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"My joy was hidden in a dream. I didn't know it was there until you set me free"-Lone Justice

"Silent Lucidity" by Queensrÿche found me like a whisper from the cosmos at a time when my soul was seeking ground. I’d just come through a summer of kaleidoscopic highs and shadowed lows—psychedelics had cracked open the heavens and the underworld, and anxiety lingered in the aftermath. In the quiet desperation of late 1990, I wandered into a bookstore searching for a way to make peace with my anxiety during the day and my dreams at night. Lucid dreaming called to me like forgotten medicine, and Stephen LaBerge’s writings became nectar that rewired my path.

And then—serendipity. My friend flicked on the TV, and there it was: Queensrÿche’s “Silent Lucidity,” playing like a message from the dreaming universe itself. A song about lucid dreams, cosmic tenderness, and the power of inner healing. It was as if the universe whispered back, “You’re on the right track.”

I recently watched Professor of Rock talk about the song, and this quote struck me to the core:

“You know, Silent Lucidity connected with a lot of people at just the right time. It was a song that stretched way beyond Queensrÿche's typical fan base. It was like there was this perfect storm of events that brought Silent Lucidity into the light and touched so many hearts."

That perfect storm? I lived it. And it left a trace on my soul that still glows.

To this day, dreams remain my sacred home—a spirituality that bridges daylight clarity and nocturnal wonder. And it all began when one song echoed through the veil.

The world was shifting beneath my feet—though at the time, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Spencer’s Butte, towering over Eugene, Oregon, had always been a place of perspective. A place where you could stand above it all, see civilization laid out like a celestial game board, and pretend you weren’t just another fragile piece in the grand cosmic play.

That night, though, I wasn’t just standing above it—I was teetering on its edge, trying to hold onto something that was already slipping through my fingers.

Dave, must have seen it in my eyes—that glint of apprehension, the way the stars looked a little too sharp, a little too knowing. “Here,” he said, pressing his Walkman into my hands, like an offering.

Aerosmith’s "Sweet Emotion" hummed through the headphones, a song I’d heard a hundred times before, but in that moment, it was medicine. It tethered me, gave my mind a place to land before it could spiral into the unknown.

Of course, the real test came on the way down. That’s when the trees turned into tricksters, their branches whispering half-truths, their shadows weaving themselves into something sentient.

At one point, I caught sight of a coin flipping through the air—except it wasn’t a coin, not really. At first, it was just an ordinary flicker, catching stray flashlight beams as it tumbled. But as it ricocheted off the branches like a pinball, something shifted.

It multiplied, expanding, assembling itself into a presence—grinning like the Cheshire Cat but scaled like some forgotten reptile. Its eyes were perched on stalks, swirling black vortexes within them, each one holding the infinite roll of fate.

And in that instant, I understood something unspoken: the universe was less a solid structure and more a playful, ever-shifting puzzle.

We pressed forward down the trail, flashlights carving tunnels through the black. The trees leaned in, their skeletal branches flickering in and out of existence in the half-light. Shadows moved with intent, shifting in ways that shadows shouldn’t.

Eventually, we reached the city, and I let myself breathe. My companions wandered the UofO campus, their conversation like anchors keeping me from floating off into the unknown.

The night stretched toward morning, and in the half-light, the bushes lining the sidewalk became ankle-biters—lashing out, playful yet persistent. I knew they weren’t real. But knowing didn’t erase the sensation; it simply lived alongside it.

Back at the house, I found solace in sketching. The lizard-cat, the swirling coins, the strange anatomy of the night—lines and shadows taking form beneath my hands.

Something fundamental had changed, but I couldn’t quite name it. Not yet.

When the sun rose in full, I was new. Not reborn—nothing so dramatic—but undeniably different. The world was luminous, transient, stitched together in ways I hadn’t considered before.

And somewhere in the years to follow, in the chaos of shifting perspectives, I found clarity in lucid dreaming and Buddhism. "Form is emptiness, emptiness is form." Nothing existed in isolation. Everything leaned on everything else—an endless cascade of reflection and connection.

