Monday, November 30, 2015

Endorphins, Sensuality, and Lucid Dreaming: What I'm REALLY Doing While I'm Sweating



I don’t know what it is about twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in and something changes. The heart rate increases, the sweat  comes, and it seems - at least in my case -  the nerve cells in the brain become momentarily more robust, more communicative, running like speedy little rodents, back and forth, chasing their tails, chasing each other. The firing rate speeds up, boils my creativity to a twinkling, orgasmic, critical mass. This process never fails and I’ve really begun paying attention to, and capitalizing on it. It is sort of like finally gaining access to a secret meadow you’ve heard about, where the fireflies are always sailing about, waiting to be swept into your eager, swooping net.


My idea factories are surprisingly easy to come by: trail runs and zippy, sweaty rides on my road bike. There’s also my high intensity, music-flooded cycle class at my gym. However... those classes would be more conducive to creative problem solving if the cycling room had no ceiling…


When I’m jogging in the crunchy, leaf-littered trails by my house, my eyes are usually tipped toward the sky, absorbing the sensual energy of the clouds and the sun’s rays slanting toward me like long, fuzzy lazers.  When I am outside there is no cap on the ceiling - the lid is always off - and I can feel my connective capacity following suit, reaching farther. It’s an Inspector Gadget-esque reaching, wherein my go-go-gadget neurons (commanded by my increasing heart rate) strive and strain to mentally go where no other jogging blonde has gone before.


I consistently feel that creative connection twenty minutes in. I feel the buzz and check my watch, or I check my watch and if it’s time, I literally open my mind like the ramps on a drawbridge, welcoming ships of ideas in on a wave of adrenaline.


I’ve had sudden ideas for art pieces, lines of perfect poetry which assemble themselves in rhyming order, or solutions to ongoing projects, all fall effortlessly into my jogging or pedaling lap.  I’ve started bringing my pad and pencil to catch these hot, elusive ideas before they cool down and evaporate like sweat.


I realized the other day that this whole process reminds me of lucid dreaming, and of what are called hypnagogic hallucinations (things you imagine as you are falling asleep). When you become aware that you are hallucinating in that “middle state” of consciousness, you take risks. You are operating void of logic, void of mental gravity, void of convention. You yell, you outburst, you fly into fires. You choose to go toward what you might normally run away from.


I once heard a podcast about a kind of “school” you can enroll in to learn how to dream lucidly. People who suffer from recurring nightmares can learn a gradual process of awareness similar to that learned in meditation. You are taught how to control what goes on inside your dreams. They teach you how to do this gradually, first by learning to manipulate one small detail at a time. This would be in a dream you have all the time, a dream in which you know what is just around the corner, that way you can go in and make changes, or at least plan for when and where you’ll try to do so. Kind of like learning the Jedi Mind Trick to move the intangible. To move thoughts, ideas, scripts, you have created and for some reason keep playing over...and over...again...and again...


Eventually, while dreaming, participants will be able to first speak to their tormentors. Once this is mastered, they learn to physically interact with him, her, or it, until at last, when they’ve advanced to “dream Jedi” status, they go for it and take drastic action to fight off and kill their dream “monsters.”  


Although I was deeply intrigued by that podcast, I don’t suffer from nightmares so therefore I never conducted further research on the lucid dreaming school. I never thought much about it until I discovered - and started toying with - the notion of my “runner’s high idea factory.”


I think those dream coaches start by teaching participants to notice the particulars of reality; something I do especially well when I’m running and cycling outdoors. I start by being sensually, qualitatively, more AWARE: aware of smells, sights, little sounds in the background, murmurs first, then pieces of distinct words. Water running, birds chirping, sneezes, a siren up the street, dogs barking in the neighborhood. When you know how to do this - during meditative practice or while lucid dreaming - you have graduated from level one: increasing awareness.


Awareness brings me to yet another connection. The chairman of the psych department in my graduate school (a short, grey-haired, former hippie) used to say to us students: awareness leads to change. I’ll always remember that line, because it applies to almost anything. Once you’ve broadened your awareness, almost like expanding an invisible net that emanates from your senses, you can start to notice how things make you feel. Specific things you may not have noticed before. You’ll find that there are little invisible threads, like fishing lines, connecting your eyes, your ears, your feet, your genitals, to stimuli around you.  Because they are connected, they control you and you control them (to a degree). It is symbiotic.


