Dreams of Daily Star-dom

I had all but forgotten about dreaming.

For those of you looking to your Daily Stars, this past night you may have noticed an empty sky clouded in this reporter’s silence. Snuggled up warm in my bear, I drifted off to the soft sound of puppy snores… and found myself in a familiar, but distant place.

In my youth, I deemed this place Slumberland, but then again, I have always been partial towards naming my original scripts with a catchy portmanteau.

Reflecting now on my college admissions essay to Drexel University’s Film & Video program entitled “Silver-Screen Dreams” I can’t help but notice the correlation between the dreams we dream at night and the dreams we aspire to live by day.

Not so much in the content of the dreams themselves, mind you. Many artists claim that a particular inspiration came to them in a dream– while I imagine that is true, in a way– they tell it much like they were watching it as a film in their sleep, and transcribing it to you by day.

Naturally, an inspiration we are deeply immersed in, will slip its way into our subconscious in our slumber. But not in an instantly recognizable literal sense. And crossing this border the other way around, is something else entirely.

They royal “they” tells you that you do not dream in color.
I know this to be a lie.
I can remember a neon pink octopus. Smooth, shiny, almost cartoonish for there wasn’t much texture to it.
I can remember a wizard, a castle tower, a magic book, a cat that was a shark.
Underwater, but also not. Swimming through water and swimming through air feel very much the same– and I can do both, as naturally as I breath in either.
I can relate mixed memories to you now from this dream, a particularly memorable dream I dreampt many nights ago.
But when I woke from that dream, many afternoons ago, I could remember the rhyme, but none of the reason. Though I did recall it was quite intriguing. A smash hit, a million dollar idea, I had to tell the world. But when facebook asked “What’s on your mind?” and I put fingers to keys… err… pink octopus?
I cannot tell you anything about the dream I dreampt last night. Though I do recall it was very vivid, and I spent much of my morning reflecting on it… err… coffee?
I don’t even drink coffee.
But at a distance, I can describe for you images of that old dream, like it was yesterday. Mayhaps, a tiny bit distorted by this reporter’s recent adventures with Dirk Gently’s Hollistic Detective Agency… but as we speak, I am just now beginning to piece together elements of a plot long forgotten by the journey to the waking world.

When I made the journey back this afternoon, I was left with very little in memory. But as the drive to dream drags me back to slumberland through most mornings, the drive to dream pulls me ever onward now, reflected in my waking world creations.

I suppose I could say the inspiration for this here post came to me in a dream.
But that would be so cliché.

Nightly Stars

As children, they tell us stories of the things that go bump in the night, predators hunting in the hour of the wolf, monsters stalking the shadows– terrifying tales to tremble our toes tucked safely under our blankets.

Safe in those beds, we dare not, nor care not, to venture out into the dark abyss, into the soft glow of the moon, or the twinkling light of our nightly stars.

As sure as Yin, there is Yang, our beacons in the eventide, masked in midnight mystery. We fear the dark, we shiver at the cold (brr!) so we flock to the warm light of the sun… but our stars watch over us nevertheless, like the great Lion King’s of the past.

Zu-Zu Lee: masked vigilante, creature of the night, and her fluffy companion Udûn: keeper of the dark fire– we are but ghosts in this haunting hour.

This time, this is the stuff dreams are made of.

Dark Star

Listening to: Grateful Dead live at Winterland – New Years 1979

Dark star crashes pouring its light into ashes– the grid is down, explosions in the night, sounds the prophet on the street corner “the end is nigh!” It is in these darkest hours that our stars shine the brightest. When all light has gone out, when all hope, and all broadband connectivity, is lost. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s… a sensation that is difficult to explain, but we know in our hearts as the coming of an apocalypse 17 years too late.

We survived Y2K. Our days outnumber that of the Mayan calendar. The great Rapture? More like shitty rap-tour. Pigs fly first class, the Cubs won the World Series, it’s the end of the world as we know it… and it’s about damn time. Magic 8-ball says: outlook not so good. By today’s standards, that’s cause for an ice cold Celebration by Sierra Nevada. What do you get the generation that has it all?

giant-meteor-2016

rock-to-wind-string-around      Everybody wants a rock to wind a piece of string around, or perhaps, a prosthetic forehead to wear on their real head?

isla_500x500-24073751_dobr375f      One of a kind original artwork by Irregular ARTbeats

dislike     If you did not enjoy my list, this one’s for you.

From a hero of mine to a hero of his, signing off on the New Year– here’s to the breezes that blow through the treeses, that lift the girls skirts above their kneeses, it teases, it pleases, here’s to that snatch—down the hatch!

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