Pondering in my bed the other night, I was thinking about some of my favorite records. In An Aeroplane Over The Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel, Good Morning by Alkaline Trio, Control by Pedro The Lion, Deja Entendu by Brand New, The Soul Album by Otis Redding, ( ) by Sigur Ros, and Blue Skies, Broken Hearts... Next 12 Exits by The Ataris. So I made a playlist of all my favorite albums and their last tracks. If anyone knows me, they know that I am pungent dick-weed when it comes to making mix CDs, tapes, or playlists for people. I even have a braggadocios aura to my posture whenever I talk about it as well. Either way when I put the playlist on shuffle it didn't take me long to realize that the majority of the final tracks were less-than happy tracks. Take for instance the track Rocket City off of Northstars album Pollyanna, I mean as much as the record takes the notion of melancholy to a very trendy and catchy arena of life, the last track seems to not try and bury the misery.
"And when I fall don’t forget me….
Cause if I stay here I’ll be dying forever…"
The whole track has a rather scathing Icarus vibe to it. And maybe that's what it's like completing a monumental record. You find yourself flying to close to the sun. The closing track to the infamous playlist, Is That You, Scully was a toss up between Big Star's Thirteen or Otis Redding's Cigarettes and Coffee. Both of those songs have a deep meaning for me. I always imagined having my first dance with my wife to Thirteen because it's an adorable acoustic ballad about young love and telling the girls Dad to fuck off. Romantic, right? But then there was Cigarettes and Coffee, and hot damn, that song perfectly described my favorite moments with the people that I love. Just being together, smoking cigarettes just talking... or just simply being present. I'm fairly positive I chose Otis in the end, but what does it matter now, right? Otis was my Icarus song. The moment when I flew to closeto the sun.Perhaps that is what its like when you're at the end. You can fully see the sun when you fall back to Earth.
This is the best story I have about the sun.
[Also I apologize in advance for how emotionally graphic this gets. But I wrote this in October of 2015 after leafing through an old journal and seeing the physical entry about this day.]
Within the ethos of love, loss and or just being simply pathetic, communication seems to be a practical notion of life. Growing up in the generation where you called the home phone while silently praying that her Dad didn't pick up first; having an auditory experience with another human being means a lot to me when there is distance involved. I've experienced all forms of distance. From having a crush on the girl that's just down the block, to trying to keep up with family affairs thousands of miles away, I am no stranger to picking up the phone. But with that said, I am also one who is terrified of the phone. There have been late nights, early mornings or sunny afternoons where I've picked up the receiver to hear news better saved for when hugs can quickly be applied. So when one is attempting to transverse the miles and miles of your own unexplored personal constitution, you tend to need that auditory experience to keep you grounded.
As I've been exploring not only my own personal cognition, but as well in the academic world, I have come across two rather interesting things that I begun to apply to myself. An ontological framework and epistemological conclusion. Ontological, or ontology is from the branch of metaphysics that deals with the nature of being. Traditionally this philosophical framework deals with this question of what is real? Essentially ontology makes you question the existence of 'being'. Yeah, I know what you're probably thinking, "Dude... are you trying put me to sleep?" Well just think about this, if your body can simulate a fever but you don't actually have one, is the simulation of the fever more real than an actual fever itself? Or what about this. You are fairly positive that someone has caught feelings for you. So therefore you do everything in your power to find out if these feelings are real or not. And for a short time you interpret everything that person does through the lens of "They like me." What is more real in that situation, the feels that you perceive, acted on, and also can cognitively sense, or the reveal that the person actually does have feelings?
As for epistemology, it is essentially knowledge. Basically, what can be known. So take the previous example of the random dude/chick that you perceive to totally dig you. You calculate what is known. They've texted you several times.
They've smiled in your general direction, whether you were looking or not.
Your friends constantly tell you, "Hey, you'd be a great match."
Hence, it is simplistic data gathering.
