Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Monday, April 25, 2005

Marbles Dream

Endlessly sifting through a hempen sack full of kid marbles---big cat's eyes and solids like precious gems---gleaming mixtures of prismatic clacking sounds sending me into kid-joy wonderment of scudded levi knee patches hooding phenomenally big ready-to-pick itchyscabs formed from marble games like 'ringer', 'cherry pit' and 'nine-holes'. I'm hanging out with David K and M Espinosa (those two never hung out together) Now lucid dreaming I'm trying to connect the two, but then lose the thread and now they're far down the road walking away and it's clear that I'll never see them again. Switch reels back to marble emotions mixed up with early years' hatred of Danny C for thieving black onyx pee wees from my cinch-sack---the same sack I'd slipped off a luxury bottle of booze at Jay's Liquor on Hoover St on my way to Dayton Heights Elementary. And lo! I'm in Jay's now---but that's not Jay behind the counter---just some fake Jay with thick ladies' pancake make-up and eyeliner (here I know Jay's been dead for eons but I'm back again and it dials straight to the same haunted childhood mind-wrestling about death). Now this impostor "Jay" looks at me queerly with pursed lips---starts into his mopping of checkerboard lino-tiles behind private cashbox register---maybe he's only slinking in order to avoid my third degree and possible anger that he's the one responsible for Jay? Unsolved questions...Now I make out his made-up Clockwork Orange Droog's eye looking up at me from his stooped spot through the counterpane glass where he's scraping at something. What's he's cleaning up? Someone else is in the back aisles watching us. I quickly leave through the swoosingdoor and spot Sam the barber across the street making hairy dust halos with his broom.

Trying to play guitar at a gathering of old high school friends---A. Rapaport and L. Firth bending the Los Feliz apartment space with lyrical songs---one after another---I'm desperate to get in on the melodiousnes but I can't find the right key---too many strings on the oversized guitar, which is more like a sitar with its bulbed base and mini frets---there's a big bowl of corn chip 'guitar picks' and I'm trying to strum a tune on micro gut strings but each one brittlebreaks and a sad pile of cornchip shards are scattered over my Jesus sandals. My frustration at my ineptitude has me ranting that 'Fucking Jesus can't even make a decent pair of sandals'.

Queuing in an Alpine ski run tower chute---shiny gondola pods like candied apples cable swinging out into a vast cirrus sky---airplanes passing far below in the satellite distance. I jump aboard with 3 ski-outfitted, geared-up, masked (androgynous) others. The automatic door latches shut with a furious hydraulic force---delayed hisses hinting at the serious ride ahead---my organs bang together as we suddenly drop off backwards from the overhang. Trickster supersonic jet craft are coming at us mach speed then pealing past from every side and now the contrail wakes coming at us, obscuring the windows with sudden hyper volleys of crytalline mist. "Property of 6 Flags" is embossed in Braille and English onto the metal door. Fleeting visions of doing all this blind has me cackling out loud nervously....then one of the androgenous others opens the second door and leaps like a paratrooper with the others following one two three. My weight quickly tilts the gondola and I'm face-pressed against the glass wondering how the cable rollers can still be...then suddenly spronging loose the pod is in free-fall and my mind takes over and steers it upright and I'm now holding the two opposing doors in hang-glide position, turning, lifting and guiding the gondola home!


Blogger RuKsaK said...

This post is like a journey with 1 second stops at stations in my life. It has quite moved me and I seldom say that.

3:07 AM  
Blogger transience said...

sounds like a childhood memory, resonating, freewheeling. i had a bag of marbles once. i hid the two big ones and imagined they were my missing parents.

6:39 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Ruk...It's a bit humbling whenever someone takes the time to leave a comment---doubly so when it's from you mate. Muchas gracias.

2:00 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

2:00 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Trans...This definitely dovetails with not only childhood memories, but also links to ancient dreams, remnants of which compost with my recent mind---especially when I sleep.

By the way, were your parents really missing?

2:06 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Fuck me, this is incredible shit. I felt myself right there doing these odd things, which I have to say is uncanny.

4:44 PM  
Blogger Perfect Virgo said...