However, the boss is always changing: sometimes the stimulus has the control, sometimes you do. For me, it depends on how weak or how strong I’m feeling on any given day. Or, sometimes, I want the stimuli to control me, such as a sunrise or a sunset I’m looking at. I WANT it to move me to a place of inspiration. It might be the way the color of the leaves change at dusk, the shift that occurs in the cells of the eyes as they struggle to interpret color coming into them under the influence of the changing light of the setting sun. My exercise-induced endorphin rush, coupled with my heightened “sensual” awareness help me to strengthen the connections I desire, whereby allowing me to then harness the driving force of my creativity.


There is beauty and pain all around us. We can let it influence us as much as we are willing. However, if you can learn to open and close the filter between yourself and the stimuli, you’ll be amazed at how much more you are capable of. It all starts by taking a jog outside while keeping your senses wide open. So the next time you see a sweaty runner, or one of those sinewy, bent over cyclists, don’t write them off as dumb jocks. They might be in the process of curing cancer.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

The Wu-Tang Clan Helped Me Edit My Poetry

You've heard me say it before: hip hop can inspire, can get you wired, float your boat down a sacred river of liquid purple inspiration you can't exactly access in any other way. That's just my opinion.  I read poetry, books, short stories. I listen to audio books and music most hours of the day. I want words in my head, words that rhyme, words that wow and evoke wonder. It is a constant education, a vocabulary lesson within a fun, surprising context with a catchy beat. 

This week, while my nightstand featured "American Sideshow," an incredibly fascinating book about the myriad assortment of carnival freaks of the late 1800's- my car stereo featured Wu-Tang Clan's '93 album titled "Enter the Wu-Tang" which is - and I concur - regarded as one of the greatest hip hop/rap albums of all time. I'm not going to claim to be some sort of hip hop super fan nor do I thump down the streets of my smallish suburban town with my windows down, aching for slanted glances, for recognition of my incredibly sweet taste in tunes. No, I mostly listen to punk rock, rock and roll, alt rock, talk radio (NPR), and currently, with my kids in the car, Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book (all hail Shere Khan - the ultimate in "Tiger Style!"). But every time I take a musical side road and dip into my hip hop collection, I always find myself simultaneously dipping into my poetry journal to re-work and revise poems I've written on the fly, in moments of white light-pure, blinding inspiration. These are the poems that I know have gold in them - nuggets of value scattered about my scrawl -but they need some sifting, sorting, before they can land here on my laptop in what I feel is a jewelry store display case of perfectly placed words and spacing. So thank you Wu: Ol' Dirty Bastard, GZA, RZA, Raekwon, U-God, Method Man, and Ghostface Killah. When you brothas from Brooklyn made your soon-to-be legend album in the early 90's, would you all ever have guessed that you'd be - in effect - facilitating the editing process of an aspiring middle class white female poet!? You tell me: "Can It Be All So Simple?"



Poetic Voice by Jennifer Jones


If you read enough poetry,


your voice takes on a musicality


of speaking in beat, pacing,


perfect pauses,


then up and down


your sound begins


to dance.


You’re a singer of words,


think in rhyme,


align


blocks


of letters that settle in gutters


and funnel like drops of lettered rain


onto the


page.


Funnel your rage


push passion through pen


a dragon’s exhalation, a snake’s shed skin.


Hands hover over a vacant keyboard


ready to be a better builder.


To mother a novel -

not borrow from another’s


shed skin.


You’re a dragon hoarding word-treasure


wagons of rhymes whipped in your listener’s ears


shiver up their spines as


little dancers that shimmy and shake.


Take those precious stones, those


well chosen words


(that tap like tiny shoes
on the cillia, the cochlea)


up the spiral cartilage

knocks at the brain’s door.


Skates its neuron-rich dance floor.


Words reach that tender pink place


strike a chord with what sounds oh so right.


No end in sight (just echoes)...


Music on strings of light 

strung together,


walked by, witnessed at night.


Stars strung together


as constellations of light


our eyes

fight over.


