Cover image: Painting “Fossilized Dream” by Md. Shajedul Islam (fuller description at bottom of article).
The following text was part of a performance at the BESHTx Exhibition on December 14th, 2012
at the Pomona College Museum of Art, Pomona, Los Angeles, curated by Adam Overton
Background: I’m sick of reading the commonplace denigration of dreams where someone will compare
something intolerable to “listening to someone recount a dream” – as if “others’ dreams” is a universally
acknowledged shorthand for something horrible.
So it makes me think it would be nice to get together a pile of my dream notes.
I personally think others’ dreams (sleeping or otherwise) are fascinating, and I would also like to attack the
intolerability complaint by also talking about real-life dreams – another thing people don’t usually talk
about in public, but, if we did, could be quite beneficial.
To make this document, I diligently all of my current writing fragments looking for the word
“dream.” I put them all in one document, printed it out, and read from it. Sometimes the notes were explicitly
about dreams, sometimes it was just a word. When collating, I didn’t look at what I would read from, I just
collected. My expectation was that I would find things I would be embarrassed about recounting or
expressing, but that that was part of the challenge when approaching this topic: I would have to be honest
about own dreams, both kinds, in public.
Dream Cleaning
Dream phrase: we knew safety was one way and we were sailing the other
Dream of theoretical singing. I was thinking about songs that are described but never exist, and also a
practice of imagining and theorizing singing practices/ singing activities that couldn’t take place. Mixed
with very-difficult-to-discern singing: singing into shirt held over mouth; singing into bags; singing against
wall. I guess that’s just obstructed singing.
Head-movement-but-no-lips-involved-at-all singing was another big component
Chapter titles from a book I was reading in a dream:
The difference between novelty and nausea
The difference between politics and humanity
etc.
Also included were things like “The similarity between craft and compromise”
etc.
Lots of formulas as chapters of a book,
My dream in real life: a room with a long picnic table that has a flat top and cushioned, mobile benches on each side. The
table is twenty feet long so I can leave current stuff I’m working on on it. That’s really all I want. I guess it’s a studio dream,
just a dream of having a studio since I’ve never had one. Or a table, a big table to work on.
Dreamt about a UNC basketball player who had an alcoholic pomegranate-blueberry drink named after
him. And who then transferred to another school. Embarrassment all the way around – for the school, the
player, and the beverage.
OK some dream from the night of July 29. After the alarm went off and I turned it off I had two hours
of vivid dreaming. So involved. I was able to wake up and take notes and drawings and go back to sleep
and get back in. The first note is a drawing of a hat I was wearing. I made diagrams of two versions: one
with slits every inch and going 1 and ¾” up into the hat (tassels of a kind). And one without slits. But
these were to be made of felt. And brown and…flesh coloured, little pretty spots of red and blue and
purple underneath a thin pink brown gauze. But the hat was as lovely as can be. Desired. And the two
people who owned and wore these hats were myself and Tracy Jordan, the TV show character. We
alternated between who had the tasseled hat and who had the tessellated one instead. Arguments over
math and vociferous shout-offs led to mumbled and coughed rebuttals, walk-offs.
A ski-ish hat. The curve was consistent – it just topped the head, with no folds. I could draw it well.
Don’t know how this is related but remember sitting in a church pew surrounded by high ceilings and
white walls and seeing a rat hanging from a light, way at the top by the roof. Then it jumps down and
looks like it’s coming at me but before it has a chance to land on me it stops in flight. An invisible-until-
that-moment three-foot-wide perimeter of plexiglass has been installed halfway between the ceiling and
the floor – right over where I’m standing – and the rat lands on that and runs around.
‘The Paint Job: What Do You Say Together? NOW!’ – this dream note from beside the bed has
something to do with marching to the Senate with a big knot of men’s dress ties. Each know of ties is
carried by at least two people: one person has one end of a tie and it is parallel to the ground and the
other person has another end of another tie that is also parallel to the ground, but a very large six-foot-
wide knot of ties connects the two people. The carriers struggle to keep the ties they are holding taut so
that the knot doesn’t hit the ground. The ties are squirming like loose live tentacles. Some knots are held
by multiple people, a radiance of taut ties from a central clusterfuck in the middle, with people at varying
lengths away from the center.
We make it to the Senate floor and chant:
We Go Around!
Tying People!
Up!
Our voices are super-high screeches. Shit I remember how distinctive this voice was but I cant remember
how to describe it any better: a scream that crawled out of everyone, a calmly crawled scream, like giving
birth to the alien from the mouth, letting it crawl out, while retaining full consciousness even if afraid,
because the alien/voice is a part of us too, so we respect it. In fact, we might fear it it, but we know it is
an important part of us that we are trying to honor.
It was so important about the tenor and integrity of these voices were, voices screech-clawed from out of
every individual voice.
Also skits where the group went around giving people ties that don’t need ‘em: security personnel, people
already wearing ties (the old double-tie-whoops-fiasco-conundrum), yachtsmen, Navy SEALs, etc.
Ties around the knees sometime.
Tracy Jordan is my coworker in this endeavour.
