5/
don’t ask me about my dreams because I will tell you about the dreams that I shouldn’t tell you about and I will think of those images that express the secrets of my body that should remain secrets but all I want is for them to be exposed like the edges of every orifice and whatever enters every orifice and whatever exits every orifice like a sewing machine stitching objects that belong together to be together because otherwise they wouldn’t be together like the material used in 3-d printers printing scanned objects like the tight curls of man growing long and the spiraling printed plastic exposing a kind of tightly wound tube but not hollow so do not fill the tube wound to form curls of a man which in their growing have become scanned by nobody in a dream and I already expressed my warning against dreams like I would express warnings
against a turd in the middle of a path leading up a mountain that is still soft and exudes such a smell that nobody needs to talk about what everyone feels in their nose but craves with their tongue in a kind of negative tasting what we want not to taste which reflects none of my dreams and their film of fog that all day I carry wishing to stop wishing to want what I can’t have but truth dreams and all of what we want to tell each other is so much sewn material that can’t be but will be printed
4/
trees for the woods or the woods for the trees as if anyone has ever really seen a tree or seen woods as if the way people spoke about leaves would help us grow accustomed to the continual disposal of finger nails and hair falling off whether cut or not falling off like nuts and falling off the roof like I hope that that soldier wouldn't when I handed over my gun as an extra gun for him because I know that the second I decide to use my weapon I'm a target and survival kicks in so much faster than any premonition could have prepared us for the fact that on those 9-11 planes the passengers should have rushed the men overcoming predictable patterns of behavior no different than any conspiracy theory as a ball of yarn with a secret thread factory hidden at its core but unraveling the way the left over hairs wet in the drain after I shower are not unraveled as I gather them and wonder for so short a time about whether they come from my chest or my head before throwing them in the toilet where alone I live they will not be found except when I have guests and the woods and the trees and the guests and the roommates and if the confusing avenues of abstraction could be constructed so as not to allow automobile traffic then some Israeli motor cyclist would still mess everything up just as I hid in the room after handing over the gun hiding in a closet as if after the enemy passes I could go live in the wilderness though there doesn't seem to be much wilderness left so I guess I would need to seek out the woods but the woods is a concept for the many trees I've heard about and I wouldn't know what to do with trees anymore because I've been dreaming about Mars and interplanetary colonization in my waking hours where the desert expands as a sandy horizon where I'm afraid of being boring as much as being bored needing to plant the seeds of my future forest.
These are two paragraphs chosen from a series of seven paragraphs written for an exercise in automatic writing (what I would call "old school surrealist") -- I think that the crazy syntax suggests a kind of dream-like state.
Lonnie Monka is an MA student in Theory and Policy of Art at Bezalel Academy. Besides being a freelance writer and poetry enthusiast, Lonnie runs Jerusalism, an initiative to foster local literary community with readings, author meet ups, workshops, and more. Follow Jerusalism events via Facebook: www.facebook.com/jerusalism
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