31. How Surreal
And though we’re not dreaming, it does feel that way—like we’re wedged somewhere between the conscious and the unconscious, grasping to make sense of the change.
We talk a lot about things being surreal these days. We see a vacant city street and boarded-up storefronts and say, How surreal. And though we’re not dreaming, it does feel that way—like we’re wedged somewhere between the conscious and the unconscious, grasping to make sense of the change.
It’s interesting to note that the Surrealist movement started in Paris in the 1920s, just after Europe had been wrecked by the First World War and—a significant parallel—the 1918 influenza pandemic. It feels fitting, then, to hearken back to the surrealists and a game they called “Automatic Writing.” It was a way of using play to slip out of the rational mind and into pure dreamstate, believed to be creativity’s most fertile terrain.
Prompt:
The rules of Automatic Writing are as simple as they come: Just let the words pour from your pen, without restraint, without a goal, without self-editing (oh, how we self-edit!). Abandon any concern for punctuation, logic, structure. Just set a timer—we suggest ten minutes—and let it fly.
Alejandra Redondo
Location: Mexico City
About: Automatic writing took me to the land of my dreams, in which I always keep on reflecting, as in some way they could be parallel words.
Age: 30
Los días siguen pasando, las costras de los dedos picando, la radio sonando, el sonido del refri se me figura de otro mundo, otro mundo donde suceden otras cosas. Pero tomo café, recuerdo otras aguas estancadas con las figuras que forma, con la ligera línea de leche que corta el color.
Suenan canciones de otras épocas distintas, de viajar a otros lugares, de un momento donde no era la norma estar encerrados. Suena a la música de Disney, del sueño de evocar realidades en la cabeza, que quizás nunca ocurran, pero a la vez eso y mis sueños, me hacen pensar en la posibilidad de mundos paralelos, donde están ocurriendo otras cosas, donde nos encontramos con los que ya murieron y las cosas significan otra cosa y escribo con pluma rosa, porque va más acorde con la magia.
En esos mundos donde subimos por carreteras sinuosas, que llevan a lugares a los que es imposible llegar a pie. Donde un vehículo del ancho del camino puede seguir subiendo sin caerse, donde las inmensas parvadas negras nos guían y llegamos a lugares recreativos para calmarnos de realidad, para calmarnos del dolor de la realidad, pero donde llevamos todo lo importante de ella; para encontrar otro sentido, para que el contacto inevitable con un río de gente aquí no nos moleste, ni quedarnos empapados durante horas después de un chapuzón, porque hay que aprovechar todo el tiempo posible, inventar otra forma de contabilizarlo, que haga la duración de un sueño, el descanso de realidad suficiente.
Ese lugar donde los atardeceres se pintan de un indescriptible naranja-rosa-morado más profundo, pero tiene límite de queda, porque cuando llegan por mí y tengo que dejarte y sabes que tengo que irme, me recorto un pedazo de atardecer en forma de despedida y lo pego en un recoveco de mi memoria, para asegurarme de que ahí estuve y que es real, como el sueño.
Jennifer Caputo-Seidler
Location: Tampa, FL
About: I am a hospital medicine physician on the frontlines of the covid pandemic. During my days off I found myself in need of ways to express myself and to decompress from the stress of the hospital. The Isolation Journals was one of those outlets for me and the focus of this exercise.
Age: 33
Creativity. Something I never would have used to describe myself until maybe the last year or so. I thought creatives were born that way, seeing and experiencing the world differently than the rest of us, having an innate gift to transform the external world into something beautiful or unique or thought-provoking. I didn’t think of creativity as something you could exercise and develop like a body of knowledge or a physical skill but I think differently now. I think the biggest hurdle is getting past that mental roadblock of “I’m not creative” “I can’t be creative” “I’m not artistic” it’s not about creating something technically flawless it’s about the process of learning new skills, new ways of self-expression. So what if my watercolor is ugly even when I make the most basic painting, the process of creating it is meditative and relaxing. The end product doesn’t have to be the goal. Maybe my prose isn’t the most grammatically correct or eye-catching but if putting an experience down on paper helps me release it from my shoulders and my chest then the act itself is worthwhile. My cakes may not be the most insta photo worthy but they taste good and it gives me joy to see how much other people like when I bake for them. So whether it’s drawing or painting or writing or photographing or baking or dancing there is some new medium out there to explore to use as a way of saying something about me. Focus on the process, not the finished product.
