#165: On dreams and waking life
Dear reader,
I had a bout of sleep paralysis attacks in Calcutta last month. Maybe it was the change in cities, a sense of separation anxiety from my own bed, or something more sinister at play. But it was a rough couple of days. I don't know how I fought off those bad dreams but I'm glad I got through it. Being someone who doesn't usually have / remember dreams, it feels quite odd to wake up whimpering, feeling so out of sorts.
Instead of driving myself crazy with excessive reading on the subject, I let it pass, ascribing it to the intrinsic nature of dreams. I’ve been trying hard to let go of the idea that I must figure everything out right away. So I decided to start reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way to make sense of my buried dreams. I plan to re-watch Richard Linklater Waking Life this week, where the protagonist Wiley Wiggins goes on a quest to find out as much as he can about dreams. The entire film blows my mind on each viewing, and the rotoscoping work is just magic.
I also found comfort in John O'Donohue's words:
"We live between the act of awakening and the act of surrender. Each morning, we awaken to the light and the invitation to a new day in the world of time; each night, we surrender to the dark to be taken to play in the world of dreams where time is no more."
-John O’Donohue
What I discovered by using a more creative approach to understanding dreams was how potent and revealing the realm of dreams are. How much is waiting to be discovered if we let them flow and quietly try and understand them.
Poetry Corner
In keeping with the theme of this newsletter, here are some verses on dreams and nightmares for you to indulge in:
Mother Talks Back to the Monsters by Carrie Shipers
Tonight, I dressed my son in astronaut pajamas,
kissed his forehead and tucked him in.
I turned on his night-light and looked for you
in the closet and under the bed. I told him
you were nowhere to be found, but I could smell
your breath, your musty fur. I remember
all your tricks: the jagged shadows on the wall,
click of your claws, the hand that hovered
just above my ankles if I left them exposed.
Since I became a parent I see danger everywhere—
unleashed dogs, sudden fevers, cereal
two days out of date. And even worse
than feeling so much fear is keeping it inside,
trying not to let my love become so tangled
with anxiety my son thinks they’re the same.
When he says he’s seen your tail or heard
your heavy step, I insist that you aren’t real.
Soon he’ll feel too old to tell me his bad dreams.
If you get lonely after he’s asleep, you can
always come downstairs. I’ll be sitting
at the kitchen table with the dishes
I should wash, crumbs I should wipe up.
We can drink hot tea and talk about
the future, how hard it is to be outgrown.Haiku by Kakul Gupta (from 2021 Rattle Young Poets Anthology)
summer holidays—
mangoes
in my dreamsThe Drowsy World Dreams On by Walter Everette Hawkins
A flower bloomed out on a woodland hill,
A song rose up from the woodland rill;
But the floweret bloomed but to wither away,
And no man heard what the stream had to say,
For the drowsy world dreamed on.
Thro the frills of a curtain a moonbeam crept,
Till it fell on the crib where a nursling slept;
And a whisper and smile lit a wee dimpled face,
But none save the angels their beauty could trace,
For the drowsy world dreamed on.
A wee bird piped out mid the corn,
A rose bloomed out beneath the thorn;
But the scent of the rose and the birdling’s lay
On the winds of the morning were wafted away
While the drowsy world dreamed on.
And the drowsy old world’s growing gloomy and gray,
While the joys that are sweetest are passing away;
And the charms that inspire like the picture of dawn
Are but playthings of Time—they gleam and are gone,
While the drowsy world dreams on.Ahir Bhairav by Makhdoom Ammar Aziz
At dawn my mother wakes from a dream,
A nightmare,
And finds herself in her true being:
She has always been this woman.
The plants in her courtyard
Are bespangled with dewdrops.
The sunrise is cold and misty.
The moon, slender,
Otherworldly white,
Is still visible.
In these moments
When night merges into day,
My mother prays.
She prays for the souls
In the heavens
Who glow
With the sacred, humble music
That her prayers carry:
Arabic verses,
Urdu whispers
Rendered in Ahir Bhairav.
And then she waits
For the birds
As she fills the mud birdbath
With fresh water.
The birds which will arrive only later.Morning Love Poem by Tara Skurtu
Dreamt last night I fed you, unknowingly,
something you were allergic to.
And you were gone, like that.
You don’t have even a single allergy,
but still. The dream cracked. Cars nose-dived
off snow banks into side streets. Sometimes
dreams slip poison, make the living
dead then alive again, twirling
in an unfamiliar room.
It’s hard to say I need you enough.
Today I did. Walked into your morning
shower fully clothed. All the moments
we stop ourselves just because we might
feel embarrassed or impractical, or get wet.Meditations in an Emergency by Cameron Awkward-Rich
I wake up & it breaks my heart. I draw the blinds & the thrill of rain breaks my heart. I go outside. I ride the train, walk among the buildings, men in Monday suits. The flight of doves, the city of tents beneath the underpass, the huddled mass, old women hawking roses, & children all of them, break my heart. There's a dream I have in which I love the world. I run from end to end like fingers through her hair. There are no borders, only wind. Like you, I was born. Like you, I was raised in the institution of dreaming. Hand on my heart. Hand on my stupid heart.
Recommended Listening:
Links of the Week:
Michael Coel's Emmys Acceptance Speech is EVERYTHING (You're my hero, Michaela!)
Fish: a tap essay by Robin Sloan
Watch: Lah gah (Letting go) (A dive into sunny childhood memories)
IG Explorations
Made my first reel because the #HealWithPoems postcard set is here!
I invite you to check out the #TheMusuemArtChallenge hashtag and spend some time going through the 700+ artworks created for the challenge last week that we co-hosted with ReReeti and seven museums from India.
Poetry and its introspection at various stages of life via Ek Aur Cinephile
Upcoming Chat with Tishani Doshi x Kitab Khana
I’ll be speaking to Tishani Doshi, a poet I admire deeply, at the launch of her latest poetry collection A God at the Door. Join our Insta Live on September 23rd, 5pm to 6pm on Kitab Khana’s Instagram page @kitabkhanabooks.
One last thing...
The Alipore Post is a love letter to the Internet, curated with love and designed to inspire. I have been putting together newsletters since 2015 with a selection of poems, art, music recommendations, essays and other gems found online. These are regularly read by over 5241 of you on email and 54k people on Instagram.
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Thank you for reading!
Wish you pleasant dreams and restful sleep,
Rohini