The universe, I realized, wasn’t cold and uncaring. It was bejeweled, magnificent—a living, breathing web of interconnected light.

And though fear and uncertainty still loomed, they no longer felt like the final truth.

There was love, too.

Connection.

And if I kept my eyes open, I could see it shimmering between every moment.

Robert Abel was a visionary who saw the potential of computer graphics long before it became mainstream. His company, Robert Abel and Associates, produced some of the most memorable TV commercials of the late 20th century. These commercials were not just advertisements; they were art. The seamless integration of vibrant visuals and cutting-edge technology captivated audiences and set a new standard for digital artistry.

On a subconscious level, Abel’s work has left an indelible mark on my creative consciousness. The surreal yet cohesive worlds he crafted through his commercials have become a silent muse in my art and writing. His ability to tell a story through a few seconds of mesmerizing visuals taught me the power of concise, impactful storytelling. The vibrant colors, the intricate details, and the fluid motion of his graphics have inspired the visual language I use in my illustrations. There is a certain rhythm and harmony in Abel’s work that I strive to emulate in my own.

This influence is particularly evident in my current book project. As I delve into writing and illustrating this new story, I find myself channeling the spirit of Abel’s aesthetics. The way he used light and color to create mood and atmosphere is something I consciously incorporate into my illustrations. The dynamic compositions and the sense of movement in his graphics influence the way I design my scenes, aiming to capture a similar sense of wonder and engagement.

In essence, Robert Abel’s work has been a quiet guide, whispering through the corridors of my mind and subtly shaping my creative endeavors. His legacy as a pioneer in digital graphics continues to inspire artists like me, proving that true innovation in art is timeless. As I continue to write and illustrate, I carry with me the lessons learned from studying his groundbreaking work, striving to create art that resonates with the same depth and impact as his did.

Imagine this: Just as a plant, in all its natural splendor, culminates in the blooming of a flower, so too does our psyche unfold in the form of dreams. The plant doesn’t need to be told how to bloom; it simply follows its nature. Similarly, our psyche, in its intricate wisdom, produces symbols in our dreams naturally and effortlessly.

Jung saw dreams as the blossoming of our inner world, a manifestation of our deepest feelings, thoughts, and unconscious desires. Each symbol in a dream is like a petal, part of a larger bloom that represents the wholeness of our inner life. Every dream, in this view, is evidence of our mind's continuous process of symbolization—transforming abstract feelings into vivid images and narratives.

So, next time you find yourself wandering through the maze of a dream, think of it as your psyche in full bloom, revealing the hidden parts of yourself in the most beautiful and mysterious ways.

Dream on, my friends.

There was a time, not too long ago, when I'd step into the social arena like a gladiator armed with self-deprecation. It was my shield, my way of steering the chariot before the lions of judgment could pounce. Especially around the fairer sex, I'd toss out a quip about myself, a preemptive strike of wit, showing I was the maestro of my own shortcomings.

As an artist, my brush strokes were bold, my canvas alive with confidence. You'd think such assurance would waltz me through the dance of courtship. But alas, when it came to the gaze of Aphrodite's descendants, I felt more like a sketch than a masterpiece. A history of rebuffs, a skin etched with the adolescent storms of acne, left my self-esteem teetering on a precarious easel.

As for many of my comrades, they seemed to navigate these waters with the grace of Casanovas, finding love's harbor quite easily. Meanwhile, I was adrift, battling the squalls of self-doubt. But here's the kicker – the epiphany that washed over me like a gentle summer's rain: our worth isn't a prize to be won in the eyes of others. It's an innate treasure, a birthright that doesn't hinge on the fickle tides of attraction.

We're all entitled to stand tall, to claim our space in the pantheon of self-respect. With that in mind, I think it's best we learn to anchor our souls, not in the shallow pools of external validation but in the deep, still waters of self-acceptance. I understand that can be very challenging, my friends, but I'm discovering it's a voyage worth taking