Basically what I am saying is that every time you look into a persons eyes and think, "Sweet Jesus, I think want to go the party in their pants", you're about to have an ontological and epistemological experience. Are these feelings real? And what do I know about these feelings or that person in particular (this is also a very post-structuralist way of dealing with feelings, but I won't get into that). I believe that we become very philosophical when we are horny. Balancing out the "do's and don'ts", the pros and cons of doing this or that, and so forth. Perhaps I am the only one who believes that we don't only think with our genitals when making an intimate decision. There's math involved.
ANYWAYS.
Back to the phone, or lack there of.
Back in October, I wrote a series of letters to Scully. I oddly preferred epistolary relationships, which is essentially what we did as kids. You'd be in class, and you'd find yourself passing notes to that cute girl several rows back. Just the idea of receiving physical mail made my heart flutter. That feeling of parchment in your hands. The ability to imagine their face while they wrote it. Oh, it was all glorious. The written word was my phone. And I always was certain that she would call.
I called a lot.
Sometimes my conversations were short and sweet. All nicely dulled out on the back of a scholarly postcard. As for the others, well they were pages long. I know for a fact that some of these letters were received with glamour. The others,
well it took a fortnight till I got a response, and the response included
a single sentence and an emoji. The sum total impact of those letters on her heart or mind are still a mystery to me. I simply ran out of data to collect. My referential sign of our reality faded like a song that ends to soon.
Either way, I was digging through my documentation box on my computer this evening and I found a letter that had not been sent. It was a phone call that never happened. As for why I never sent it, well I can only assume that I buckled on the pressure of trying not to be a complete psycho. Or perhaps I was just to sad to send it.
But now, here it is.
And if you're wondering how I am doing mentally right now, here in this very instant.
Well to be honest.
I am completely fine.
Whether you believe this sort of expression is unhealthy or a sign of mental fortitude, I personally this method of unearthing the past extremely therapeutic. To be able to present it, call it for what it was worth and move on is the greatest form of personal healing that I can do.
And also, may I remind you... You don't have to read it either.
This song is what this letter sounds like me. And no, it's not on the playlist. But there are hints to what was on the playlist within the letter itself.
But to complete the playlist, tune in next time.
I've made many spur of the moment decisions in my life. "I've never lined up a shot in my life." Currently trying to coin that as my catch phrase, well besides, "HERE'S THE THING!" Either way, these ad hoc choices range from the clover tattoo on my ass because I thought, "Aw, fuck it. I'm in Ireland", to signing up for an exchange program in Japan because Japanese girls were incredibly appealing to me as a sixteen year-old boy. And its true, the Asian-persuasion is a very real thing. But that's not what this is about. Months before I met Scully I tried my hand in standup comedy and it was one of the best choices I ever made.
It takes a lot of guts to get on stage in front of bunch strangers and make witty dark comments about your life story. And much like this blog, it was extremely therapeutic. But sometimes the experience was even more painful for me because I was preforming at the club in Chattanooga where my brother-in-law got his start in comedy, JJ's Bohemia. He now lives in Los Angeles and has become very successful at what he does. So the night that I decided to go check out the local comedy and become a part of it, it was extremely nerve racking. All the comedians already knew who I was because my older sister and brother-in-law are considered 'Chattanooga Royalty'. So when I entered the smokey saloon I already could hear, "Brady Effler?! What are you doing here?"
Around May of 2015, I had my first night at hosting at JJ's Bohemia. Yes, I had worked my way up to the point that Ryan Darling, the MC of the comedy room presented me with the honor of being the first and last thing the audience sees. It was also the night that Scully met me. I remember her telling me much later that she thought I was cute and funny. She might as well have said I was the sexiest man on the planet and could bench press the hopes and dreams of every third world country. I remember reflecting on this night over and over again when I moved to England. Each time I thought about it the memory got less and less real, but the feeling stayed the same.
I record the experience in my personal journal. The events that follow are real.
