Unfolding the Layers of Dreams

I was hanging out with Emily; a peculiar night of drinking and carnivales ahead of us and the familiar feeling of ‘almost knowing’ what’s to come, the darks of this town and the sensations of being smothered.. This could not be real. I was dreaming but it felt so real, almost as if I died for those 7 (maybe 6) hours.

do you ever wonder why dreams are so vague? Or do you wonder why during a nightmare you wake up immediately after the ‘scariest’ part? Why not a little after? Or heck, why not before it happens?

While a psychologist or therapist may be able to answer  two of those questions, I can certainly answer the other. Dreams are the winding down of our (your) daily thinking patterns. Stressed about work? You’ll later dream of a related scenario involving work. Trouble with bullies? You may dream one or many “scenes” depicting your thoughts and fears. Like one of those goofy YouTube videos worded; dreams are movies that live in your head! Irrational? No! I’m being realistic when I say there are those who sleep more than 20 hours at a time for the sole purpose of that certain chemical released during dreaming.

What is this magic called?

DMT; the magic molecule that had Alex Grey tripping balls for 20 years. Basically, it is such a persistent (and rare) drug that the brain releases which causes dreams, night terrors, sleep paralysis and lucidity. It must be a hellava drug for people to seek it out and try to imitate those natural trips.

Funny story; my mother once mentioned dyeing her hair black for Halloween and afterwards, I hit the sack and dreamed of a depiction of my mother with this ‘black hair’ that appeared more like a witch wig than a hairdo. Also, I noticed in the dream that I was aware that I was dreaming and tried to act like the fat kid from that movie “Fat kid rules the world” until I realized I couldn’t run or scream. In that moment, I also began to feel this “tickly sensation” as if some kind of fear swept over me and I couldn’t move.

The same ‘tickle’ followed me since I first experienced it at 14 after watching “That 70’s show”.. In the dream, Donna turned into a pink bird (sort of like those flamingo things in Labyrinth) and started tickling me. It was such an irrational and unpredictable feeling and as I recall, the sensation occurs once every now and again.

I would like to mention that keeping a dream diary or journal can help you memorize dreams and moods (yes, just like in the butterfly effect) but only to an extent. And for those creative folks who like to experiment with weird and crazy ideas, this is even better for you. I first started making dream journals around 14 and stopped that same year. After taking my first writing class in 2012, Jana Bomersbach, who was my teacher at the time decided to give me some pointers and somehow we got into the topic of dreams and she urged me to continue writing in my journal after I explained my past. It helped tremendously because as a writer, I never know what I will dream and therefore I never know what I will write. Sometimes it’s messy, peculiar; odd- sometimes it is beautiful and subtle.

Stress turns into sleepless nights turns into sleepless habits turns into sleepless lifestyle and when you do sleep you’ll end up projecting your uncertainties through a series of what I like to call “wave dreams”. You should never stress about things that are out of your control but if you must, listen to what your mind is telling you. You will be at a certain peace, which in turn will help others to find their own peace, minimizing room for violence and chaos.

As the classic song reads; “Listen to the color of your dreams.. Perhaps John Lennon was warning us of this? No… I learned my ways from some man named nobody- without a capital. Yes, the one in our head.

On a more productive note, come to terms with your issues because before you go to bed, they will be swarming your mind and invading your dreams. And you don’t want some fucked up dream like some baby licking the brains of a doll or a giant wax man swimming in your levee.

Dreams mirror reality which mirrors who you are and there is no definitive approach to solving your problems because life is relative to you as an individual.

Thank you for reading!

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Book of Serpentine Hox

And I will never rest with my head on your bosom; those three eyes of nines and your cusp of Jerusalem; they had glares like beacon men of nights,

They were a serpent kind of loving where you were just their vocals hemorrhaging through a collapse of their wormholes; a journey through your fears.

Harold was his name; a devil of superficial strengths and grays of smoke out of his mouth, such a cooling between the sheets, madam,

I remember the day like it was just thirteen hours, I made you sweat and you called to the thunders of his stature as he was your snake man.

The diagrams; a colossal fortress of clicks and clocks, time a quintessence of you and your serpentine Hox,

Oh the capillaries of his meager shafts, the goldenrod of his strike; it was no wonder you crept and he came.

There appeared before me seldom a marble eyed woman; Scotia with her silks of flesh and fondness, half of me,

Threes born of shame; a womb hovers in graphic nature beyond imagination and there it became; caresses of tongues.