Want to see, want to hear


these golden lights


these golden notes


that flake into being,


into sense-making glowing


strands.


Your head threading, your hands weaving…


So read and train that tender pink brain,


that dragon that is waiting / racing.


Learn to listen, weave the strands


of musicality,


rhyme,


perfect pause,

and pacing.


Owl by Jennifer Jones


Mysterious and lovely, fluffy and deep
He sweeps the misty grey meadow.


Searching for scurrying low-legged meat
He dips, dives, hides from view
swings on silent wings.


Night things cower when he sails low...
                                                lower,
talons skimming grass and frilled weeds.


His eyes widen - frighten - pupils big as midnight.


His target is seen.,
yellow eyes like slits of moon
                                       -swoon-
                                               catch fire.


Head down to aim his laser sight
                                  then plummets with a rocket’s flight.


Hooks grasp - squeeze - close tight
forming a horrible cage.


Tiny heartbeat pulses.
Mammal mouth pants.
Sucks short bursts of its last air.


Owl closes his cage.
Brings warm body
to open beak.



Saturday, April 4, 2015

Blade Runner Inspires PMS-Afflicted Thirty Something

I finished a famous science fiction novel a few months back. I didn’t read the novel per se, I checked out the audio book version of it from our local library and downloaded all nine, glorious hours of it onto my iPod. I listened to it every chance I got, and it became fuel: pulling me, driving me, through some of the more mundane tasks that define the duller side of mothering: laundry separating; toy de-cluttering; dishwasher emptying. It was wonderful! All this mommy productivity, while listening to a masterpiece. Listening and remaining a student of the craft of writing (without the mommy-guilt feeling of neglecting my family). Had I sat down, indulged, and actually READ the novel, my chores would very well have have piled up (and up and up...): old, food-crusted dishes (picture the picnic scenes from old Tom and Jerry cartoons) would’ve been toted off on the backs of marching ants,  and the dirty laundry pile would’ve teetered, reached critical mass, and spontaneously combusted on one of those unbearable (gasp), unseasonably hot California afternoons last December.


So I listened to this novel; listened to it daily. Listened while doing what I call “mom chores,” and listened while jogging. When I drift back, I can easily remember one day in particular, when I was listening to it while on a jog along Surfer’s Point in Ventura. The words in my ears painting a cold, dirty-metal, futuristic atmosphere all around my head, filling my bouncing mind with big ideas while my eyes followed surfers in the sea. I remember being so drawn into the story that day that my jogging came to a stop on the Ventura Pier. I leaned my forearms on the weathered, wooden beams, looked across the ocean glistening below me, and just let my mind be fully taken. Taken over the water, over the surfers peppering the waves, over the fairgrounds, inland, over the freeway, and up over the grey dusty mountains. I actually felt the sensation of the story sweeping me away. Wow, I thought, when the chapter ended - to be that talented as an author. To be able to write stories with such fullness, such impetus, such waves of imaginative force.


So, what was the book!? What magic carpet story floated my brain on a nine hour audio vacation? This novel is not well known by its title, but the 1982 movie based upon it is regarded as one of the best science fiction films ever made. The book is Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick, and... the movie is the brooding, blue, smoky, pulsing "Blade Runner."


I’m sure most of you have seen, or at least heard of, the movie. I first saw the movie in college (on lazerdisc!), but that was college, Chico State no less, and if it was after class hours, chances are I wasn’t exactly paying close attention to anything except where my next drink was coming from. So, technically, I guess you could say I “recall” seeing the movie, but mostly I recalled Sean Young’s Rachel Rosen in a swirling cloud of sexy, mood-inducing blue smoke. So when I finished the book,  I knew I’d want to see the movie again to do one of those analytical “book into movie” comparisons that visually-oriented literature lovers like myself get off on. However, and this surprised me, I wasn’t in any real rush to see the movie “again.”


Instead, I found myself taking my time with the book. Processing the book. And what kept coming up for me was how fascinated I am with the idea of the humanoid robot.