And if you've been keeping up with the other posts, you know that these entries revolve around a particular playlist. Well since this is technically the start of the tale, here is the first track of Is That You, Scully?
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter // The Anniversary.
(Sometime in May.)
Riveting. That’s what I need to be… riveting. How many times should I... How many times do I need to hear this.
Being in church has always been a despondent place for me.
Growing up in a religious household one would think that I would have either come to love church or hate it. That seems to be the integral paradigm for a pastor's kids.
You are either are a saint, or you are a heathen.
Hymns not sins.
Prayers not affairs. Hugs not drugs.
Pews not brews.
And so on.
Possibly by the end of this I'll remind my self that I am not unique to this binary system either. I mean I do have several more potent blogs to write that exfoliate my motley past. But church has always been a sad place for me, and sometimes the mystery of why stands the test of time. Perhaps it's the graphic design of their power point sermons, the tap-water coffee or the great expectation to be boring... Butoh well.
If you couldn't tell I just shrugged at my desk.
When I was a teenager growing up in the new land of Chattanooga Tennessee I tried my hardest to fit in. Fuck, I even joined the football team because all the bleach blonde kids in Nike trainers with Big League chew did it, and they seemed to dictate at the time who was in or who was a 'faggot'. I certainly did not want to be 'faggot'. I can't recall if it was the piss in my cleats or that I didn't know what "coon hunting" was, but I felt out of place most of time. I was missing the golden plains of California where the ocean was just a short drive away. And oddly I really didn't care for the beach when I was living there either. As I spent more time in Tennessee I found my self dreaming about the beach, or literally anywhere else. As I grew older I made it my personal vendetta to see new lands and move out of my comfort zone, because like or not, some asshole is gonna do it for you anyway. Thus there's the the time when I fought to fit in at church.
I taught myself to play the bass guitar, then eventually the regular guitar, which in my mind was the one that would either give me the worship leader position or get me laid. At that point in my life, both seemed dangerously cool and out of my comfort zone. Eventually I was both annoying and dedicated enough to actually convince the Youth Pastor to give me the gig. I Brady, landed the position of youth group worship leader. Terrifying.
Yeah, I did that.
In retrospect it still kind of shocks me.
I led kids in ages of 11 to 17 in worship.
I said all the cool things worship leaders are supposed to say.
I love Jesus, but I'd sin for pizza. (LOL)
Lift your hands, or you can rock out silently.
Who wants to go to the Skillet concert in Atlanta!?
I had the proclivity to always pick songs in a minor key. I wanted songs that echoed the torturous grief of being human. That was my shtick, and it worked. I often pawned that off as being a "free thinker" while openly explaining the tattoos I was going to get once I left my parents house. Thus, if someone wanted a happy song I'd say some thing like, "You're not paying attention to the world brah! We're all dying here?! I need the lord to set my soul ablaze..."
That would shut the haters up. And on occasion the haters were my age, therefore I'd just flip the conversation to be about Relient K and how they are the christian equivalent of the Offspring to our generation. Those were always nifty conversations... Well until someone said that Pillar was better than P.O.D. Those people got bumped to the back of the prayer list.
But yeah, church made me sad. And I made it sad. It was reciprocal relationship.
I held the worship leader position for only a year and some change. After a death at a local high school, falling out with a friend of mine and getting rejected from a cute piano player, I couldn't take it any more. Life had caught up to me. So I left the worship position, decided to be a rebel, take up drugs and alcohol and got kicked out of college for a laundry list of reasons.
Drugs not hugs.
Brews not pews.
Sins not hymns.
Affairs not Prayers.
And so on.
So if we fast-forward to today; I woke up in England, miles away from any one close and with the same sadness. The sadness of church. And she was softly sleeping within her thermal nest that's somewhere above my heart and below my neck. And that sadness comes generally comes from this question: What Am I Doing Here?