I recalled it being something of a gift to me; seeing the mortals of her ligaments in shifts, graphic natures they were certainly and profoundly,

Serpentine, oh correction of this mind; have they begotten a child of mother Miranda? To twist such a sister like so many others.

I’m in the cathouse seeing figures of sensuality; nobody lifts me like she does, a passive petal but I cannot see much else,

Snatches of my fears embody me as well, a holy visual impacting all of my desires; there is nobody here but me.

Here I am, a stupor of your dreams and wishes; genie man who is but a stow of rationale, formidably in hell,

And then the thumps of denial twist me into your dollhouse so I can see the world through your windows; fours of thread.

Eyes lie in the house of flies,
Bees live in the highs of trees,
Ghosts hide in the flesh of hosts,
Hands run through the quicks of sands.

And I will never rest with my hand on your bosom,
They were a serpent kind of loving,
Harold was his name,
I remember the day like it was just thirteen hours.

Serpentine the sense of worship was an enigma in these years for he was the stigma; Hox and the figment, a darkly,

Finally; it had begun, an apparent mishap of a renholder juiced and squeezed by the meaty holds for his widow.

She called him Vismund; a name so familiar like he was a booklet of open memories, reveries as she recalled them,

Hox the severity of myths and the intensity of hooperstan with his witty eyes; two golden beams he assumed and adored.

Eyes lie in the house of flies,
Bees live in the highs of trees,
Ghosts hide in the flesh of hosts,
Hands run though the quicks of sands…

The fives of serpentine’s figments were but a coo, metamorphosis in definitive approaches to his collapse; a way to define his life,

Window lapse the moon shadows of time; a star painted red indicates the heroin of his peaking sensibility; the star loses its way.

Painted red, sarcophagus phobias; the moonlapse torturer was the answer to his reverie; a labyrinth of woes,

The world reforms in the shape of a stone; serpentine Hox a maverick of many a widows and his threshold of cravat men upon it.

Seeking home; eternity of woes, a gathering of barons; nothing ever lasts and things do come at once, the battle in Aragon; a reverie of Christos and Serpentine lives.

Serpentine lives; Hox the pamphlets of Women; Serpentine lives.

The Mandible in Miranda’s Cordial Box

(Eriatarka)
Reformed was a wolf man in orange hair,
Impaired by his pigment an infancy brew,
The heaps they were stowed into his glare,
A dance of orange blaze set haze anew.

Born without a hole yet four remained still,
Into the coil of roses for the silky wife,
Ployed to have her hanged atop the mill,
Then gutted from the nave to steal her life.

Portraits of the widow in her precious box,
There drew a concern of her ruby ways,
Letter read maths of the poison she talks,
In a guise betokened was the end of days.

“Miranda that man looks oddly at ease”,
The fish between the flesh I desire please.

(Clairvoyance)
A dream,
So fond of you,
And all these gestures now,
I have not been asleep long enough,
To feel.

(Eidolon)
There was a mandible in the cordial box,
Miranda always loved them articulate,
Here lies the sheep just as his fox,
This room is small enough to wish for.

Miranda always loved them articulate,
And in each month of the sun she died,
This room is small enough to wish for,
In the clammy dusk the moonlapse sighed.

And in each month of the sun she died,
In the desert come to see her dance,
In the clammy dusk the moonlapse sighed,
A slight return and a beckoned glance.

In the desert come to see her dance,
Here lies the sheep just as his fox,
A slight return and a beckoned glance,
There was a mandible in the cordial box.

Mary the Miniature of Santania

I: Isabelle

There was a frail coy bird thinning of its wings, an article of brunette’s string upon it,
She was a pale piece of work with an ego like crystal in the black night, hands bloodied of her sins.

Deep holes as eyes had no forgiveness for her torturer the creature of religions, and in her readings, a note of chasteness,

Her face was of the nun who possessed her pamphlets and regards, her story of the bedlam that occurred was in her home.

She used to suck the sticks like a meager widow which she became, and it was then her voodoos were her readings sucked from a witch in Santania,

Ordered the henchmen around the blocks with a coat of women all in denial of the grasps from her wickedness, terrored and empowered.

As began the witchcraft from her baths of sweat, she mouthed the words of the devil who blinded her and in the name of Geraldo it was conceived so persistently,

I could remember how she swept her brittle arms across the bed of wooden stacks, her reform into the creature was mystifying and so warm to me, Socorro.

II: Socorro

Now in the holy house of the second woman there were flies of pig silk and dye coming from the thins of the door slides,

Singing at the top of her lungs, voiced as the witch was Isabelle and her language of Santeria, mouthwash and black dye seeping from her sockets.