These dreamscapes are truly mind-bending. I like the way you analyse them even while you are recounting them. It's almost like you need to interpret them before you forget them.

I read your earlier post in which you revealed your recording method. That is real dedication to the cause! But without it you would lose so much detail and it's the detail that makes this so very interesting.

9:41 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Anonymous...Whoever you are, thanks.

9:46 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Virgo, the details seem to trigger more psychic whirring, both in the dreams themselves as well as in the recalling. They are chain reactions of little mind bombs.

But the recall is never exactly as I dreamt it. That's just the way the creative act seems to fuel itself---by working towards the same hightenend psychic buzz that set the thing in motion.

9:55 PM  
Blogger transience said...

fin, my parents weren't really missing. in actuality, i was the missing one once. to a child, though, the law of relativity always applies.

7:41 AM  
Blogger Fist said...

heh Finnegan, you've mispelt your favourite book in your profile.

It's not, "Finnegan's Wake." It's "Finnegans Wake." The point is that Finnegan is a generic collective noun (I can't recall what for; God-like Irish man, I think, approximately) and the command anyway is to wake all such men.

Wake up!

11:31 AM  
Blogger Cocaine Jesus said...

i still love playing marbles all though I am totally crap at it. all those bright colours like human trapped souls. rolling along and bumping into each other. there is something very tactile about marbles and your blog has that quality too. kinda like being able to touch all those images that you present. my cousin left the USA in 70 to escape the vietnam war draft and we formed a band. called ourselves FAG. in the uk a fag is a ciggie. in USA gay man. i didn't know that. i couldn't play guitar so ended up playing drums like a dog with piles.

i enjoyed your post. made for a pleasant lunch time read.

3:09 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Fist, Something interesting I found related to the title:
The Wake (as it is often called) is very much formed by popular jingles, nursery rhymes, and other fragments from popular culture. Indeed, the title itself is taken from an American vaudeville song.
The book begins with the fall of Finnegan, a hod carrier, from a scaffold. At his "wake", in keeping with the song "Finnegan's Wake", a fight breaks out, whiskey splashes on Finnegan's corpse, and he rises up again alive.

And this: Scandal concerning an incident in Phoenix Park (across the river from Chapelizod) threatens HCE's reputation, perhaps his life. In a midden heap, a hen named Biddy (the diminutive form of Brighid, the goddess on whose new-year feast day Joyce was born) finds a letter that ALP has dictated to Shem and which Shaun is charged with carrying to the ruling power of the time, which may be HCE himself. It is a letter that is hoped will redeem his past, just as Finnegans Wake is a vast "comedy" that seeks to redeem human history. It is highly relevant that if HCE can be identified with Charles Stewart Parnell, the Shem/Shaun attack is partly the attempt of forger Richard Piggott to incriminate Parnell in the Phoenix Park Murders of 1882 by means of false letters. Piggott was trapped at the enquiry into admitting the forgery by his spelling of the word "hesitancy" as "hesitency", which spelling is used throughout Joyce's book.

4:43 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

drums like a dog with piles? got a recording? it must be damned good.

4:46 PM  
Blogger Fist said...

I don't see the significance, to be honest, to the choice of title.

4:57 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...


That you're going down my profile list so carefully, as well as contemplating the significance of my blog title---then taking the time to leave your curt and rather blithe comments lets me know that you're
either more curious about this blog than you let on, or else you're trying just a bit too hard to live up to the significance of your own blog title.

'WAKE UP' I'll try.

'LIGHTEN UP' you should.

Question: Has the wife been nagging you a lot lately?

6:20 PM  
Blogger Fist said...

Ooh, don't get touchy now. I'm just curious and chatty.

Currently: Single, btw.

6:54 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...


chatty and curious? Oh, ok cool.

Gotta say I might be grouchy for 2 good reasons.

1. I've just returned from seeing a good friend in hospital with some serious cancer of the throat. He's got two kids and they were there too.

2. I've tweaked my lower back to the point of being a friggin' cripple. Hurts to even sit.

Come by any time.

7:02 PM  
Blogger Fist said...

Good reasons, but crappy happenings. Jeez.

Thanks; will do.

7:07 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

yeah, makes me wanna go to sleep

4:21 AM  

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