Rosy-cheeked red-hunched spokesmen. Peppermotion, Peppermatic
Overheard conversations:
Our dream was for you to kill me
Don’t worry about the coupons
We’re still good americans
Gil Scott-Heron: “All the dreams you show up in are not your own.”
A Russian doll of preserved abortions.
Dreams that never even grow into dreams, just listless wishes.
demon dream on, dream demon
Really nutty dream, with a title: Roommate With a View
About a place that swindles people into having other people, older souls, get implanted into them. They
explain that it’s like carrying a baby, but you never give birth. Instead you’re carrying an extra soul. It
comes with a body, but “the body is usually docile and most people are generally oblivious to it inside
them,” they console. What you’re doing is giving people that are about to die––good people they insist––
another, better chance. “And also to make yourself stronger.”
But it’s horror of course. The people inside poke their arms out of your mouth, pull open your face from
the inside, etc. But the way the thing is sold is that it will improve you, make you strong.
Also, some of the women that get them put inside become attached to them, even though they are little
demons. They call them their “piggies.” There’s a house that is safe for these women, but they have to
prove that they have the things inside, then they can come in. And they are also free to let the demons
crawl out of them and openly be themselves while within the house. They are the ones who are trying to
hide the fact that all these things are real demons. Roommates: but in the same body.
spiderwebs spun across my vision
spiderwebs spun across my moral compass
spiderwebs spun across my regrets
spiderwebs spun across my sense of accomplishment
spiderwebs spun across my hopes
spiderwebs spun across my dreams etc.
Witnessed: iphone held in front of actual Brion Gysin dream machine
Action enacted: she texted herself “I think I’m dreaming”
Dreams: find myself amidst busy, almost-rabid rail/ tram/ car/ train/ bus terminals. On a hill. Symphony
crowd getting out at same time I am trying to find someone. Trolley tracks, sidewalks, traffic medians,
crossing guards, walkways. Slight rain; slick, reflective pavement. Transportation anxiety/ communication
anxiety, all mixed up: the ultimate LA nightmare?
Later same night dream of being stranded on grassy median where six highways cross, some 150 feet
above the ground on suspended roads.
Some medians up there too. Hills again. But green, grassy and sunny.
Dream: saw Columbia, SC from space. Saw the big green trees near it and decide to zoom in and explore,
like space is a website. I go hiking and find the trees way outside the city and a gorgeous river. Find
fantastical wonderful animals. Stuffed giraffes sleeping in tents with dog children, etc. (Dog children? What
are dog children? Am I talking about puppies? I think I mean child-sized dogs that are an intermediary between
people and dogs.)
Gorgeous clear water in river running through forest.
Somehow this was mixed with me helping a writer who was struggling with a story. This writer was
female and working for Mary-Louise Parker. MLP was working with what the writer had previously
turned in and making it work. But she was making it work by coloring the words in and making shapes.
There were jagged edges of words in blue and red and black ink – lots of craggly bits – and then she was
filling in the craggly bits with green and blue trapezoids and wave-shaped stuff, etc. Also, because the
main writer is having trouble, MLP tells her that she needs to write a novel to clear the cobwebby fog
from her brain.
Dream: Lee and Andrea moved to Paris and there was confusion for me about how to navigate the
elevator system to get to their place. My mom came to visit and it made navigating the system even more
confusing.
Why not a “p” in dreamt? I’d be happy about a “p” in dreampt; I’m unhappy about the lack of “p” in dreamt.
Dream: Driving somewhere I decide to get on the highway going the wrong way. But I hit Tammy from
“Friday Night Lights” and injure her. I feel terrible about it. My dad is in the car; he falls for her. I fall for
her. She falls for him. Her sister is Susan Sarandon and a daughter of one of them appears and it’s the
smart one from Roseanne, the one I met for real at a bar in Chicago more than ten years ago, Sarah
Gilbert. The daughter of a woman who choked as a result of the accident says credit card companies
target people of “indigene” resources. Indiginous? Indigent? Am I commenting on some of my favorite
actress’ careers? Why did a female stranger have to choke? And why didn’t I recognize her daughter?
Another dream: eating a super-small quantity of noodles in H20 over and over again with the Flight of the
Conchords guys. It’s like I’m fishing out a very small, desperate piece of stuck-together noodle that makes
maybe 1/3 of a bite. I’m getting it with chopsticks and splashing it around my mouth, like I;m washing
the noodle-bit and my mouth, then spitting it back up so the others can have some food too. And after a
couple of times passing it around the table between us all, I burp after spitting it back out to make a joke,
the joke being “as if I was so full, I burped!” Everyone laughed and I woke up.
Another dream: Woman sprinkling pepper from fast food restaurant to-go packs around edge of house
(outdoors) to discourage ants from entering. Possibly because of the visual resemblance, like, the ants
won’t go in because they recognize themselves. As if!
There’s a new toy figurine character: Fidget. (This was in a dream.) The next big toy craze will be the
Fidget. Like Figment, but updated, ultra updated, über-super-updated, for the working-class ADD,
carpal-tunnel market.