I asked my self that in church. I asked myself that in a hospital. And now I have been asking my self that here. As I shuffled around my bed, I began to recall the night I had before. It was July Fourth and I had managed to get into another serious argument with one of my best friends. Fairly certain our conversations will now be in ques at grocery stores where we accidentally run into one another. I can't tell if I fucked up again, or I'm just really, really good at staying alone. As I walked home alone last night I opened up "Is That You, Scully?" again and put it on shuffle. Family and Genus by Shakey Graves started playing.I started silently singing as if I was back in church. I remembered why I put this song on here for her too. I saw into the future one day while we were driving with the windows down; the breeze splashing our hair around, laughing like a pair mental patients. As her hair toppled past her ears I knew I'd lose her. I knew that some where in life one of us would drift away, like a balloon in the mist. If that happened, I wanted this song to comfort her:
"If,
If I,
If I ever wander on by
Could,
Could you,
Flag me down and beg me to
Drop what I'm doing and sit beside you."
Life is sad. Life is tough. But fuck it. I traded in my candy cigarettes for real ones a time long ago. I'm turning Scully into a song for all of you to hear. I'm sure when I get to the end of these tales (Because I am going somewhere with it, don't you worry your pretty little face) I'll have a deeper appreciation for the moments I let atrophy into antiquity.
This open road is now a church. Journal Entry #11** "2/11/2015 A form of ridiculous. This childish pander for love and affection. I've written letters and mailed post cards to her, but still no reflection of anything that I've done... She has truly added silence to this distance. And perhaps that's for the best. I still have no waded fully into the waters here. I've dipped my toes into this new life. But why? I have this fear that if I fully submerge my self that I'll lose her forever. But maybe that's supposed to happen. I am not doing well in my studies either. I frankly don't know what I'm doing. Am I ashamed? Is this what I really want? Scully, she lit up my soul. I had soaked it in the rains of missery and painful memories, but when she met me... It was as if a pillar of fire burnt my alter dry. The artist of my heart is sleeping restlessly with the corpse of our memory. I just long to be desired by what my heart has begged for. I don't know how to quit her. This place... it is making me question who I am. And more importantly how I am to be. What would it be like to forget you? WOuld I be tossing away what I fought for? Or is this even a fucking battle? [...] Now for some acctual documentation. Met this girl named Farah, well rather Steven made me talk to her. Made out at the bar several times. She came over last night and [...] how romantic right? Bar work has been fun, but I think I hold myself back from having more fun. I'm sitting in Cobble, a local coffee shop, avoiding work. I'm not going to give up... I'm going to press on. [...] God show me the path. Whether I walk alone or not, at least light the way." ** **Also, these journal entries are real. But they have
been edited. Obviously names have been changed and some graphic details
are omitted... for now** **
It is time to stop sulking quietly, and at least start exercising my frustrations out loud. Over the past several months I have built up this incredible amount of bile. You know what bile is right? It's that dark yellow, greenish liquid that is excreted in your stomach to help you break down yum-yum food stuffs. But if your stomach builds up to much bile, then your stomach will develop the personalty of blood-raged cowboy who lost their family and small baby calf in an Indian raid. It's about to bust a cap in your side and not even ask if you feel lucky, punk.
Anywho, I need to burn this shit off like a rocket burns fuel before it breaks through the atmosphere, and we are going to start with what's at the bottom of the tank. And in this particular metaphor, I have no clue what the atmosphere could be, well besides that soft-core hip-hop duo from Minneapolis. But I do know what bile consists of, therefore this could make for an interesting adventure for you readers.
In fact, I've been internalizing this venomous melodrama for so long that my next several blogs could be as impetuous as Han shooting first. And don't you argue with me on that either (There's a time and place to discuss the tragedy of CGI).
Either way, in my last blog post I mentioned a particular playlist that was constructed for a female from the past. Ha, ha, oh wait. Aren't they all from the past?