I am a huge scifi fan who grew up watching The Terminator, Westworld, and Total Recall with my older brother, and looked forward to Thanksgiving where every year we’d stuff ourselves with turkey, plop on the couch, and watch Twilight Zone marathons. I loved (and still love) the idea of humans growing in pods in "Body Snatchers" and “The Matrix;” I loved Sigourney Weaver kicking alien ass in “Alien;” and I loved Lukas Haas popping alien brains with grandma’s drawling records in “Mars Attacks” (spoilers).


I love nearly all scifi books and movies (except Star Trek, sorry Trekkies), but I seem to be particularly attracted to the idea of androids, and - more specifically - the idea of androids “going bad.” I love the concept of first creating, being in awe of, then using everything in your power to destroy a robot created in your own image.


For some reason, as I processed the novel I'd just finished, I began thinking about PMS (this might sound like a stretch, but trust me, it really fleshes out).  I suffer from Hulk-like PMS nearly every 28 days. By suffer, I mean I hate my cyclic mood swings SO much, that I am optimistically looking forward to the golden years of menopause. When I’m in the tar pits of PMS I feel alien - outside myself - seething like a pent up, antagonistic viper.  Out of this hormonal place of wrath I find myself creating drama with humans: Machine versus man (or in this case, WOman). This conflict is something I create and I fight with.


So, again, when I sat down a few months back to write down my reaction to P.K. Dick’s “Androids,” yes I wrote about Deckard’s motivation; yes I asked myself what Mercerism really was; and yes I questioned if Dick invented the work “chickenhead” before it was ever used in a rap song (I still need to Google that one). But then my text trailed off into a story idea about robots, females, men, and periods. 

So for my second blog post, I thought I'd show you that story idea. Let me know what you think:


“So, here is an idea that could really take off - provided we can pull off the android part in the near future: female android replacements that husbands can rent for the seven to ten days their wives are menstruating.


The humanoid could be available for rent, and be “clothed” in a skin (color, texture that is specific to age) that is representative of the female it is (temporarily) replacing. The android replacement (replicant) could be wigged, contact-lensed, and dressed in wardrobe nearly identical to the menstruating female it is standing in for (for the next five to seven days). There would be a warehouse, and in the warehouse there would be sleek android skeletons of all female sizes hanging like organized wind chimes on hangers, waiting for their next “assignment.” Your bedraggled husband would buy you a carton of chocolate ice cream and say he’s “just going to the gym to work out.” What he’s really doing is looking to rent an even-keeled, less temperamental replacement. He pulls up to the facility in his gym clothes with a few photographs of you, and one of your favorite outfits in a bag in his hands.


Your husband (or boyfriend) would be nervous, excited, hopeful. He’d be planning for your next cycle, getting all necessary ducks in a row so when you begin to show signs of instability, he gives you the knockout pill the agency has provided, drives you in, and executes the swap. The men using the agency’s services hope to experience a more laid back, “Island style” month next cycle, with your rosy, yet slightly squeaky, stand-in. So with a few pictures of you for the agency’s reference, your husband/boyfriend enters the building, is greeted by the receptionist who gives him an “I understand,” empathic welcoming, and shows him into an appointment room. Your husband/boyfriend would then be seen by a match-up specialist who would talk to him like a cool, business-like therapist, hearing his plight, promising a perfect solution that is “hanging...ready...and just there, right in the other room!).


So the android “customizing specialist” takes your husband’s pictures of you and slowly feeds them into a machine which will, in turn, make a 3-D representation of you in believable, full color glory (much like the building of Kelly LeBrock in Weird Science, and the building of the robotic grandma in Bradbury’s episode of the Twilight Zone,”I Sing the Body Electric”).


So there you’d be - the “Mike Teavee” Wonkavision version of you - scanned in and represented on the screen of the 3-D printer, awaiting your husband’s approval. If hubby/boyfriend puts his thumb up and approves the image, the specialist would then hit PRINT and viola! A zip-up “skin suit” complete with your stray hairs, your moles, birthmarks, would slowly reel out of the machine, and ooze, three-dimentional, on the sterile floor in a wrinkled mass while your husband/boyfriend stares at it, transfixed.


The future is NOW, this is science FICTION! “You” are there, on the floor. “You” are wrinkled, and “you” are destined to be hung on a clothes hanger, steamed, smoothed, and brought to your new, state-of-the-art, mechanical skeleton.