Crafted was a man in his torn denims, husky and fit for the part of her exposed bare handed slaps, detailed with lasers of hairs upon his chin,

His arms were of ducks because the devil enjoyed making her cream like the nostalgic days of her Mexican home, squid like and wormy.

She laughed at the certain ways his Screwface parroted the look of losing time, gawking and so profound like a magic man of fevers,

Slid the nail through his heart and soaked the mouth with vinegar and soil, hysterics dropping like flies in the cicatrix room of gypsies they were.

Stretched a rope around his legs for these dreaded days of sex and sin, had him drained for seven days in a beckon of cunning tempers,

And they’ll never see what really happened to him, betokened a night for the sisters acceptance to speak to the one, the being with serpents for friends.

III: Ella

The horseman of this town deserted and distraught, came to be the one of genie wishings and footstool lamp heads,

Marbles on the floor from when she went insane by the powers of demon man, a toothpick stuck in her gums.

This never mirrored the killings of the dead and broken immigrants, soothed and calmed by the tokens of her reflections,

Satan gave her many wishes amongst the pillar of ghost reveries and a baying behind her, toast and pickled to her liking.

Ella the redeemer of words in destiny’s fate should tender many passages, underneath the silver trinkets oozing from her mouth,

And in the time of the second sight, there were gypsies of the early nuns who punctured her ghost in the name of Santeria the queen of maths.

Seeking Home Eternity

I:
You are journeying the trials of time,
Constant reveries caught in your eye,
Another beloved had dropped the dime,
You were in hiding, you’d always been shy,
Despaired and collected to say goodbye,
Eternal ghosts waiting for you to see,
In Blood revenge your desires will die,
Blacken your entity as a gargoyle for me.

You are weeping for greats of sunshine,
Even the pales by North heard the cry,
Humbled now of the soulless grime,
Beacon man waits for you to come by,
Sentiments like snakes parish and lie,
As the divinity holds you and let’s you be,
The plane of your yearning will make you sigh,
Blacken your entity as a gargoyle for me.

You are seeking to patiently climb,
The dearest peaks among all the high,
Clutch the stones of the merciless crime,
Conceal it and see it peal and pry,
And give way your thoughts you cannot deny,
Send them your love as you will never be free,
Glare at the sparrow of dawn in the sky,
Blacken your entity as a gargoyle for me.
All of these years you tearfully asked why,
With a rod on your brow and a letter by your knee,
Its fold on your skin with a mock on your thigh,
Blacken your entity as a gargoyle for me.

II:
So many dreadful years have passed,
You were always my precious little child,
I will seek out your every demon a last.

Your imaginations had run ever so wild,
You were caught in a bout of ambition,
Though glad your delusions were mild.

I was there to see your eerie transition,
And though it did hurt me all around,
I am certain it was always your decision.

Long faces glare as you fall to the ground,
Dark ambience awaits with you in pain,
All that is too far gone cannot be found.

Despair red like blood begins to rain,
Tragedies as such are difficult to feign.

III:
Alone at night I sense this kind of kink,
Try to reconcile what have I may done,
Or I have come to find my time’s begun,
Letters fall beneath me as if I’m dead.

I cannot be at peace and cannot think,
Evil calls my name to hide from the sun,
All of the matter expires so I run,
Past the king of mires quickly to my bed.

So I may give myself an honest choice,
And with it I be gladly on my way,
To live as an imp or die with my soul,

Black rose immortal of a futile voice,
Palms with a clash of beauty and dismay,
Burrowing eternal ghosts down a hole.

The world as an introvert

I was walking down the boardwalk of Redondo Beach this past weekend and I noticed how foreign others appeared to me. It’s ridiculous because I’ve walked passed these people before I’m certain of it. Left of center, left, boardwalks of beaches and other avenues but still I find them foreign or unapproachable because I’m not like the specific people who were shouting and dancing (as far as I can see, of course).

What is it about other people that tend to make us (introverts) tense up? The chemistry between us? The appearances? I’ve seen palmfuls of different kinds of extroverts around so appearance has little to do with the matter. The forces! That’s what causes us to defend ourselves and open ourselves at times. Because in the world, there really are forces amongst us. It depends on how we (you) perceive these forces. Are they demons? Angels? Ghosts? Who knows.

I spend quite some time away from people because I find it peaceful and comforting to be in my own world where I can lament, laugh and live with what I’ve put into my “world”. Also, I try to write as much as possible because… Why not? I love it. And writing is a solitary hobby/profession so it seems to be my intuition I’ve been following.

