The Edge of Oblivion

I had a dream last night as I was sleeping on the floor of a friends place. It was a very pleasant dream, despite some near drowning moments. Overall the dream was one of sweeping scale, with huge landscapes and such strong colours and feelings that made me feel more alive than when I'm awake.

 I’m standing on a beach, my feet buried in soft white sand. The sea breeze blows through my hair; I can taste the tangy salt and feel it cleansing my lungs. The water is turquoise, so pure that as you have never seen it before. Behind me massive, and I mean massive, cliffs tower up into the heavens. They’re made of white chalk and would dwarf even the Empire State Building. Out in the ocean stand huge white rocks. Seagulls float on the breeze, suspended and unmoving in the air. The fabric of reality is permeated with a raw primal energy. This is how the earth looked when it was young and man had yet to defile it.

 I wasn’t alone; I was there with twenty or so other people. We were barefooted, dressed in light shorts and shirts and the general mood was one of amazement. We all stared up at the virgin skies and imposing cliffs feeling overawed at the sheer power of everything. 

In my hands I clutched a small iron box, within it were my most treasured possessions and I clutched this box as tightly as I could, afraid to loose it in this wild world. I stepped into the crystal water, the liquid wrapping itself eagerly around my feet. I walk out until the water reaches my waist. I watch the waves roll along the beach and first then do I notice their oddness. These waves don’t crash into the beach as most waves do, rather the go sideways, they roll along the beach and never really seem to stop. They’re massive though. Huge crescents church the white sand as they form hollow tubes of water.

 My box of precious treasures slips from my grasp then, fingers suddenly incapable of holding onto it any longer. A moment’s panic seizes me and I scrabble with the water to retrieve it. But just then one of these sideways waves sweeps me up and carries me down the beach. Instinct kicks in and I bodysurf on the crest of the wave. I watch the coast slip by and see various people playing in the water.

 The wave carries me out to sea though. The current is strong here, pulling me out towards the sea, towards the massive stone edifices standing proudly in the ocean. I swim furiously against the current, muscles pumping and churning the water. It’s to no avail, I slowly drifted further and further away from the coast. I wasn’t alone. I recognised some people being swept away by the furious current.

 But then I was saved. On the shore there had been a concrete boat. It resembled a small Viking trade ship, also known as a knarre. The boat was broken though, with part of its concrete hull smashed, creating a large gap. The boat was flooded, the keel scarped along the bottom as my friends furiously paddled with their hands. Somehow, despite logic they managed to propel the boat forwards to where I was swimming. I gratefully clamber into the boat. I flounder momentarily as I balance on the edge, my torso submerged in the water within the boat, my legs kicking uselessly in the ocean. I manage to get in eventually.

 Then we try to sail the boat. I shout to my comrades to paddle in unison. We stick our hands in the water and paddle, but we only manage to make the boat scrape along the sea floor. I realise we have to repair the boat somehow. There is concrete rubble in the bottom of the boat. We use this to patch the hole in the boat, fitting the blocks together carefully. We bail the water out of the boat and miraculously the water doesn’t pour through the cracks. The boat lifts out of the water and together we sail the concrete boat out into the horizon.

I never used to interpret dreams much myself. Used to consider them random images and thoughts meshed together. I'm becoming more of the opinion that there really is something more to dreams than just that. So, any interpretations?

Modern Art

Modern art is a tricky thing to judge. One one side of the spectrum you have artists like Banksy who makes pieces that take some skill to create and actually contain meaning. On the very opposite end you have Mark Rothko who paints a canvas blue and then declares it art. I think was has happened is that critics have taken over art. You have critics who don't necessarily know how to do art, and don't necessarily have a great understanding of it deciding what is great art and what is not. They see simple, understandable pop icons like Andy Warhols infamous Marilyn Monroe and declare it to be genius. They popularize it and give it meaning that isn't essentially there. I've seen critics give meaning to vague splatters of paint on a dull background. And this stuff sells for millions! What happened to the days when art was a true skill that took ages to master?

 But there are cool modern artist, Banksy is an example. I love the hunter trolleys.