Anywho, the mix was titled, "Is That You, Scully?" And it wasn't titled that just because Gillian Anderson is a one serious sex kitten, but because maybe every once in a while I felt like Fox Mulder when she unconvincingly sighed in my general direction. For those of you who do watch the X-Files, you know, as I know that I'll be stuck in a constant state of wanting to believe if I am to play the role of Mulder... So to be the Fox, is to be forever alone. But just in case all the tacky fan fiction holds up, SCULDER FOREVER!
I think I went off on a tangent, back to "...Scully."
Have you ever looked into someones eyes and thought to your self, "I know what the second to last track will be on the mix I make for you when I ask you to marry me?" Come on, raise your hand if this particular phenomena has happened to you.
Don't be shy.
Ah! Yes! You in the back.
I see that hand... May the lord bless you child.
But yes, I remember looking deep into those fathomless titian eyes. My insides expanded as if I were a crumpled piece of dry parchment that had just been soaked in water. Kind of like when as a kid you'd shove the wrapping down off of a straw so it would make a small chode like pile. Then you'd put one droplet of water on it and watch it turn into a worm. Yeah, that was feeling... well that coupled with an awfully dumb smile and the thought of, "I already know the second to last song that would be on your tape."
And just in case you're wondering what the fuck I am talking about, here is a Youtube video that could possibly destroy this sweet and lovely imagery.
So with that said, have you ever wished that time travel was real?
Not so you could win the lottery, but simply so that you could go back and watch a moment one more time. One more time before it all turned to shit. And let's be honest here, you are reading the ramblings of a hopeless romantic. One that has a hard time letting go of the past, simply because he thinks he hasn't learned his lesson.
And maybe this is it.
Maybe these new blogs are just for me.
Perhaps all I am doing to taking my self through some metaphysical therapy session with bad-ass pictures and sad songs as my guide.
Or perhaps there are other people that feel this way as well, and for some reason you're glad to be in good company.
The second to last song for Scully was Wolves by Phosphorescent. And I wanted to use the live version of the song too. I thought the ambience of him being in a church would be a nice touch to the end of the mix. I chose this song because we would not understand extreme joy without reflecting on extreme sadness. And there's a lot more I could say about the song, but I'll reserve that for someone that cares to listen. But I'll also let you take from it what you wish. Also, while you listen, down below is an old journal entry from when I first arrived in the country.
Journal Entry #5
"28/8/2015:
Its been several days, and frankly I thought I'd be writing more, but I haven't. I've been distracting my self with drinks, trying to meet new people and consistently talking to Scully. We've literally talked everyday. I'm sure at some point it will taper off, and I'm already dreading it...
I'm confused about the reality of my feelings for her. Am I in 'love' or am I just in the wrong place and the right time? Classes haven't really got hard yet, and maybe that's because my heart isn't into it.
I don't know where I want to be...
Do I want to be home with Scully? Or do I want to be here pursuing a future that has yet to take shape and form? Maybe I'm just a bum waiting to get lucky. You know, have fortune fall into my lap just like my misfortunes have.
I hope I am doing the right thing.
Maybe one day, I'll return and be a better man.
A strong man.
A man worth a family and job.
I need to be asking myself, why am I hung up on Scully? I mean she was instant. It was like I was sleeping bullet that had been loaded into a sniper rifle. The blast awoke me, and then all of sudden I was in someones heart. Maybe when you know -- you know.
I just don't want to be wasting my time or hers...
I know she cares for me, but I am a very selfish man and its almost never enough for me. I am constantly thirsty for love and passion. Perhaps its an in human thirst that can't be cured by the touch of a woman, or maybe it can be.
Fuck it Effler, make a list: Start Comedy Society, Phone Calls, Address, Read-read-read, and Grow."
So I haven't written publicly by and large for some time now. As to why that is the case, I can merely say the lack of verbiage is due to my personal self-repugnance, or antipathy because I have not felt as though what I have to say is worth sharing. In fact this is the fifth paragraph out of the brood of ten that has survived. The others, sad to say have died off; slaughtered by the space bar. But we can get into my own personal scourging later, for if writing was my religion then I'd truly be upon the pyre.
