This journal will probably begin to decay through August. I’ve lost the thread of this nightly exercise. Maybe it will disintegrate into fragments, stray factoids, and orphaned sentences. Like how the other night I had a dream with an unseen voice saying come here and give god a kiss.
Lately my dreams have been all garble and grime without symbolism or plot. This seems to harmonize with the current gestalt. I often have the sensation of being forced to read the news. “Breathe from your diaphragm,” the experts tell you. But this year’s happening in the chest, an electrified snarl around the sternum. I downloaded a meditation widget that told me I am not behind my face. “Breathe through your back,” it said. I deleted it.
The rational world feels as if it’s slipping away, but this has happened before. The Surrealists believed this a century ago, and I’ve been thinking about their dreamworlds of flooded bedrooms, bird-men in the streets, and melting machines. Were they fussy about their dreams? Did they consume a specific diet of fairy tales, scientific journals, and newspapers to achieve the desired phantasmagorias while they slept?
