Some surrealist activity in dreams

pet cemetary

From L to JA:

I had some dreams last night that you were in.

You invited me to some local officer’s open house where they were giving a seminar on “creativity.” Men in ties were showing us to all these kindergarten tables on the ground where there were tombstones for dogs, like from a pet cemetery. We had to redesign them.

Next, we moved a room over till we were sitting on the ground. Using paste, popsicle sticks, and markers, we were told to design a religion for the tombstone we just made. The office worker explained that we were participating in a version of a surrealist game called “an exquisite corpse,” that had been made more professional for idea monetization.

You took the paste and poured about half the bottle one the paper so that the puddle was mostly all over the carpet. Then you then started to rail against all these people being shills as I tried to clean some of the paste off the carpet in case they noticed and made me pay thousands of dollars to get the room redone. We were mostly just dicking around instead of playing the games, so we walked out when I thought enough was cleaned that they wouldn’t notice.

Outside, we were about where the Rideau Center would be looking at Rideau street, but very high up. We were interested in finding our local spirits, which were likely eating out of trash bins in the local alleys, but also doing some random shopping.

Me and Jess had won hockey tickets to the Stanley Cup playoffs that we were encouraged to use. When we got there, we were made to ride in a gothic parade in which there were hot air balloons of women being abused by the grim reaper. The games were being held in that state that had banned abortions. In protest, the local team club had decided to empty the arena of all spectators for the game. Only a lucky thousand were chosen to watch the live feed sitting in several little theaters seating maybe seventy people at a time. The walls were made of wood and the decor was 70’s posh.

All spectators had been chosen based on media appeal. We were chosen because I was a mentally ill transgender artist, and Jessica chosen for being in a lesbian relationship with me. Our story was posted to the internet like everyone else’s as a sort of advertisement. Most people were women not much interested in the game. A large group of little kids faced away from the screen drawing in coloring books on their seats.

The only footage the audience at home would get was us watching the game with the screen in the background while interviewers got our thoughts on sports and the abortion law reality TV style. I did my best to actually watch the game in case my parents saw me.

You and me attended this event like one of PP’s mental health art things, but it was also a surrealist thing. We had trouble busing there, and were the only people to show up. The social worker in charge didn’t show up till late, after 10pm, and was having a break-down from her job at the hospital. Her mascara was running from crying. I decided to leave.

The next day, at a gathering for the animation program at Algonquin I was attending, they showed dozens of complex, highly finished artworks produced overnight at the group after I left. These included video installations a huge sculptures made of intertwined cords of colored material. I was jealous none of my work was on display.

(sent August 1, 2019)

Here Comes The Cactus!


Message for you! I have always strongly sympathized with Breton’s very first surrealist experience: the sudden gift, as one is drifting off to sleep, of a hypnagogic phrase. For Breton it was “a man cut in half by the window”. It came to him one night, as mine come to me, fully formed, clear and distinct, and verbal rather than a full image. A hybrid concoction of mythological genesis and Cartesian certainty. Actually, I find that they usually have an imperative character that tends to suggest an exclamation point. For me this phenomenon occurs so regularly and clearly that I found I could actually record a solid set of them before finally succumbing to sleep. Why jump right to conscious automatism, when this method could also be mined? I tried to explicitly “write a poem” in this way, using the phrases that arrived totally unbidden before falling asleep.

Here Comes The Cactus!

Man-Thing looks like 10:30…

Here comes the cactus!

Let’s say, plenty!

The issue, is there change yet?

That’s the issue about being rugby.

Right now dancing, because I wanna go… play!

Head’s up! Cause I thought your others didn’t doubt ya.

You should always bounce in and you’re Greg.

Giant rocks and a searching squirrel? Nay.

I’m going to help you babe, the message cleared to me.

(JA, August 3 2017 from 10:30-10:48 pm)