But I just wanted to share this song, like I normally do with any of you who are out there to experience it.
It has been a rather emotional experience since deciding to get a Masters degree in England. Not only have I found my self entangled with academic problems, but I have also led a life of debauchery. In the quiet moments of reflection today, after Skyping with my parents (to tell them how broke I am) I hunted and pecked for a song to listen to as I sat there and decayed in front of my blank dissertation. As my fingers squirreled away, with my eyes scanning the endless fields of my music library I decided to hit shuffle on an old playlist that I had made for a girl. Her laugh was the greatest part of my day for a short period of time.
Ah yes, those playlists. I'm fairly positive that I have listened to, and adversely fallen in love with myself more times than any other female has... That's because they probably never listened to them. And each time I realize that they probably never listened to any of my artisan mixes a new ulcer grows within my stomach, causing my heart to corrode just a little more. So why did I hit the shuffle button on the mix titled, "Is that you, Scully"? Because I am a self-destructive putz, that's why. I'm fairly positive that if sadness was an actual pill-like substance, I would have overdosed on it publicly on a commuter bus sporting some "L.A. Lights" and a Reel Big Fish shirt from the thrift store.
Also, for your information. I changed the name of that playlist just now. So, none of you will know which one it was if you so chose to follow me on Spotify. *game changer*
But yes, the song. The song that played was Happiness by Riceboy Sleeps. You know -- that side project of Sigur Ros? The side project that still manages to sound completely the same but you don't care because it still makes you cry the good cry. You know what that good cry is too. It feels like doves from the heavens are shitting warm pallets of butter on you while you're sat in a hot tub that some how manages to be a portal to every sentimental thing that had happened in you life. Or maybe that's just me.
Either way, as I was listening to it, I recalled an interview with Louis C.K. on the Conan show. He went on as to why he won't give his children cellphones yet. It was a great interview and in it he said, "We don't know how to be alone anymore." Louis went on to tell a story of when he was driving his car on the highway and then suddenly felt the sadness of being alone start to intrude upon his thoughts. But instead of getting out his phone and looking for a fetishistic quick connection via text/facebook/whatever he just pulled over. Turned off his car, and let it happen. He had a good cry.
To make a dumb story short, as I sat there listening to this song that was dedicated to a lady as lovely as Dana Scully I started to feel that loneliness begin to waft into my rib cage. I even reflected on what Louis C.K. said!!!
And I did the exact opposite.
I messaged a girl that I liked.
One that now knows. Oh, glory! Right?
You know that feeling when you've just exposed your self, and not in the flasher-in-the-park manner either? Well it feels like your stomach is a decaying cocoon for a heaping pile of old hefty pudding packs swirling around like hot liquid garbage set right out side the gates of an abandoned cathedral... or you just feel lame.
After I texted her, I let the phone lay there in my palm for a second.
About four seconds pasted when I realized.
I realized that I don't know how to be alone, and that is some tough shit.
I guess, to make a long story short. I'm going to start writing again. I'm going to write about the people I've seen. The places I've gone. The money I've wasted on train tickets, booze, films, books, printing papers, down payments, and alas... on a broken Xbox 360 (mother fucker). Why? Because when I write, I don't pick up my phone.
So yeah, check this song out. Maybe you'll think of some prodigious shit.
Keeping Track Of History: Dreaming With Intention.