Sky Banyes
Location: Paris, France
Age: 32
Taylor Phillips
Location: San Francisco, CA
About: This was my first attempt at automatic writing! The point is that there is no inspiration or motivation. You just put pen to paper and start writing. I typed this up because, as I mentioned in my entry, my journal writing becomes quickly illegible. I tried my hardest not to edit as that was part of the prompt, but guiltily I'll admit I may have added a comma or two. Sorry! Couldn't resist.
Age: 27
Take me away, pen! I’ve given you your vessel (it’s paper, of course). I’ve given you your weapon (it’s words, indubitably). I’ve given you your fuel (it’s this wonky left hand which loses its determination to write beautifully after the first sentence, and legibly shortly after that). It’s a rag tag team (in combo with my slightly hungover mind) but I think it should do the trick.
So here I go I’m trying to not think and just let the words flow.
I came across a pickle that was sick and couldn’t swim so I gave him a name – it was Frank. His soul was cute but otherwise he was mostly a ghastly little thing and, of course, he was British. I asked him a question it was “which way is the world turning?” and he said to the left with a confidence that I detected was false but I may just choose to believe him anyway because there’s a 50/50 chance he is right, unless of course the world spins on an ineffable access unrestrained by lefts or rights or ups or downs or time itself. In which case the possibilities could be endless. Sure, sure. We know about planets and how they orbit but what if what we know only a piece of a bigger know that we don’t know yet and debunks all that we thought we knew? I mean, what say you if the entire universe were spinning too? Can infinite nothing spin? I shouldn’t see why not. Infinity can do everything and nothing at all. Same goes for nothingness, wouldn’t you say? We’ll never know what way we’re spinning just that we are and yet we aren’t dizzy. Suddenly I feel dizzy though. Damn you, you ugly pickle! Why do I always sing about you? One bite and you’d be half what you were but still twice what you could be. The truest truthers are still liars deep down, if only to themselves. I’ll never see some oceans and that makes me weep. Can you imagine a world without French fries? Or theme parks? Or little girls drawing hearts? There was a conspiracy around jean jackets and I almost had it all figured out but then I woke up. One day I’ll wear my jean jacket again and then I may move to another state or at least another city, perhaps one made of dreams and definitely not one with human feces – that’s a hard no for the future city I may bless with my residence. The only places that can truly and certainly be rid of human feces is one with humans at all. So, another planet then I suppose. I’m sure there’s something defecating there too but it isn’t humans and for whatever reason that comforts me. Not even the moon is safe. I should talk to the moon more. I know I should. She understands the moody pensive side of all of us. The sun only knows our vacation moods which are good. If you’re ever sad in the sunlight he’ll make you feel wrong about it – out of place. “Go inside,” he’ll say. “My sunshine is for happy vibes and appreciation.” He’s sort of vain that way. A little self-involved. But not the moon, oh no. The moon will let you be and feel whoever you are this night. If you are sad she says “yes, I agree I am a sad moon tonight.” But if you want to dance she says “yes, let’s dance! I shall light up the night.” She can be spooky and eerie and mysterious or romantic or carefree or adventurous .Or maybe she will judge you but only if you judge yourself otherwise she’ll take you In whatever form you are and reflect back to you that same warm reassuring white light. I miss her on those nights she’s not there, but other nights she’s bright as can be and I pay her no attention. But we always know she’ll be there when she’s supposed to be, unlike the sun who comes and goes as he pleases. Yeah, they say don’t trust the moon, but I say do! She can be all of the things to all of the yous and mes all at the same time and if that is a reason not to trust her then don’t trust anyone because deep down I’d wager we are all capable of that. Sun, you serve your own purpose but you sure can be shady, huh? Ok well I’ll talk to you both later. Say hello to Frank for me, I hope he’s feeling better and for god sake let’s teach him to swim.