Writer's Blot - Edition 4 - Dreams

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December 2021 edition

Dreams

Writer’s Blot

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Editors’ Letter Dear all, You would expect a theme for an edition of a magazine to be confining, circumscribing the possibilities for discussion and inspiration, and narrowing the focus. Our chosen theme, however, is the antithesis of this: dreams can take any form, embody possibility, and their limits lie only in the furthest reaches of our imaginations. Thus, dreams, in fact, do not limit us at all, but widen the opportunities for creative exploration, an idea that we believe is reflected in the scope and ambition of the pieces enfolded in this edition.

Dreams are quotidian and yet there is something so extraordinary about the creative liberation of our subconscious while we sleep. But are we referring to dreams in the literal or figurative sense? Because dreams are simultaneously concrete and intangible. To dream is to yearn for something; it is to sustain oneself on hope and one’s innermost desires; it is to nurture them until their tendrils unfurl into the air, until they blossom into reality. The act of dreaming is one that is universal, one that is central to the human experience. For what are humanity, really, without out audacious hopes and tender aspirations? We can only conclude that dreaming is such an integral part of the human psyche that we would be floundering without it.

Our writers have liberated themselves from the confines of the conscious, and indeed, form, in this edition. From Fleur’s intricately wistful poem with its innovative stanza design to Jodie’s psychoanalytic, searing work, to Rania’s delightfully unnerving piece, our writers have traversed all the well-worn paths of the mind. We were inspired by Poppy’s beautiful poem about the act of dreaming’s ability to heal loss, and Ella’s haunting elegy, reminiscent of Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea, and equally as intricate.

Thank you for reading our magazine.

Alex and Schuyler Editors in chief

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Contents: ¨ ‘i would knit you a patchwork dream’—page 4 ¨ An Exploration of Dreams in Literature—page 5 ¨ ‘To Sleep, Perchance to Dream’—page 6 ¨ ‘Subconsciously, conscious’—page 7 ¨ ‘I dream of you’—page 8 ¨ ‘Trance’—page 9 ¨ ‘Persephone’—page 10 ¨ ‘Floating on a Cloud of Dreams’—page 11 ¨ ‘I woke up after I dreamt of you coming apart in my hands’—page 12 ¨ ‘Florence’—page 13 ¨ What we’ve been reading—page 14 ¨ Agony Aunt, Literary edition—page 16

Many thanks to Jo for her ethereal cover image.

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‘i would knit you a patchwork dream’ having made sure that stars

i see the upside-down world

the incongruity of this realm

from my exhibition of Today

reflected in puddles and seas

delights me like the sweet

is the last piece my eyes see

and my dream is knitted

soft dreaming awaits me

i become the stack of books on your windowsill which meshes era and genre and emotion and language

from the moment i gain

with those sun-kissed ripples

Spring mornings when both Sun and Moon are visible still

one scene sinks into next

it’s only here that layers of

only to vanish like the tears

such dissonance mingle to

falling down my cheek wiped away by your thumb

create such mellow harmony transcending clef and key

swiftly i scribble down to

i have tried and failed to knit

consciousness the sun-kissed

share with you the glimmers

one myself. but if i could, to

ripples loosen like our hands

of the warm nonsense which

show you my love, i would

reluctantly unlacing

--Fleur

i left against my will

knit you a patchwork dream.

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An Exploration of Dreams in Literature “I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.”

– Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare Dreams had a large influence on George Orwell’s dystopian classic, 1984. The protagonist, Winston Smith, is a civilian who is witness to the totalitarian regime of Oceania. He lives in a world in which all speech is regulated, where even the truth is censored, under perpetual surveillance. The only exception is in his dreams, which the government are unable to control. Sleep is an anarchic space where the dreamer is on the edge of something much larger and more powerful than their conscious selves.

We can reduce dreams to messages from God or even the dead; they may consist of suppressed memories, or sometimes just random electric flickering of neurons. They are an enduring source of mystery for scientists and psychological doctors. The fact that we spend moments of our life immersing ourselves in parallel, odd dimensions should be discussed more often, especially in literature where it can be manipulated and expressed in different mediums.

Dreams play a significant role in literature, particularly in novels from different perspectives. For instance, the realm of the imaginary is visited in novels as diverse as L. Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz, Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, and Lewis Carol’s Alice in Wonderland. The dream kingdom is a place where the laws of physics are abolished, where logic and reason remain redundant, and illogicality is allowed to take charge. There are also plenty of novels with more prosaic dream sequences, like Mr Lockwood’s harrowing nightmare in Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights.

Dreaming is the essence of literature. It involves what comes before, during, and after writing and reading, and some may argue there can be no fiction or poetry without it. There are numerous similarities between dreaming and reading, both of which require the creation of a universe within one’s own

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mind and accessible only to the individual. In a book, as in our sleep, the world which we are being exposed to is singular and subjective to the dreamer/reader.