From my idyllic sub-cranial creations that harvest my real-time comprehension of existence to my consumeristic need and desire for affection, I am balancing between a world and a sylph of thought’s that might not even be real. Jean Baudrillard, a french philosopher and Christopher Smit, a communications professor at Calvin College would be having a field day with my mind at this very moment. Right now I am in the throws of finishing two books, applying for graduate school and experiencing “all the feels” for a particular woman. But that is neither here nor there, for Baudrillard and Smit, they’d be laughing at me because my instant need to process these experiences through both a consumeristic standpoint, but also a personalized prediction of a “what-if” simulation. Baudrillard states in Simulcra and Simulation that the simulation is positively more dangerous to those who believe in it because it manipulates their ability to distinguish between natural law and simulated law. For within simulation, there is no boundary or limit to what can and will be manipulated. And it is at this point that I can feel you, the reader slipping away into darkness. So therefore I must reassure you two things: This is about life and music (I promise), and there will eventually be a dick joke (hang in there).
I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams lately, but more importantly how I’ve been consuming them. Smit said once that end result of consumption is excrement. Smit went on to say that this consumption has become routine, “we love the puppy, hate the dog, buy now, think later…” and so on. I often feel as though my dreams, our dreams, become advertisements for what we desire to consume. One could make the joke that I think about dreams every night, but all jokes aside, I have experienced strong and realistic dreams in my past. These dreams fragment my emotional reality and tear a hole into what I believe to be “actual”. Or maybe this whole life is a dream, and what I’ve experience during “sleep” is just a reverberation of a some eternal echo. Or maybe I’m just really, really high. When I was doing these pieces in the past, Keeping Track of History, I often had a very real story to tell you. Some of you may recall the one about the lost love from California and how I made her my very first ever mix cd. Or the one about the oriental beauty who stopped time in the middle of a Japanese subway. These memories, as real as they were, are now dreams of a tired heart. But the story I am about to tell you, well most of it never happened. But much like a simulation, or the hyperreality of what dreams become, it is and was very real. The dream was so real, that I in fact shared it recently with someone special, as if it was a testimonial as to how far gone my heart had stepped into the darkness of dedication.
Koda, an ambient artist that weaves electro beats, cathedral harmonies and spaced out pads is the perfect sonic companion as to what I have been thinking, feeling and also processing. It was about two or three months ago, when I was working on a web application project with a good friend of mine, that I first heard of Koda. He paused in the middle of work and told me that I had to check out this picture/video released by NASA. It was titled, “Gigapixels of Andromeda”. In the video we start off with a gorgeous capture of the galaxy. Then over time, frame by frame the video takes pieces of the photo and zooms in. With each zoom the smallness of my being increased ten-fold. But as the video played there was this ambient angel that softly hummed. It was Koda’s song “The Last Stand”, and it was mesmerizing. I immediately looked the artist up and listened through all of his material that I could find that evening. I knew, within the depths of my soul that I was to use his music as an inspiration. About a month later, like tales of angels visiting, it came to me in my sleep.
Go ahead and press play if you want. And if that doesn't work. Here's a link to the song.
Like the progression of the song, in this dream, my eyes slowly began to find their focus. First the barbed light of halogen bulbs crept into my gaze. Then the walls materialized into cream and charcoal, while the floor bled out in a dark maroon. Tables and chairs started to materialize with people in them like flower pots. I rubbed my face, I was a spirit looking out onto this room. Like an invisible camera I turned and pivoted, scanning the room, and then saw my self. I had small round glasses, a glorious beard, shorter hair and dressed like a champion of literature. Or perhaps to some people, an uber nerd in a sweater vest. In my right hand was a computer remote that I was using to progress through a power point that was being projected on the wall and in my left hand, there was nothing but pure passion and expression for what I was talking about. I could hear my self think. It was as if I had duplicated and had an extension of my body and soul hovering invisibly. My physical body knew of my spiritual one and vice versa, an odd cosmic harmony. At this point I knew I was dreaming, or at least the “third eye” did and was aware of these duplicated beings being created in another reality. I was consuming my dream, frame by frame and beat by beat. I had always wanted to be a teacher, lecturer or highly esteemed academic and now I was “living” that out that fantasy.