During these quiet moments, I gathered enough thoughts to finally understand that we’re all an introvert to an extent. We are built to chase our dreams and we overthink due to the many trials we face but in the “bigger picture”, the world is full of others who are just like you (me).

I read several quotes from authors and poets, musicians and professors who say many things about escapism, trials and tribulations, life and death but all of them had a mutual understanding of “being yourself” and it seems hard to do at times for some but it is peaceful nonetheless and it is the first step to your own salvation. 

I identified myself as a seeker years ago before I came to the terms introvert and extrovert and sometimes I wonder myself if they even exist. Do they?

I think the whole point of being is to just be. Exclude your anxieties, frustrations, desires and uncertainties and be you as I’m being me. There is no specific way you are “supposed” to be that is paved for you and other than destiny (which you cannot foresee) there is no supposed fate for us. As an introverted, humble and learning writer trying to make every second count, take nothing for granted. Learn what you can, do what you can, seek, explore, dream, imagine and create what you want. I tell myself this every day; just be yourself.

So as I have plenty of writing to do (including tedious schoolwork and notes) I’ll leave here a quote from Maynard James Keenan, who also identifies as an introvert; “Life is too short not to create something with every breath that we draw.”

 

Cassandra Gemini explained

Life is an enigma, period. That is why we are born on a certain day with certain details surrounding us and during our time, music and films pass through and if we’re lucky we’ll happen to be alive at the same time as one of the best artist(s) of our time. And what are the odds of that?

During this octavarium (Dream Theater reference), we’ll find great stories that shape our lives or enhance our reading experience. I found a song called Cassandra Gemini off of The Mars Volta’s Frances the Mute album. It was their second concept album after “Deloused” that made me ponder about even going to bed at night from Wolfram Tarrant and his dog hands to Miranda’s “ghost” tale.

The song has a very peculiar and confusing concept behind it and listeners have a difficult time decifering its meaning. I’m going to explain this acid trip called Cassandra Gemini.

It follows a man (who identifies as a woman) named Cygmus. He is involved in the Spanish mafia (cartel?) as a sex slave. He visits numerous women such as Miranda, L’via and Cassandra (whom title the songs on the album) and asks them about the fate of his mother who he believes left him for dead and ran away.

Cygmus also sells narcotics to locals and has become addicted to them as well. In Frances the Mute it is revealed that he actually killed his mother who’s name is Frances (The Widow). He overdosed on a hallucinogen he earlier thought was given to him by a drug user trying to cheat him. This is emphasized in Frances the Mute: “This never happened but I saw you through the bed of broken windows”.

Frances the Mute is actually either simultaneously or after Cassandra Gemini story wise but music wise, Frances the Mute comes before Cygmus… Vismund Cygmus because the mysterious acoustic passage continues/leaves off between the two songs.

In Cassandra Gemini there are emphasized phrases such as “No there’s no light, no there’s no time.” Cygmus is in a state of fear and panic out of what he has done so he kills himself (which sounds quite familiar coming from TMV) and the same acoustic passage plays again for the third time in the album.

The whole thing is like a cross between Pulp Fiction and Memento but in a guise you cannot avoid- music!

There is a quote that Omar Rodriguez Lopez mentioned; “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.”

It was only later that I realized Albert Einstein said this; and it is true! Imagination can take you places being smart just can’t and there is nowhere you cannot find peace if you surrender to it.

Well quite confidently, that is my interpretation of this 32 minute epic that is Cassandra Gemini. It’s been an inspiration for many of my stories, book choices and quite strangely, style.

Nevertheless, this song suits my mood (excited, sad, hopeful to maniacal, mellow and hectic). What inspires you? And Who do you trust? (Cygmus speaking).

The melody through my words

The other night I felt like listening to Sarah Mclachlan (which is a side of my musical tastes I keep to myself) and after the day of social obligations and sunny drives with my family, I was longing for a more “soothing” place and I couldn’t think of anywhere better than my room!

So I was in the midst of warming up my mind on what I last wrote; woman weeps, father grows, weeps, woman; child is learning to live, everything is in a knot. Earlier, I could have sworn I sounded much more imaginative in my head. Why is it now I have this issue?

Because of the mundane and usual issues that goes on in one’s life, it may take some moments of silence to completely get into the “writer” self. So before I knew it, I had a palm full of wild emotions that was somehow emitted from completely different things and a blank page before me. How?

