{"id":7477,"date":"2010-05-14T06:50:06","date_gmt":"2010-05-14T10:50:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7477"},"modified":"2010-05-14T06:50:06","modified_gmt":"2010-05-14T10:50:06","slug":"lucid-dreaming","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/05\/lucid-dreaming\/","title":{"rendered":"Lucid Dreaming"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

A Remedy for Insomnia<\/strong><\/p>\n

Not sheep coming down the hills,
\nnot cracks on the ceiling —
\ncount the ones you loved,
\nthe former tenants of dreams
\nwho would keep you awake,
\nonce meant the world to you,
\nrocked you in their arms,
\nthose who loved you…
\nYou will fall asleep, by dawn, in tears.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Vera Pavlova, If There Is Something To Desire<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

From that site’s archive<\/a> (whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/em>):<\/p>\n

Too Easy: to Write of Miracles<\/strong><\/p>\n

Too easy: to write of miracles, dreams where the famous give
\nmysterious utterance to silent truth;
\nto confuse snow with the stars,
\nsimulate a star\u2019s fantastic wisdom.<\/p>\n

Easy like the willow to lament,
\nrant in trampled roads where pools
\nare red with sorrowful fires, and sullen rain
\ndrips from the willows’ ornamental leaves;
\nor die in words and angrily turn
\nto pace like ghosts about the walls of war.<\/p>\n

But difficult when, innocent and cold,
\nday, a bird over a hill, flies in
\n— resolving anguish to a strange perspective,
\na scene within a marble; returning
\nthe brilliant shower of coloured dreams to dust,
\na smell of fireworks lingering by canals
\non autumn evenings — difficult to write
\nof the real image, real hand, the heartDream a Little Dream of Me<\/em>
\nof day or autumn beating steadily:
\nto speak of human gestures, clarify
\nall the context of a simple phrase
\n— the hour, the shadow, the fire,
\nthe loaf on a bare table.<\/p>\n

Dream a Little Dream of Me<\/em>Hard, under the honest sun, to weigh
\na word until it balances with love —
\nburden of happiness on fearful shoulders;
\nin the ease of daylight to discover
\nwhat measure has its music, and achieve
\nthe unhaunted country of the final poem.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Denise Levertov, Sicily, 1948<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Basked in the sun,
\nlistened to birds,
\nlicked off raindrops,
\nand only in flight
\nthe leaf saw the tree
\nand grasped
\nwhat it had been.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Vera Pavlova, ibid.<\/em><\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

The writer doesn’t trust his enemies, of course, who are wrong about his writing, but he doesn’t trust his friends, either, who he hopes are right. The writer trusts nothing he writes — it should be too reckless and alive for that, it should be beautiful and menacing and slightly out of his control. It should want to live itself somehow. The writer dies — he can die before he dies, it happens all the time, he dies as a writer — but the work wants to live.<\/p>\n

Language accepts the writer as its host, it feeds off the writer, it makes him a husk. There is something uncanny about good writing — uncanny the singing that comes from certain husks. The writer is never nourished by his own work, it is never satisfying to him. The work is a stranger, it shuns him a little, for the writer is really something of a fool, so engaged in his disengagement, so self-conscious, so eager to serve something greater, which is the writing. Or which could be the writing if only the writer is good enough. The work stands a little apart from the writer, it doesn’t want to go down with him when he stumbles or fails or retreats. The writer must do all this alone, in secret, in drudgery, in confusion, awkwardly, one word at a time.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Joy Williams [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

Finally: I’d hoped to find that the late Lena Horne had recorded “Dream a Little Dream,” the lilting popular song from 1931. No such luck, although apparently everyone else to have recorded anything<\/em> from that era has tackled it. (Hmm… A “What’s in a Song<\/a>” candidate, maybe?)<\/em> This scat-entwined version is by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (not<\/em>, cough, “Armstrom”):<\/p>\n

<\/object><\/p>\n

Lyrics:<\/p>\n

Dream a Little Dream of Me<\/strong>
\n(music by Fabian Andre and Wilbur Schwandt; lyrics by Gus Kahn; performance by <\/em>Ella Fitzgerald<\/em> and <\/em><\/em>Louis Armstrong<\/em>)<\/em><\/p>\n

Stars shining bright above you.
\nNight breezes seem to whisper, “I love you,”
\nBirds singing in the sycamore tree.
\nDream a little dream of me.<\/p>\n

Say nighty-night and kiss me.
\nJust hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me.
\nWhile I’m alone and blue as can be,
\nDream a little dream of me.<\/p>\n

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear,
\nStill craving your kiss.
\nI’m longing to linger ’till dawn, dear,
\nJust saying this:<\/p>\n

Sweet dreams ’til sunbeams find you,
\nSweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.
\nBut in your dreams, whatever they be.
\nDream a little dream of me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

______________________<\/p>\n

Notes:<\/strong><\/p>\n