Perhaps we are too awake to dream.
We have all dreamed as kids. Ambitions of being firemen, joining the police force, or even being a superhero were a natural part of our youthful existence. Some of us simply want a family, to be a mother or a father one day and raise dreamers of our own. These dreams tend to drive us for a great portion of our adolescence. Often growing bigger and stronger than a tree when planted in fertile soil. Immovable, due to that soil being our naïve and young minds. Maybe it’s that in our development years we are still somewhat asleep. I don’t mean literally, although that may be true, because we sleep a lot more as children, which probably contributes to this theory, but figuratively. Our eyes are partially closed to the world at large.
Especially to the negativity, to the idea that some things are impossible. Or that gender, color, race, and economics are obstacles we can’t overcome. We don’t even fathom these to be rules at those ages. I mean I used to tie a bed sheet around my neck and believe I was as strong as Superman and could fly. It was only my parents’ strong Jamaican accent telling me “Stop the foolishness!” that would wake me from my cognizant slumber devoid of reality. We benefit from not really knowing what is expected of us, gain from the lack of practical responsibility, and thrive from simply not knowing that it’s possible to fail.
So we fly, we pretend, we imagine, we play, and we have fun with our lives. To us in those early stages the math is simple, if you want to run, you run! You want to jump, you jump! Oh you’re bored? Go play!
Somewhere along the lines we grow up and the simple addition and subtraction becomes trigonometry. The weed of practicality invades our mental greenhouse and blocks our dream tree from the sun until it not only stops growing but becomes almost non-existent. Whether in school where we are basically taught to defer our dreams for good careers and credit. Or at home, where our parents dreams becomes our own and our will to make them proud make our dreams become more and more lofty and sometimes unattainable. With age and responsibility we lose the fiery enthusiasm. Do you remember what it was like to fall in love with something as a child, or even as a teenager? How much you threw yourself into dancing, or sports, or drawing, or gimp!? I would spend what seemed like hours playing basketball, trying to do the same move I saw on TV the night before. Or literally days perfecting memorizing lyrics I wrote so I could rap them over the phone with my peers.
At the time I didn’t realize it but it was my ambitions, my goals, more accurately my dreams that fueled the vehicle for perfection. It wasn’t work then, it was just doing what felt right, what felt good. Eventually our dreams become similar to our physical flexibility, you stop trying to touch your toes and after a while you can barely even see them without feeling a great strain. And rather than go to the gym we grab another bag of chips and go right back to the couch. And in sets the defeat.
See the cycle? Somewhere someone gave us the idea that if we haven’t achieved certain dreams by a certain age then, quite frankly, you are a failure!! And that is simply a lie! Hence why SO many adults are walking this earth with a black cloud on a string. Carrying around their failures like a pet on a leash, who shits all over the place and not only do you not poop and scoop but you step in it and drown yourself in the crap. This is no way to live, and a sure way to die while still living! Many zombies walk this earth way before Walking Dead was scripted.
Now I’m no expert. In fact I’m writing this from the perspective of a man who has lost his dreams along the way, and I’m currently trying to find them again. And probably like some of you reading this it’s hard to believe that my desires are still attainable. Like many of you I’ve had others give words of encouragement and while I listened, inside I was rolling my eyes eagerly waiting for the conversation to be over, so I can go back to NOT LIVING. Or I’d have excuses that I was convinced were valid reasons ready to fire back in defense. I simply no longer could wrap my mind around how I was going to be an adult and fulfill my childhood ambitions at the same time. I’m starting to realize that the answer to that is in the issue.
Dream as a child and act as an adult.
A child will think of doing something and go and do that very thing immediately, without considering the consequences, but their attention is easily switched when something more enticing comes along. An adult will take their time, plan their steps and act accordingly, provided it suits their needs. You have to find a way to combine the two.
Act on your dream….NOW, while planning for the outcome of success. The math is simpler than we care to believe. The steps which are only three fold to me. Find your dream, prepare for it and then make it reality. You may not have the money to take your model portfolio pictures but you have a camera phone, and a mirror to practice every day until you get the money. You may not have the resources to start a business, but have you asked a store owner how they got started? You may want to lose a few pounds but can’t stop eating that pizza, have you joined a gym yet? We have to stop making excuses for the way we CHOOSE to live and make the CHOICE to LIVE!!
