S Is foYr Sunday

Sundays are sometimes sleepless. Then I terribly miss the dream I always have on Sundays. Instead, I stroll through the memories of the dream I always have on Sundays. The rocking chair. The coziness of the room.

“[…] is / […]” is the verse I just about almost always remember from those dreams that I always have on Sundays. My grandma would read it from our favorite poem “Generations Against Anti-Dreaming Powers” by an anonymous hermit poet who dedicated his creation to fervent persistence in opposing insomnia. The poem from which we love to speak from memory is of particular relevance for the development of poetic vernacular precisely because of its capricious way of syntactically challenging the structure of the stanza. Namely, each line, as is evident from the one quoted from the collection Hey! Why Don’t You Chill the Fuck Out and Come to Yo Fucking Senses!, ends with the verb, which is the point in a sentence dramatizing the tension between the subject abandoned at the beginning of it on the one hand and, on the other, the object strongly emphasized by the copula at the end of the line preceding the much needed syntactic element.

My grandma reads it with such unbeatable passion that I experience those strings of words as a playground at which me and my fellow travelers layer the components of the play the way in which one word added to the other chimes in a harmonious, interlaced polyphony. Which is only to say that it is not.

Grandma is incredible…likes to tell me stories about dreams off generations. Some of them imagine the threat of insomnia in the form of a movie. It features a street and a bench. Somebody smoking. Exotic sites. Unlikely cityscapes. Incomprehensible habits, from certain standpoints.

Ah, history…

When I remember how she tells me about poetry against anti-dreaming powers, my drift is frequently interrupted by the phone ringing. Of course, I don’t answer. Instead, I keep strenuously engaging in the unfolding of our moments of certain sharing. Like this one. When she told me about a generation who chose performance to be the mode of expression  to respond to the anti-dreaming threats. The scene she finds exemplary of their rebelliousness happens to be the one in which zillions of denizens imagine their bodies to be their minds to be their cities to be their homes to be their schools to be their streets to be their families to be themselves.

Ah, philosophy…

I can’t make much of those unbelievable instances of unleashed energies targeted against insomniac powers. All I know is that I can’t help but immerse myself in the inexplicability of her captivatingly bland narration and…think! I imagine an expressive mode that would convey the anxiety of the generation whose radical measures against anti-dreaming is indulging oneself in the orderly fashion of the threats. I think of a computer game…video game or something…but then, I realize that I don’t know anything about the aesthetic of games and disqualify it as an option. Think of a TV show…but it strikes me that I hardly ever watch TV and can barely invoke a sense of the viewership succumbing to the enchantments of the announcer’s manipulative gift.

Perhaps a story. In it, the generation is being led to pursue as healthy a lifestyle as one can possibly afford. Nothing wrong with it, one would be prone to think. (Grandma would, too. Only, with a lot of reservation.) Nothing wrong, indeed. Only, the wellness in question is championed and ensured at the expense of…well, health itself. Namely, harmful diet, habits, and conduct are not only severely disputed and unreservedly discouraged, but simply banned. Such injunctions are perceived with maximum understanding and an awful lot of willingness to accept them as a token of social concern for the society’s well being. This is, as a result, accompanied by a strong inclination toward adopting lifestyles legally justified and, consequently, morally unquestionable. The society’s understanding of social well being tends to favor control over anything else and, for that reason, prefers getting rid of the black, grey, red & whadeva markets and replacing them (certainly, semantically avoiding the ambiguity suggested within this wording) by legalized, closely monitored, and impeccably manufactured and distributed goods.

The overarching principle of the sloganeering politics could be encapsulated within the following thought: “Why smoke tobacco when you can have a chewable capsule containing 5 grams of an equivalent of a 80% cocoa chocolate bar!” Synthesized in cutting edge cocoa substitute laboratories, the powder is the result of a laborious scientific endeavor gearing towards ever changing patterns of human behavior.

Grandma’s laughing her ass off:

Who would want a caricature of control when insomniac mechanisms have so much more to offer!

Yeah, right…but would you accept a life of a devotion to the orderly somnambulism…

Or, you would rather say: Fuck Off losers!

As always, I’d choose the latter.

Same here.

Sometimes I think that deprivation of sleep makes me love memory of dreams more than I would appreciate the dreams themselves, were they readily available on a daily basis. Before the very germ of such a thought starts shyly indicating a possible course of cognitive action, my mind is fully equipped with a subversive device preventing me from diverting from focusing on another candidate for the title of the dream-dismantler. The one in question sorta suggests that sunshine is as elusive as moonlight. Which is only to say that it is not. And yet, there is a king of thoughts of the kind being considered saying that even if sunlight is distinct from any other light, it requires applying uv protection cream. Some realize early on the significance of such a fact. Others spend a considerable period of time without the faintest idea of the possibility that it could be more than just recommendable. It normally takes them twice as much to start entertaining the choices of the cream. Typically, it is when the contrary manifests itself in the full glory of wishful thinking: the impossibility whose inevitability one keenly embraces and whose quirky logic one instantly, whole-heartedly doubts.