hardly even notice my grunts in the dark in this community of mountainfolk who find these ways the day to day. I laugh quietly at my outward display of masculinity. But it is so much more than that. I want to know what this body is capable of. I want to know if man can still build himself a home. I want to know if I am truly God the maker of my universe. There is only one way to know all of these things and it sits humbly before me.
The log rolls back and forth on the flat patch of grass. I grab a large rock and try kicking the log over top of it. I have someone stand on one end while I jump on the other. The log stays firm and I go off into the woods to find more rocks.
The fire grows behind me. The lumber I pulled from the forest earlier goes up as warm sparks into the sky dotting the countless stars above us in ash. The pile dwindles and more branches are pulled from the trees. Insects sing songs and the wood continues to crackle over the casual conversations that are all around.
Two hours pass and then three and I am still chopping this tree. I’ve gotten it to a point where the rivet goes all around it. I’ve approached its circumference from all sides. Still the tree braces for impact each time and throws itself back at me. It is a test and I will not be broken before the tree.
There is music that comes out of the campfire. Several travelers hitched a train from New Orleans to arrive here. They brought a full string orchestra on their backs in the form of homemade guitars and percussion. A few partakers dance merrily. Others request songs that no one knows and so they come up with their own.
I fly at the log with all my weight and passion. I want to be free from this task. I too want to be social and merry. I want to be done with it and have my own worth proven. I want to feel the sound of it and all the weight of my past up until this moment snap in half before me. It feels close now. It feels right. It feels like only a few more strikes and I will have it.
I take a break. My mind is beaten more than my body. There is a keg in the woods so I take a beer and feel it relieve me. I talk to a girl. I talk to some travelers. I talk to my friends. I stand by the fire and nod. After I’ve had time to reflect, I return to my duty of chopping the fallen tree.
One two three four five. There are still several more strikes to go. I pick the log up over my head and throw it down on the ground as hard as I can. I kick at it. I claw at it. I yell at it. It looks so ready to break and be set free. I stand there and look at it. Examine it. Understand it. I run my fingers along it. Feel it as if it were a part of me. I diagnose its fracturing point and place it back onto the pile of rocks I have built to hold it. I wipe the sweat from my brow and with one final gasp I drive the ax right through its heart breaking it in two.
The fire burns all night with my log continuously feeding the much smaller branches around it. At first it does not catch, but when it does its whole body glows. I smile at it and it laps warmth back at me. After most people leave, it is still going. The few of us who remain decide to sleep there close by staying warm by its light. Taking in the stars, the smoke, the silence we lay there all evening. I hear a couple fucking off in the distance. This moment is joyful. The fire dances all around us like firecrackers going off in the night. I sleep soundly. I sleep deeply. I dream I am who I am and nothing more nothing less. In the morning when I wake up the log is still smoldering and my inner fire is dancing as if reborn.
from the forthcoming Dream Dialectic, The Little Death
The water beckons a challenge to live one’s life. Its cold runs to new depth creating icy patches upon my toes as they dip further into the darkness gesturing towards a sandy bottom covered in the black of night. Thoreau still occupies this space. His poetry flows with the ripples of wind on water. Waves eternal. Words everywhere and everything. Rise up young youth. Your summer swim spot is a place for transcendence. Bathe here and feel your soul purified.
I dream I am alone as I swim across from shore to shore. Each stroke pushing me further out into the open and farther from my friends talking deeply barely noticing my absence. Fear creeps up my neck into my conscious mind as I realize how far I have gone and how far I still have yet to go. Treading water I take a long look around me. Lifeguards watching children splash starbursts into the sky. Families camping underneath the friendly shade of pines. Lovers groping bodies enchanted by the reflection of their kiss in the cool pool. Summer wanderers. Avid vacationers. Dream makers.
My body drags underneath a passing wave. Around me the sun spirals into bands of light broken by the dark sheen of the lake top over my head. Submerged breath is cut short and the mind grows cold. Panic fear absolved. The birds no longer chirp where the body lays. Silence falls except for the beating of my own heart at the back of my eardrum. And the mind turns over a new chord. A oneness with both body and soul. The water speaks to me:
Drink deep from the river of your own being and rise up anew. Become the person you tempted yourself to be. All the strength in the world is yours. It only needs a controlled breath and from there the vision becomes clearer.
I resurface and notice not one but two swimmers gradually make their way past me. Their intersection and crossover like two planes in the sky. Trails of motion laying out across the lake as they drift forward in time.
And all around them even greater swimmers taking a stroll through the lake deep. Merry pranksters on afternoon jaunts cooling off from the summer sun. Paths each unique in rhythm. Beaten roads as flexible as the liquid that they were born in. A great network of wonderers lucidly living lakeside.
I take a breath sucking in the warm sun’s heat. The fear of drowning subsiding. The body making the right motion of fingertips cupped into paddles pushing water across the side and out underneath the feet kicking brilliantly like something alive all inside. The mind masters the body and the body masters the earth.
On the opposing shore there is a moment of triumph. Thoreau stands there admiring another walker of the way. His statuette hand outstretched in an expression of open embrace. He takes note of all the fellow lovers of nature who take day trips to his homeland. Natives of Concord and Boston artists and writers lifers and dreamers all drinking deep and breathing big. His smile is in the peace of the land. No one tripping over his grave anytime soon. As his body is now a vast valley of life.
Good news from a traveling writer. My first collection of short stories is now available for purchase online from Amazon. For everyone abroad who has inquired, you can now buy a copy from their partner site that does the printing here or on Amazon directly. Enjoy!