                          

                                  

Hands of Time

I was listening to random songs on windows media player when a particularly good song came on. It's called Hands of Time by Groove Armada. Groove Armada does lots of good work and are worth checking out no matter what genre you're interested in. It's the sort of song that will posses you. Check it out.

 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CedVxOZ6xAA

Interlude - The Chemistry of Dreams

Time is a fickle thing, forever going at a pace that suits itself, almost always on the wrong occasion. Sadon wasn’t fond of time, and time didn’t seem to like him either. They had always been at odds with one another. He remembered occasions when time had simply stopped, the clock in the corner of the classroom had simply ceased to tick and he had spent an eternity watching the teacher drone on.

 On another occasion time had tricked him in a different manner. He was out in the park, walking around a frozen lake with his hearts desire, a beautiful woman named Trinity. They had met recently and had continued to see each other, and on this occasion Sadon had worked up the courage to make their relationship a more intimate one.

 They had stopped under some trees, their breath misting in the cold, crisp air and simply looked at each other. Sadon had planned what he was going to say, but now, faced with Trinity’s curious look, the way her full, dark lips twisted into a playful smile he found his voice had jumped ship and abandoned him. Instead of speaking her took her hand, and pulled her close. He recalled their lips coming together, warm in the cold morning, but then time toyed with him once again. The next thing he remembered was the next dawn’s first rays of sun peering in through the window, and Trinity’s naked figure pressed against his chest, sleeping peacefully. Time had deceived him again, this time passing him by.

 On this particular occasion it seemed that time was prepared to be forgiving. It was his execution he could understand, and the entire world has slowed down. Perhaps this was time’s way of saying farewell, granting him some spare moments in the world before he would leave it forever. It was times parting gift, he supposed.

 He watched the axe rise, the sun blinking off its menacing, metallic edge. The executioner stood poised above him, muscles tense, prepared to bring the axe down on Sadons exposed neck. He was an ox of a man, with wide shoulders and huge arms muscles. The executioner had dressed for the occasion, wearing a black hood that obscured his features and a bloodstained white apron.

 A huge crowd had gathered to witness Sadons death, hundreds of them standing in a mob. A sea of jeering faces looked at him, the hate clear in their eyes. He watched foul words form in their mouths, angry spittle flying and clenched fists rose in fury. 

 Sadon could see them shout harsh insults but could hear none of them. His world was filled with the sad singing of a woman, her enchanting voice carrying brilliantly across the masses, silencing them all without an effort. The source a woman standing alone in the crowd, they were oblivious to her and had unwittingly parted, giving her a wide berth. She was wearing a white dress that contrasted sharply with her raven black hair. Her hair was lush and fell below her shoulders in a mass of curls. Her skin was pale white, looking soft and sensuous to touch. Her expression was one of sorrow and pain, it make Sadons heart twist, made him struggle against his bonds in an attempt to reach this woman.

 Sadon knew her well, knew the curious raised eyebrow and the quizzical look that followed. He knew the most intimate parts of her, knew her love and her anger. He had spent the last three years with this woman and she meant the world to him now. It was, of course, none other than Trinity.

 A tear rolled down her cheek and the last notes of her song echoed then stopped, fading to nothingness. Time and sound came back with a vengeance. The sound of the jeering throng destroyed the sense of harmony Sadon had felt before. Similarly time seemed to feel it had been generous enough, and ceased to give him any more.

 A smartly dressed man, wearing a black shirt, a black suit, black shoes and a black bowler hat walked towards Sadon. His face is predatory and he smelled of fresh meat. The man got on his knees, bringing his face close to Sadons. He was breathing heavily, his breath smelled of blood.

 “So you see, all things must come to an end, even you Sadon.” The man told him, and then kissed him suddenly before standing up. The man nodded to the executioner and stood back to watch the decapitation.

 The executioner didn’t hesitate, bringing the axe down expertly. Sadon looked around one last time and caught Trinity’s eye. She looked at him, her ice blue eyes staring with such intensity and pain that it made Sadon oblivious to his impending death.

 Then she closed her eyes and the axe fell. The world ceased to exist; Sadon was enveloped by the cold waters of oblivion. A dull ache pulsated at the base of his neck; thoughts were getting harder to form. Then… nothing, and Sadon was gone.