They say life is about the pursuit of happiness, but to me it’s more about the pursuit itself. Happiness comes in progression.
Dare to dream as a child but act as an adult.
Even in a building with as many secret corners as the bP ideaFACTORY, one would be hard pressed to find a more secretive corner than the one working on The GLORY AND A GOLDSTAR by Marcus Markus.
The poet himself goes quiet and forgets his english when questioned… what is it like? when is it done? will it be ready for late spring? are you really sow.b.s.?
No answers. Just this…
Toronto based production duo STAGGERQUAKE are Monsters. The only thing that could stop them would be some brizzaro other version of themselves. (Which is, somehow… in a comic book kind of way, not altogether unlikely).
Click to see”BAD BOY DUBS” gets the boldPIGEON treatment. Watch It Now.
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LAST NIGHT AN 8-TRACK SAVED MY LIFE click to watch – (pART ONE – “DARK OF NIGHT” ) – i.james.jones. Many will recognize i.james.jones. for his work as an emcee, most noteably as one half of the duo The Names Are Known. Some may even be familiar with his involvement as drummer for the mysterious Toronto City Riot. But far too few have had the opportunity to take in the sounds of his solo work. Waiting to be found within his now extensive archive of lost albums and unreleased passion projects is the series the boldPIGEON is proud unveil as LAST NIGHT AN 8-TRACK SAVED MY LIFE. Originally intended as an album of lo-fi singer/songwriter gems, LAST NIGHT AN 8-TRACK SAVED MY LIFE is a departure from i.james’s released material, as he leaves behind the bars for uniquely crafted, moody and introspective compositions which disregard traditional song structures to create pieces which sneak inside the listeners consciousness and transports them into the world of an artist pealing back the layers of bravado and conventions of his recognized material to create a sound that is emotionally true and daringly honest. Recorded entirely on 8-Track at the WayOut (his former home in Parkdale, Toronto), during a period i.james describes as “saturated with reclusive madness” pART ONE – “DARK OF NIGHT” features Jones on guitars and vocals in a mode that is sure to surprise fans of the emcee. Take in the video (a boldPIGEON Presentation) and download the song for free at www.soundcloud.com/boldpigeon For More from i.james.jones. KEEP WATCHING THE BOLD PIGEON. – boldPIGEON.COM
It was Tuesday night when Sheila first heard the words. Oh, she’d thought the words before, most folk do; but she’d never really considered it, not in a real way before that night. Well, almost never.
What she knew, what she had always known was that they were bad. Bone deep, dyedinthewool, B.A.D. Wilful, stubborn, spiteful, and meanspirited to boot. They, all three of them bullies since toddler hood, her precious triplets, sometimes, she swore they stank of evil. They were identical in every way, one egg evenly split in neat thirds, which even her doctor had said was unlikely to the point of impossibility, but there you go. Other people were fooled by them with their perfectly blond VonTrapp faces, with their naturally neat hair, and warm blue eyes. Proctor, Princeton, and Price, even their honey blond good looks mocked her, she of the gypsy, (her mothers words), skin and too close set eyes complimented by what could, with great generosity, be described as a complicated smile; they were their fathers creatures entire.
Not that he gave a shit, he’d just banged her once, drunk as a lord and twice as rich, he’d passed out right after. A friend of a lousy friend of a coworker at a goddamned office Christmas fucking party.
“Hum motherfucking bug,” She thought testily, smashing the car into park on that fateful Tuesday eve.
It cascaded through the night, right up and into her window, blowing off the river. The stink made her gag and reel, she staggered slightly in reaction as she opened the door and tasted wrongness in the air. “Jesus weeps!” she thought “that reeks like Hell,” capitalizing the “H” in her own thoughts. Blinking through watering eyes, fighting her gag reflex the while, she savagely barked her shin on a tryke getting out of the car and unthinking hauled in a breath to shout an obscenity into the uncaring ether, but the curse caught in her throat held there by the oily, fetid reek that assailed her
“fuck” Sheila coughmuttered as she made her sore, sickened way to the front door fumbling with her keys.