--Anya

‘To Sleep, Perchance to Dream’ My mind doth have the darkness of the sky When the sun hath giv’n its duties to the moon Yet oft it can be cause for me to cry As a lady would wast she to swoon.

Encased within the images of mine own That leap and whirl like dancers on a stage I findeth myself both stranded and alone Trapped inside a self-invented cage.

To run is as to swim without an arm Or sail a ship that hath no mast or wheel Fret, I shan’t, for I cannot come to harm If’t be true I am lost in the unreal.

The cage will find its key at th’end of night Once blackened skies doth give their ways to light.

--Emma

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‘Subconsciously conscious’ The clock ticks, the hands that caressed Moving in time with the sleeper’s chest.

Cradled head on pillow, they express A road to recovery from emotional excess.

As paradoxical as it may seem, The mind buzzes amid the gleam Of processing, categorizing, storing of information That leads the lone traveller to this bustling station.

The subconscious does not sleep a wink, Like the train driver waiting for signals to blink.

Faces all ablur in a stop-motion picture; Places: empty framework structures.

But when the sleeper becomes detached, From the corporeality where they were attached, They discover that Dreams speak this dialect – A foreign tongue one must not neglect.

The Eyes spy on the conscious mind Extrapolating intricacies to which it was blind.

From a freckled nose from the sun’s sweet kiss To a subtly, scathing glare from an arch nemesis.

A distant car alarm blares from the street, Causing the sleeper to retreat From the mind battle which begged surrender; Upon the pillow immobile, remembered.

The sleeper recovers after momentary distraction, Lulled slowly, yet, gently into eternal abstraction, Chased by obsessive thoughts and sensations Bubbling in the slow boiling pot of manifestations.

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A dark, spiky, intangible mass Hurtles towards the sleeper with the precision of cutglass.

Like the 9/11 victim dreaming about the imminent attack, The sleeper has no agency to backtrack.

--Jodie

‘I dream of you’ They say, all good things must come to an end, But my heart longs to see you once more, In my dreams you do ascend, And simply enter through the front door.

Your voice sends joy through my veins, I'll hold your hand always, you once said, Your loving warmth cures all of my pains, And seeing you my soul is fed.

When the morning sun rejoices, You have long departed from my view, I shed a tear just to hear your voice And in my dreams there is only you.

--Poppy

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‘Trance’ You’re on a walk And you notice some things, You hear those two talk Under the streetlight’s Hazy husk. Why are those Wrinkled windows Winking? Collapse overflows Out of one, outlines stare through the other.

Walk.

Further.

See How the scorpions are nothing But branches rattling away the light, How the houses contort, bending Away - invisible weathervanes Holding their breath, ensuring you’ll Never get Home. The curtains are drawn.

The sun can’t come through, Only the frost lives to crawl on Her body.

Where were you?

--Rania

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‘Persephone’ Oh, how strong the far off wind Which whistles through the alleyways; How familiar, the distorted voice Which penetrates in my mind.

Out of reach. Close. Closer Then Gone. I feel as if an octopus has wrapped his long tentacles around my neck. I’m afraid.

Afraid of my feelings, afraid of his face.

This is a dream, I’m aware. But I dream so much So much that I can’t tell the difference.

His hands around my neck feel awfully real, His hands, his neck, his mouth. Too Close.

I see bright sunlight, abundance of relief.

But then it dissipates. I hear his voice.

A constant prisoner. I have no control.

Like Persephone, I’ll be back soon. Let me go.

--Ella

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‘Floating on a Cloud of Dreams’ You’re careering through a forest, You’re running from a bear, You hide among the olive trees, You don’t know why you’re there.

You’re flying through the dark night sky, You’re floating on a cloud.

The moon drifts past, within your touch, You don’t stop to ponder how.

You twirl between tulips, lie amidst lilies, You’re in a field of white.

The sweet scent of spring surrounds you, And you forget that it’s snowing tonight.

The sea beneath you gently waves, Rainbows fill the sky.

And when you wake, there’s just a moment, Where, half asleep, you wonder why.

--Tammy

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‘I woke up after I dreamt of you coming apart in my hands’ the air is stale, moss and mould creep across the covers of your bed an empty melody is clinging to the inside of your mouth where we're lying side by side the hollow walls avoid their eyes, and the freshly fallen snow is afraid to interrupt my feet are bleeding from the shattered glass on your floor we sit in our own skins we sit alone the uncanny echo of our breaths ashamed of their intrusion there's nothing left to say.

--Anonymous

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‘Florence’ The song is brought on the current, surging and swelling to dizzying heights, before retreating once more to wrap around the lovers, tangled in each other’s embrace.

The open window beckons it in; outside, the city is quiet.

The terracotta roofs are heady and sultry beneath the sun’s swift retreat.