So that sets the stage for the Chemistry of Dreams. And don't worry, he's just dreaming :P

The Executioners Axe

I had a dream once in which I died. I felt pretty lucky to have dreamed that up because it was the only dream in which I have continued to dream past the point of death. Felt like I had just figured out what it was like to die, not to bad after all, not sure why everyone was worrying so much about it. I used this dream later as the foundation for the prologue to The Chemistry of Dreams Which I will post shortly.

I watched death shine brightly in the sun, I gazed at the axe as it rose, the sun blinking off its menacing, metallic edge. The executioner stood poised above me, his rippling muscles taunt, prepared to bring the blade down onto my exposed neck. I looked over the crowds that had come witness my death. I didn’t know why they had come, but come they had in their thousands. I scanned their faces, the hate obvious, spittle flying from angry mouths, fists raised in anger. I could see them shouting, their mouths forming crude words and harsh insults, but I could hear none of it. The only sound that filled my world was the mournful, haunting song of a woman. She was wearing a white dress, with golden hair flowing radiantly over her shoulders. Her skin was pale and her expression one of deep sorrow. Her voice overpowered the hatred of the crowds, filling the chilled morning air and tugging at my heart.

 A tear rolled down her pale cheek and her song stopped. Sound flooded my ears immediately, the jeering throngs voices destroyed the inner harmony I had previously felt. A man wearing a black leather jacket and a garish green hat strutted up to me, gripped my head in his hand and glared at me with contempt.

 “So you see” he said “All things must pass, even you.” He spent another moment peering at me, as if trying to figure out what I was thinking, though I only felt confusion.

 He stood then, nodded to the executioner, clasped his hands behind his back and stood to watch. The executioner didn’t hesitate. He brought the axe down with deadly precision, though it moved slowly, as if through liquid. I caught the woman’s eyes one last time. They were a clear, icy blue and a fire shone inside their; their beauty, their intensity burning itself into my memory.

 She closed her eyes then, a moment before the end, and the axe fell. A flash of pain, the world went white and I was welcomed by the cold waters of Oblivion. A sense of detached filled me, though I could feel a dull ache where my neck had been. It only lasted a few moments and then it faded. Thoughts were becoming harder to form, warmth enveloped me. My last thought was of the woman and her eyes, then… nothing.

The Chemistry of Dreams

Currently I'm working on a project I have called The Chemistry of Dreams. I've always had a lot of stories of varying length going all the time but they were more single ideas that begged to be written into a short story. The longest story I've written was very influenced by fantasy and was a pile of garbage. My friend cheerfully rated it FG for fantasy garbage. I'll agree to that, it was one sided, predictable and dragged down by cliché. This changed when I watched the movie Black Swan. I was fascinated by the insanity the characters went through, the blurred line between reality and imagination. When leaving the cinema with my friends I felt inspired. Not to write a story of similar style, but to write a story of similar caliber. I felt driven to go home, sit down and construct a story which would not be simple, straightforward and predictable but would rather be intelligent, interesting and include a brilliant twist. Thus I gave birth to my brainchild.
 I have always dreamed a lot and I often remember my dreams in great detail. I write these down because of the escape they can provide from regular writing. The pleasure of recording ones dreams lies in the complete lack of logic present in them. Things don't necessarily have to make sense and things don't have to work out. It's a world unlike any other and often a world that could not have been imagined outside of sleep.
 I used my dreams as the basic material for my story, taking the various parts and combining them to fit into the larger context of the work. The process was immensely enjoyable I felt as much surprised by the road the story took as those who read it.
 I hope to begin posting parts of the story, perhaps putting some ideas out there and hopefully receiving a bit of help and feedback to improve it.

The Creation of Something New

I am an active writer, and it has recently become my ambition to make this passion into a career. However, no author can create a living whilst living in anonymity. My reasons for posting this blog are to try cure this obscurity in which I live, perhaps seed the ground so I may in the future reach out to a community of people and share my work. This blog is currently in its infant stages, and it will probably remain so for a long time. I am new to this form of communication and have no great expertise in setting up a blog, or making it attractive for visitors. I'm sure though, that I'll learn the tricks of the trade over time. My aim is publish in small doses, update plans for current project and work and hopefully recieve some feedback on it. We'll see where all this leads.

Cheers