For her part, she’d hated them as soon as the nurse had foisted the squalling pink bundles of disappointment on her in the nursery. Her resentment only grew as they did, and it didn’t help that her mother had used their birth as an opportunity to move into Sheila’s life and apartment. Running roughshod over her every thought and idea.
“What kind of woman gets knocked up by some guy she doesn’t know?” Was a popular refrain, “ A girl alone can’t raise one baby, never mind three,” was another.
“Thank god your father isn’t here to see this,” rounded out the litany of sufferings her mom favoured.
When she finally died, six months ago, Sheila had cracked the champagne she’d bought for the occasion years ago. Even still, anger bubbled sourly in her gut. A constant companion by now more intimate than any of her lovers.
Not that she’d had many.
Then one night, the one fatal, fateful night in June, it spoke to her, smoothly, wickedly it spoke. “It’d be easy, “ it purred, “ satisfying too. You see the way they look at you, you know its just a matter of time. One fine day they’re gonna getcha. You should get rid of them first.”
“Correct them; Go ahead they’re sleeping, now’s the time.” It whispered, insistent, demanding, cajoling, pleading, unyielding, unstopped. She hadn’t wanted to listen, had no intention of complying. No real intention anyway, but It wouldn’t stop. It never stopped.
It followed her to sleep and spoke to her there. Muttering in her dreams, stoking her desire for revenge. It poured her morning coffee, buttered, (margarined, really), her morning toast, lit her cigarettes. It susserated while she made their lunches and got them ready for school. Always talking, implacable, unbending, undeniable.
And, to tell the truth; a nonetoosecret corner of her mind welcomed that smooth authoritive voice. Craved its tone and timbre, listened eagerly, absorbing every syllable, believing every word. In no time at all, that corner grew and grew, metastasizing, darkening.
In the end, she wanted it to never stop and she knew, inside her secret self, that soon it would consume her utterly. At last, desperate, she knew she had to make it stop.
Later, when they found her ankle deep in blood and viscera, her sons lives splattered on the walls, and splattered all over her; she was laughing. Tears streamed down her face cutting blameless channels in her charnel house visage. The voices had finally stopped.
It was Friday night.
* * * * *
For More from SIMON’S SONG and N.L. Kumalo … KEEP WATCHING THE BOLD PIGEON. http://www.boldPIGEON.com
N.L. KUMALO is a Canadian writer, emcee and thinker, born to Zulu parents in Apartheid South Africa. As a shaper of culture, Kumalo manifests his deft skill in many forms. Drawing from the experience of his own evolution as immigrant, student, d-boy, inmate, artist, N.L Kumalo is a creator whose work is animate and enlightened.His intellect and soulfully articulate voice soar and sweep in from the fringes of the Canadian Story Untold.
“The Storm Before the Calm” is a chapter from Simon’s Song. A novel by N.L. Kumalo, in development as a serial release on boldPIGEON.com
Click to read the complete chapter – “The Storm Before the Calm” from Simon’s Song by N.L. Kumalo .
For More from N.L. Kumalo, keep watching the boldPIGEON.
Click to watch the Video (a boldPIGEONpresentation)
It is hard not to find inspiration in the work of Twisted Metal in Motion designer Erin Ademoglu.
Her bold, yet elegant pieces weave metals and the industrial feel of a steam-punk style with the power and beauty of the natural world, while embracing and re-imagining the enduring symbology of the human existence.
Based in Toronto, Twisted Metal in Motion offers thoughtful and intelligent statement pieces without the grand expense (think $18 to $30).
Watch the Video… Then see more by clicking on the links below…
P.M. Kumalo is a Canadian writer and aspiring author. He has a deep interest in finishing the classics of literature (including genre works), watching the best films ever made, and learning languages. By circumstance he considers himself to be a natural anthropologist, straddling the line between participant and observer. In his free time he volunteers, does art, and works on improving his hobbies.
KEEP WATCHING the boldPIGEON for the complete CHAPTER ONE…