I am working on a story and I know what I want it to embody but I just can’t see the words how I imagined it before. I think up a few scenes where my current sentiment could fit in but what happens before and after? I have no clue. And then I start to think about the few articles I read on how “good writers do not transfer their emotions to their work”

I try again, this time after a few mellow songs have passed through my ears (and scenes as well) but instead of my words coming out, the lyrics do. And now I’m writing a novella about “how she loved me so”.

After even more time, I finally detail about my characters’ lives and who they are, based on the sentiments coming from my music. And then piece by piece, each song brings up a level of imagination: young woman, northeastern family, telltales from a father, sadness and then a rejoice.

After several hours of this, I can give thanks to the musicians who inspire me to turn a cheesy love letter into an actual story that carries the same mood, sentiments as the music that inspired it!

There are oftentimes I cannot put together what I want as a writer and although I’ve come up with several concepts that give me a sense of confidence and security in my work, these feelings leave just as fast!

If you’re an overthinker like me, relax and enjoy the simple things in life such as a nice snack and your favorite artist. Has there ever been a song so meaningful to you that you had to transfer those thoughts into your own art?

What is this life all about? And what do you enjoy the most? Answer those questions in the best way you can and then you can share that brief sense of freedom with me!

The correlation between music and writing

Today I want to talk about the importance of musical inspirations in writing. It may seem foreign to come to conclusions or pass swiftly though the “Moor” in your WIP while jamming to shredding guitar solos but it happens! And more frequently than you might imagine.

This past week I came to the conclusion of my WIP’s continuous arc (thank God!) and I found it troubling to wrap everything up. Of course, there is more to tell because I’m not completely finished. And even though I’m halfway through at around 90,000 words, it might shorten up after editing. 

What helped me get through the rather long bouts of introductory and insights of my arcs was music. Lately, I’ve been listening to a lot of Progressive Rock (long complex songs, odd time signatures, concepts and interludes/reprises) and it puts me in a somewhat magical state to say the least.

My taste in music has matured as well as my taste in films so what used to be Slipknot and Coal Chamber is now bands like The Mars Volta and Opeth. Surprisingly, I found out that Omar Rodriguez Lopez (TMV) got his inspirations to write concept albums from films. I think there are great imaginations inside writers’ minds to come up with anything and with the right song that presses the right buttons, magic happens. 

I’m very appreciative of the (very few) moments where I feel a knot in my chest while I’m writing a dreamishly odd scene as Cassandra Gemini plays in my ear buds. It balances out so perfect that I can actually sleep well without wondering if the man who should have died this way had enough emphasis on his life to instead bite it this way and so on and so forth. 

Also, I should add; on one of the writing forums I use, someone posted that he likes to listen to his favorite ambient songs before writing. That also works very well to reflect whatever mood you need in order to write the particular scene you want. In either case, music does enhance writing. There are still those who prefer to write in silence as it may bring them a peace of mind and time to hear themselves think and that’s great too! 

Just like musicians flesh out concepts from artwork and movie stars read books to develop their roles and readers watch films that are based on books, writers could find a very deep mood in music to help them get through that grisly end. 

I could thank Mikael Akerfeldt and his acoustic passages for giving me quite a vivid image of my WIP’s pivotal moment. Thanks for reading! Go listen to your favorite songs now!

Greetings

Hello! I’m Alex. 

There are a great amount of you (readers) who have not heard of WordPress or myself and this is my very first introductory post so I’m going out on a limb and say you have not read my previous material!

I’m going to start with why I’m starting a blog site (how I hate that B word) and what I plan to do in the future. There are countless talented writers who I met via writing forums and classes in my town. One of these writers mentioned the benefits of online publishing, and naturally I was hesitant to try it out. 

Of course, curiosity kills the cat! I may have found an obsession with siting and ebooks because I found out how easy it is to sell online. This generally goes for anything and not just books. My mother wants to sell products online as well so what do we have, Amazon? eBay? WordPress! 

Perhaps if you want to get your concepts (in my case, stories) read there are plenty of eyes and ears on the Internet. 

I want to start pricing my books only to an extent and because in the writing world it is tough to get a reader. I barely had enough downloads on my short stories to make it worthwhile so for a novel which generally would have between 80,000 to 100,000 words I would suspect there being a tremendous amount of pressure for it to be read. 

I still dislike the idea of selling novels through Amazon unless a: it has beta readers, b: it is a single book without sequels and c: you have other books that have NOT been published. I do however believe it’s a good step to build yourself as a writer if you ever plan on being traditionally published. 

Until I gather up more knowledge on ebook marketing and selling, I’m going to stop there. On my next post, I may discuss queary letters, topics and rejections. 

In the meantime, enjoy your bouts of frustration/excitement on the Internet.