Do you remember the last car accident you were in or saw? More importantly do you remember the noise before impact? It’s as if a seismic charge had gone off, pulling in all sound through a giant straw to the epicenter of carnage. A most alerting silence. As my lecture started to progress the “seismic straw” began to suck all noise from the room. I didn’t realize it at first, much like one doesn’t realize they are being slowly cut, but the suction of sound grew. It was getting louder and louder as if a child was slowly turning up the static on an abandon TV channel. I frantically looked around the room and noticed that the physical me didn’t seem to hear or feel what I was feeling. I covered my ears and knelt down on the ground, then it stopped. I looked up and didn’t see anything. Everyone was still taking notes and I was still lecturing. But then, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a door in the back of the room start to open slowly. A woman was walking into the room. As soon as I saw her face, my point of view and entire being collected its self into the physical body that was lecturing. I paused the power point with the remote and stared.
Her hair was freshly cut, a shimmering dark hazel brown that had little flip right above her shoulders. It danced on her shoulder like the lace would between the bed and carpet. The eyes of this woman were uncommonly soft. Fixed between short dark lashes, they changed colors between light blue and a sea green as they rested like frame and picture on their cream pale wall. Her top was black, cut just below her neck and above her breast. It looked warm as wool but as soft as thin cotton. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and it snuggly fit around her torso. She was holding something though her left arm. It was wrapped in a blanket. But my eyes did not stop there, they traversed the rest of her body. The black top connected with a silk, shin-high dress at her waist. It was also black, but it had small dotted pearls sewn in like a tapestry. Her feet had small flats. Her gate, as she walked in, swayed allowing the dress to be caught in the wind that entered with her.
As I gazed upon her, she lifted her right hand and index finger to her lips, silencing me in my already stunned state. It was as if she wanted me to ignore her and allow her to watch me, unnoticed. But I looked again, I looked to what was in her left arm. She was cradling a baby. It’s bunny soft head peaked from behind the wrapping of the blanket, and shifted from side to side. He was awake. My dream told me — he was awake. She sat down in the back of the class room, holding the baby and looking at me. She looked at me in the way a mother looks upon her husband. She looked at the baby as one does when it’s theirs. She looked at me again as if to say he was ours. My students looked at me, pencils in hand, waiting for my next breath. How long was I out? How long was I lost and voiceless? I shook my head, apologized, clicked over to the next slide and then that’s when I awoke. My conscience rocketed back to my bed and I found my self awake and covered in sweat.
Dreams, crazy right? The last time I had a dream that vivid was a little over a year ago. I won’t share the entirety of the dream, but I still could tell you to this day what people were wearing, saying and doing. And in that dream I had a year ago, I did nothing about it. I silenced it, shut it away in my journal and never talked about it. But as for this one, well that girl who was holding the baby. I told her about this dream. But after I told her this dream I felt guilty. Why was I really telling her this? To win her over, to guilt her or to inform her of some weird alternate universe? This dream was a simulation of a deep desire of mine, but does that mean that I should consume this dream, give it life and use it as a road-map? This dream actually has nothing to do with the reality of my life. Yes, I want to be a teacher. But I am no where near to that being a reality. Yes, I was a child. But I am no where near that reality. Yes, I am romantically inclined and desire this woman, but I am no where near that reality. After I told her this dream, she was rather speechless. Much as I expected. But I’m glad I did. When we share our dreams, I believe we no longer become consumers, but we become benefactors. We open our hearts and souls to others which allows us to fully comprehend the meaning of what we had experienced. So what do we do when we receive dreams that touch the core of your soul? Songs like “The Last Stand” by Koda give me inspiration to keep track of these dreams. Even though they may be unrealistic interpretations of life, they still birth creativity and need of expression. Dreams, simulations, hyperreality, they are just soft remainders that we live in a world where are not confined to this physical body, but we in fact can share in a different universe without being mindless consumers. How do you keep track of dreams? What’s a song that reminds you of something so vivd it becomes real? Are you afraid that you’ll just consume your dream instead of finding courage and wisdom in it?