Night is drawing closer, tendrils of darkness steal between alleyways, along roofs, they float along the current, and all is still.

The oppressive heat of the day lingers yet; the clamoring of bells ignites the city all at once, lancing and reverberating through stone and tile, racing toward the violet hued hills, cresting and rolling in the distance.

The leaden sound pauses, contemplative, as if surveying the wildflowers.

It streams through their rank; they scatter in all directions; there is an infinite and allusive feeling of bliss, but no one to experience it.

Now dusk is here; the air is thick and bleary and grey, and the hills gaze languidly upon the lovers far below, their whispered communion the only sound beneath that dark and fevered sky.

--Schuyler

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What we’ve been reading Fun Home, Alison Bechdel I am currently reading Fun Home by Alison Bechdel, which is a memoir in the form of a graphic novel, with particular focus on the author’s relationship with her father. The book’s dry sense of humour combined with philosophical musings on the nature of Bechdel’s relationship with her father, provide a very interesting read. The book, in comic form, is filled with vibrant illustrations of Bechdel’s childhood home in murky colours, which just so happens to be a funeral home run by her family. These complement the gothic feeling of the writing, as well as the book’s somewhat morbid focus on the author’s youth, the aftermath of her father’s suicide and the family drama caused by them both being closeted homosexuals. If these themes seem interesting to you, I highly recommend the book as it is just so readable!

--Lucia

Metamorphoses, Ovid Ovid’s Metamorphoses will not be an unfamiliar name to the Reader. As the title suggests, Metamorphoses consists of multiple and varied Classical myths and stories, connected with each other by the changes that are undergone, most commonly as a result of divine intervention. From famous favourites such as Book VIII’s evocative Daedalus and Icarus, to dynamic narrations of the feats of the glorious Heroes… you will find yourself fully submerged in the magic of the Classical realm within these fifteen books. The labelling of these as ‘books’ seems far from satisfying – for these are enchanting streams of an otherworldly consciousness, dancing between land, sea, time, and space with not a foot out of place. Although Metamorphoses was originally written in Latin, Ovid’s style and storytelling powers do not, in fact, become ‘lost in translation’; the music of his poetry is evident as he relates and unravels these fantastical episodes with such refinement, animation, and emotion, that his melodies could perhaps very well be mistaken for those of Apollo himself.

--Fleur

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Manon Lescaut, Abbé Prévost Told from the perspective of her highly temperamental lover, Manon Lescaut is a greatly short novel by Prévost showing just how entertaining an unreliable narrator can be. While it is up to the reader to conclude whether Manon is a virtuous young maiden or a promiscuous conniving thief, it’s fair to say that Des Grieux’s, her lover’s, view of her is so hyperbolic and everchanging that it’s hard to believe any of what he says. I recommend that if you do read this book, to try find the original illustrations published in 1753, simply because they’re just so delightful and give a visual insight into how beautiful and ornate this society they wreak havoc in is.

‘I implored her, with all the fervour of passionate love, to tell me the reason for her tears; I shed tears myself while drying hers, I was more dead than alive.’

--Lucia

The World My Wilderness, Rose McCaulay I was lent this novel by a friend, since I am interested in post-war/war literature. This novel documents the life of Barbary in rural France who is sent to England to learn to be presented to society. McCaulay’s use of imagery and description throughout amazed me, every moment is detailed and imaginative.

It is a light read, but enjoyable with a unique style of writing. It references classics such as The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot. I would also recommend reading the introduction by Penelope Fitzgerald which gives incisive context to the novel. Following the life of Barbary in her maquis lifestyle, we see her headstrong character and her undying values shine through. She refuses to give in to societal expectations imposed upon a girl in the 17th century. A great classic to enrich your current reading.

“So men's will to recovery strove against the drifting wilderness to halt and tame it; but the wilderness might slip from their hands” --Ella

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DEAR AGGIE

By Aggie

Dear Aggie, I crave for my beauty to be immortalised; I have been enlightened by Lord Henry Wotton that it shall fade yet beauty is the only aspect of life worth pursuing. Thus, I wished for my portrait to age instead of me, however it seems to reflect every supposed sin I commit. Henry lent me a French novel which in fact stated that my exploration of sensuality was not morally sinful, however my portrait does not show the same, decaying all the more.

How am I to reverse this decay?

Yours, Dorian Gray

Dear Dorian, Have you considered following a more moral path?

It seems to be that your problem is a skewed moral compass, as this ‘exploration into sensuality’ that you mention clearly is your excuse for living a hedonistic lifestyle. Perhaps read some of Jeremy Bentham’s work on morality and utilitarianism to get a more diverse impression of the effect of actions.

However, I must question where your wish to reverse the decay stems from. If it is solely out of pure vanity and a wish to be seen as better, it will never work. You need to act this way out of a pure willingness to truly be better rather than just selfishness.

From Aggie