Dreams and cool bookz for cool kidz
I sure don't dream much, and my everyday rest feels more like a necessary burden rathen than the deserved reward people usually relate to it. When I dream, though, it's always very strange, but also very akin to my everyday self. The imagery I love to forge with the reality around me, to which I daydream often, becomes tangible and real and physical when in dreams. I dream my own life, but through my own vision, and from that I can set the thresholds of my own lunacy.
When I'm not dreaming it's black. Devoid of thought, overflowing with color, still, floating still in emptiness. But every single moment is felt as it amounts to hours and hours of real life comatose. It's a heavy sleep, tortuous and necessary, that my human carcass carries as curse. Doctors love to say it's because of all the medication and booze and I agree with them, that shit makes you feel really bad when trying to make you feel not truly bad. And then again comes the struggle of a creative mind like mine having such an obstacle to overcome, and not failing yet, battling everyday, but understanding the wasted potential to never become realized as long as it is chronic the malediction.
If I had a proper dream journal, if I wasn't so selfish as to hold all the fantasy to myself, I'm sure that would be a really enjoyable read; but for now, as it stands, these little figments of marvel are sprinkled here and there on all of works, used as tools to complete stories, to picture scenarios, to construct characters, and so on. Although when I directly transcribe the experience it becomes pretty obvious, and that can also be found in the wild.
One of the most obvious examples of that is THE LOST TAPES Vol.24: dreams.. There my scarce dream notes are presented in a handy collection, keeping to myself only what I didn't spontaneously written down when happened and/or left to memory and the rehearsal of. There you find things like,
It’s noon
The sky is black
All house pets are eating their owners
All cars sit still in eternal jammed traffic
All water is boiling and all food is spoiling
All lamps are broken and all stars have vanished
All that are alive are soon to be dead
I walk down the street towards the empty well
The empty well is calling my name
And,
I. A. Richards was sitting in my living room
Legs crossed, reading my manuscript
First it was day outside, then night
When he finished his tea, threw the paper in the fire
Said I was a disgrace, insulted me to the bones
Handed me a flintlock pistol
I blew my brains off
And,
knife
unwind
park
fresh air
It is a very nice read, to which inside jokes are kept to this day, and also an egregiously open door to insider info on my mind. As a person who is seemingly so open about everything, I really do think writing about dreams is a finger too personal; but hey, it's my duty to let go of my selfishness and reflect as image on the jigsaw of the reader. Am I right or am I right?
Dreams are made of magic and you are the delusional one if you think otherwise. Dreams are like cartoons, or being underwater after a cannonball, or playing your first song in the bedroom by yourself and being happy that you can make that strange object sound so beautiful. Dreams are made of magic and any breathing, thinking being has enough proof to agree with me. Now tell me, what else is magical and can relate to all the examples given? That's right, childhood! Childhood is the most magical stage in any person's development, it is full of rawness and potential and the innocence to see beauty past the obstacles given by day-to-day life. You're happy when you're a child, because it's not hard to be happy in such a wonderful world like the one we live in. A place so full of colors and smells and textures and tastes and a different consequence for all of your actions! People write on walls, wheels roll down hills, can you believe the carrot you eat came from just a tiny little nothing seed!? A seed you could plant yourself to GROW YOUR OWN CARROT? How cool is that? Watching plants grow is magical! Watching clouds float by is also magical, and watch the dog drinking water from the bowl is so cool! The dog drinks water nothing like us!
This fascination with the world is that of the artist, every real artist has the eye of a child to view the world with wonder, and even an artist as somber as me shares of this privilege. I have written a post here called "The natural unnaturality of childhood", that I believe is a necessary read to better understand the points I'm making here, that you can check out if you want, no pressure. Where I want to get is at the making of art for children, especially literature, and that being in the plans for the close future.
It's not news to anybody that I really enjoy children's literature, in both reading and writing. Though I sure don't see it like a kid does, my inner child do and I always take some cooler books home with me when visiting the library, if you know what I mean. Most countries out there have absolutely amazing children's authors, like Monteiro Lobato, Dr. Seuss and Roald Dahl to name a few, really upping the reputation of this kind of literature, truly exploring the world and its many facets in an easily digestable way for any kid out there. They represent this age group under the best possible light and become necessary, for what would be of the world without Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?, The Cat in the Hat?, as aventuras no Sítio do Pica-Pau Amarelo? Shaping great people left and right, the art of writing books for kids is an extremely respectful craft that often stands timeless, be it for its overall simplicity, be it for the important values it holds. Children are still reading Matilda to this day and that's beautiful.
But then again, not every artist is the same though we all come from the same mold. No art is the same, it's in the principle, the subjectiveness and whatnot. So, how does Coraline relate to How the Grinch Stole Christmas? And at which point does Goosebumps become Grizzly Tales for Gruesome Kids, and how does the latter differentiate from Angus Ooblong's Creepy Susie and 13 Other Tragic Stories for Troublesome Children? At which point does a kids book become a "kids book for adults"? And if that's come to matter, is it even children's literature anymore?
That's a pretty big dilemma I've been facing lately, given my biggest inspiration for the project at hand is children's horror books, and I often fail to describe it to other people for that same reason. At which point exploiting the "blissful ignorance" of innocence becomes vile enough to be unsavory for children? There are very obvious checkpoints, of course, but what about when that becomes an obstacle for the truth? To whom do you pay respect?
I figured the quick and easy answer was to completely abandon the idea of targetting it to kids and make the book(s) "young adult", and that's completely fine past the point that it makes no sense to even market it as children's literature anymore —, accept it'll be on the same group as J.K. Rowling and John Green and move on; but that sure stings somehow.
Further on, specifics.
The project's main idea is to couple with some artists this year and make a handful of dreams into reality in the shape of a children's story book. One of these stories, though, is the "controversial" "Joshua, The Uncaring", as well as "Phone Line Robot" and "Luna" and other various short stories I've told and am yet to tell somewhere on the internet. What they all have in common is the fact I can only see them working as the narrative of illustrated books for children, and that's a well-known complication. Therefore, to keep true to my works, they will feature a release much like the Angus Ooblong book: sad, forgotten, independent release to make cheer a miniscule niche of literature.
In this day and age, despite the clear decline in respect of the new generation for literature in general, illustrations have been praised more than ever before, also done more than ever before. It's easy now to start careers as artists from the self-development inside "major niche" communities, and digital artwork has become an odd-necessary to modern art, facilitating the objective representation of ideas. Of course staleness comes as big factor, and with it the mass agroupation of artists, disregarding their individual value and so, with this project, I also plan on finding and giving light and praise — as much as I possibly can — to deserving artistic individuals out there. This, a crude promise I may not be able to fulfill.
And here I find myself again, barebones-ly ending a blog post because I'm too tired to properly finish it. The main idea is there, right? Children's literature is cool, I will dab into it in the future, childhood and dreams come from the same magic and, I must reinforce, the best children's story is one that comes from the subconscious, is that of the dreams. SELÁ!