Your husband/boyfriend follows the technician to the inventory room, watching the skin suit sway on the hanger, still not quite grasping what has just happened. He is led into INVENTORY where he gasps, in awe, at the sheer number of android skeletons dangling on efficient conveyor belts, categorized by height, like futuristic dry cleaners for skin bags coming to re-claim their clean skeletons . The technician enters your weight and height into the computer and shortly after, the conveyor is moving swiftly, bodies swinging forward in an organized, propelled conga line, until the one that will soon be “you” stops at the place where your husband/boyfriend stands waiting. The technician lifts the titanium skeleton off of the conveyor using an articulating forklift that inserts gently, carefully, into the clothes hanger-type hardware that holds the silver skeleton until it is needed. The skin suit is then zipped on, a master switch is flipped, and your husband watches, once again in awe and excitement, as “you,” through the magic of the “Calmer Copy” company, meet his wide-eyed gaze with your believable, special-ordered eyes.”

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Newsflash: The Rapper, "Aesop Rock," inspires jogging poet

This morning I caught myself doing dishes instead of being outside - preferable jogging - while the fog was burning off. That time of day when the morning dawn shifts from wet to evaporated, dew drops beamed up like ghosts of little Scotties rising to re-assimilate within the clouds. I finished my coffee, grabbed my iPod, my new Addidas, and shot out the door as not to miss that glorious shift, not waste its passing on something so mundane (and necessary) as washing plastic containers that can't handle a ride through my dishwasher.

I always listen to music while I run, and it isn't usually rap. I had recently, however, downloaded an album by the rap artist - and I am not using the word artist lightly here - Aesop Rock, who had been deemed by an NPR word frequency study of rappers to be - skies above all others - the rapper with THE most prolific, the most varied, vocabulary.

I've always enjoyed heavy helpings of poetry, rhyme, audio books - any stimulating streams of words set to music or not, feeding my head on an nearly daily basis with the hopes that I'm perhaps increasing my OWN vocabulary a bit at each listen. Aesop is a truly gifted wordsmith, swirling through rhymes like a playful, whiskered sea otter, shooting words with the grace and accuracy of a sniper, make matches of sounds, of themes, of thoughts, as they come streaming into him, then out into the heads of iPod addicts like myself.

I finished my jog with a head full of rhymes, a body with adrenaline, not realizing just how much this Aesop "ear breakfast" was going to affect me later. I'd written a poem about a week or so ago, written it in the journal I keep for sketches, musings, ideas, quotes from books, favorite lines of poetry. I sat down to this rough draft of a poem tonight, and found myself reading it to the beat of Aesop's cadence, revising it to what I felt would be his liking - my liking - and the words were just coming, and coming effortlessly. I heard the beat in the poem, even more so than I normally do, being one who listens to music nearly all day, and reads poetry about every other.

So I thought for my first blog post, I'd post my Aesop-elucidated poem. It is one about the want - the need - to feel deeper things, to enjoy the mud of gloppy experiences, and be an overall catch-all, a sponge that remembers with all the senses touched.

I'm greedy for experience
needy for another chance
and another
...another
an opportunistic mother
tying baby to balloons
to soar - explore -
then plunge, shake off the grunge
underwater.

Take it in with eye sponges,
ear lunges
at deep talks, deep tanks,
sink into think tanks.

My sub shoots straight for the core,
chases warmish, salty-sweet sweat from my pores
pursues the opening of strange doors:
the cellar,
the attic,
places where panic
pants.

Light slants in through slats
brightens dust against the rust-deep
colors.
The brick red,
the thick red,
the bleeding out red,
blood letting volcano pressure from my
volatile, throbbing head.

Later, it's always lighter.
Soft pastels pollute my sight.
I tuck them in the pockets of my eyes,
appreciate them quickly
and move on.
I don't linger on what's light
my eyeglass - my sight -
drawn to night things.

Dark things my sight must solve:
the smeared, the blurred
the least straight forward
that is the more that I want.

The sap that drips,
the sap I sip
with tongue-thick eyes
caught, drawn in, a chamber
a fly in amber
to pause
and be moved
enough to stand still.