Saturday, September 15, 2007
Dream
Stumbling back to wakefulness the dream already fading into nothing, just fragments, like shapes seen through thick mist; eyes blear and head and body feeling the muzzy numb that comes from over sleeping. I had dreamed of a house that was, in some way a poem, written by a poet who had killed herself for love, long ago. The coffee in the percolator is stone-cold. I pour myself a cup-full of dregs anyway, put it in the microwave and set the LED for 70 seconds. As the coffee goes round in the little metal box, I realize that the poem in my dream was both beautiful and true, and that it was genuinely important. I feel sleepily proud of myself. I add cream. The house was the poem. I remember hovering disembodied about the house's exterior, while the sonorous words licked around me in marvelous mellifluous cadences. The coffee is foully bitter, but it serves to drag me further into the waking world. Transitions. I was about to find a pen and scribe the poem down, when it occurs to me that I’ve lost the words. I don't even know what it was about. Oh well, easy come, easy go. I don't know why Sam Coleridge bitched so much about his man from parlock: he got 55 killer lines on paper before he got distracted, didn't he? And the stuff you bring back from the dreaming is free. "And wide this tumult Kubla heard from far ancestral voices prophesying war..." later I was unable to categorize the events that followed. Certainly I smelled gas. But by the time I smelled the gas I was already running through the bedroom, towards the fire escape. a sudden feeling of sheer disbelief as I realized that I had grabbed my wallet from the table, and that I was already shielding my face with my arms, as I jumped...a shattering of glass. I landed on the fire escape, my face stinging, my right arm wet with blood (the pain would come later), and over the side, hang down as far as i could...and then let go. Smash down jarred and shaken, to solid ground, bones aching, skin all scraped, bleeding and just run for dear life, and just run...just. Shit. That was too close...adrenaline-giddy, i stumble into the supermarket. Clothes first. Then shoes. Then out.
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11 comments:
"Stumbling back to wakefulness the dream already fading into nothing, just fragments, like shapes seen through thick mist; eyes blear and head and body feeling the muzzy numb that comes from over sleeping."
Did you start intending to write a poem? the lines remind me of Virginia Woolf's long poetic sentences in "Mrs. Dalloway" and "The Waves" though in your case I am not sure if you have got the grammar right.
"I had dreamed of a house that was, in some way a poem, written by a poet who had killed herself for love, long ago."
For me, that poet would be Sylvia Plath :)
"I realize that the poem in my dream was both beautiful and true, and that it was genuinely important. I feel sleepily proud of myself"
These lines are so Conradian! What do you mean by "genuinely important"? And why are you feeling proud of yourself?
"The house was the poem."
I love the idea of words forming a shelter, some kind of cocoon. Its a pity you lost the words. I would have loved to explore the house!
I was confused by the part post "Transitions." Did you really start a fire making coffee in the pantry? And the bit about the supermarket and clothes and shoes left me puzzled.
I read this piece 4 and a half times(and without the music on).
Its kinda abstract but intriguing all the same. I guess it will make more sense once you answer my questions.
p.s. I deserve a treat for wracking my brains over your dream :P
To set a few things straight: THIS IS NOT REAL!! it's complete fiction. i did not have a dream, i did not survive fire (well, not in this case)
I feel cheated !!!
christ, then the whole supermarket thing was purely abstraction for the sake of abstraction?? I suggest you stay away frm doin that because believe me, thats something which is very easy to do.It didnt have any depth to it unlike the poem-house analogy which made sense.
it is not something very easy to do. i was feeling arbit, and hence this piece. as for supermarket, no one likes to move around the town naked and bare footed.
Who is this 'moulding defragmentation'? I think the poet was Sylvia Plath too- but I doubt she killed herself for love. It's just that Hughes being the disaster that he was, was driving her mad.
Ruchira, Sylvia Plath did pretty much kill herself for love. Her depression was triggered by her anger and resentment towards her beloved father because his death was almost a suicide. It left her scarred for the rest of her life. Apart from "Daddy", the other poem that talks about this is "Electra on Azalea Path". Hughes philandery added to her depression, but that was later.
Puneet, this is arbitrariness for the sake of arbitrariness. I dont think you are trying to use your skill at being "arbit " to some other end, like trying to convey a message or even a concrete idea or some observation. This piece could have contained something of philosophical import and that would have more depth to it. I feel this piece, beautiful as it is, was written purely for yourself, not so much for the readers of your blog.
Wake up!! You’ve got so much potential. You can do better, man.
hey this piece has the max no. of comments amongst my entire posts! sometimes art for the sake of art has its own charm...you need not always say something of importance.
i was going to comment, and then i realised a lot has already been said.
point being: it's as good as real in the sense of writing being fragmental in a state of half-wakefulness; but the semi-colons and the actions give it away as fiction.
Ruchira if you read this, don't think I hate semicolons (I do), I just think they're outmoded (especially in poetry, which to me, should be as natural as crafted.)
Forgive me if I was being pushy. It was well meant. If you work hard on your writing and are serious abt it, you could take it higher.
As far as art for the sake of art is concerned,that is an elitist position that the high modernists took. It was a political choice to shirk social responsibility (aided by the fact that they belonged to the bourgeoisie) and be the artists in their ivory towers.
I am not saying that you are one. Your last entry concerned events in your college which shows that you are socially aware
to yasha: you're obssesssed with semicolons! yes, it is a work of fiction. i'd have loved to have your comment as well...i can never have too much of criticism!
to ragini: thank you for having your faith in me to take my writing to a higher level. appreciate it. and i agree that the artists have a responsible to the society. but an artist need not always comment on social and political events. he has all the right to do and say, through the medium of his art (be it writing, painting, photograph, or a film), as he pleases. and almost all the artists have done it and are doing it. why! plath didn't comment on any social problems. her poems were personal. what social relevance does mona lisa have?
honestly, i can justify the semicolon obsession to make it seem reasonable, but I won't (at least not completely). I'll just say this- in any creative work, everything is precious. I don't see anyone using a semicolon in a state of half wakefulness (at least not today) and I also don't associate a semicolons with 'good things in life'. I just think punctuation can be used (in general, in writing in the world) beyond it's current usage.
As for my opinion on your piece, I like it. Very prose-poetic. It's like the piece itself is somewhere between prose and poetry and that fact puts the content (the house-poem relationship) into another transition and you're falling into a continuity of the two.
I hope that makes sense. If not, I'll understand.
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