Dream: In the future everything is handled by societies of complex robots. There is a park where people
go to get photographed with things from the past. I remember people getting themselves photographed
next to cars, trash cans, and tools belts. Tried hard to remember more. But people were standing in line
and when they got to the front, the item they requested would be brought out by a robot and a picture
would be taken. They could briefly examine and caress the item. I’m not sure if it was an actual item, but
my sense was that it was and was brought up from the warehouse. It was like the Smithsonian-of-
Nostalgia warehouse, owned and operated by a ruling class of robots. And remembering things was what
people stood in line to do on the weekends, after working for the robots all week.
Dream: Canvas cups. Like painting-canvas cups, cups made out of painting canvas. One was already
painted; I was painting the others. There were three shapes: chalice, teacup, and bowl. As I painted these
three over and over I imagined painting a small shotglass canvas cup.
Dream of being in a bookshop and seeing lots of books. A couple of copies of different Robert Walser
books getting sold, and also a book with multicolored big block letters and a happy spaceman-suit on the
cover that said “AUTO UNPARTZ” in big blocky letters that were turned at funny angles.
Yah, an invitingly colored spacesuit, and big kid-attractive funky letters:
AUTO UNPARTZ.
Dream: Spinning an eel. The eel formed a circle in the water and you spun it like a wheel. (I think this was
while flying, like a car’s steering wheel suddenly worked for planes and was made out of eel.)
Dream: I write “Jaws” 6 and 7, the scripts. I write about what’s been going on with my life for last the 8
months. Learning to live underwater. In the present of “Jaws” world, and my current world, we learn how
to live from sharks. The sea level rises to go over all buildings/ mountains/ cities. Underwater life rises
and amplifies with the water.
Dream that I had some sort of bag in it with important shit in a Sears-type mall department store. And
when it was time to go, I couldn’t find my dad and I put down the bag and semi-purposefully left it and
of course lost it so that when I found him I could then begin the search for the bag and he could see how
his having gone missing caused a secondary problem.
Insane dream involving me, the Xmas sweater Dmitri gave me from Norway, drug wars, and Jason Segal;
me wearing fuzzy, red ankle-warmers, and shorts. And accidentally getting caught up in a drug war
shootout.
Maybe because the sweater is red, and has such an awesome design.
Dream of Merle Haggard and Andy Kaufman writing about each other and performing like each other
and writing for each other. Changing places essentially. And just loving the persona of each other’s whole
schtick.
Dream of girl buried in sand on beach but whose face is showing. As I walk past her my phone rings and
she makes an expression to signify that she recognizes the ringtone as Gerard Grisey’s Vortex Temporum.
She smiles beatifically. Everything fades away and I start nibbling on my sweater like a mouse to show my
interest in everything about her.
Dream of guy who keeps lists of conversations he can have. Ones that his wife will enjoy are marked with
a “Y.”
Dream of going into a diner, being the first to arrive for breakfast, ordering the signature Black & White
Steak.* It was a very thin sheet, about two and a half feet long and one foot wide. Five square inches of it
were whitish (I can only assume fatty) and the other seven were red, steaky. I order it and time passes and
the place fills up and time passes and people leave and I still haven’t received my food. A friend who
comes in, eats, and is leaving – and who is talking to other friends on the way out – asks me why I look
sour. I explain and the people behind me, a triplet of black folks, say they haven’t been served either. I tell
them I remember them coming in just after me (I do) and am miffed for them too. Then some shplutz
decides it’d be fun to start a food fight but instead of throwing an orange throws his knife. People
respond in kind with food and silverware and I hunker down and cover my head and go to sleep under
the table. Eventually I wake up and walk out and the place has been totally redone and I go to find my
rental car.
*When I ordered the Black & White Steak, I ordered it done “half and half.”
Dream comparison phrase: “Between Fuller and Hitchcock. You know, between violence and
psychology.” I’m awake now and I don’t know why Buckminster Fuller represented violence in this
dream. But now that I’m typing it up I realize I meant Samuel Fuller.
Dream that the LA Times and the police HQ and a high school are all one building. Executive offices for
each of the folks running each place are huge and all on the same floor. Their floor is three times the
height of a normal floor of a building, but not at the top in the penthouse. Who is on top? No! The
question is what is on top? All of the building infrastructure! Like, if you give it the penthouse, it will be so
grateful that all the plumbing and venting and electrical will float down by virtue of angelic grace.
Dream where I’m staying at Sarah Ness’ house with her parents and working in the garage. It’s a vacation
but I’m working on something. To be polite, I ask Sarah if she wants to play a round of golf. She says yes.
I start to finish up what I’m working on in the garage and a truck pulls up with two huge mottled black
‘sculptures’ that are boats. Boats that look like Muslim crusading boats from Twombly’s Lepanto paintings.
But with Lincoln Log flat divots to use to put them together. The boats aren’t wide at all, just enough for
one ass. And curling at the top, like a Medieval jester’s shoe. Probably about six or seven feet long. I get a
message from Aaron Williams that I need to move these into a truck. I say, “Of course.” It’s taking me a
while (not because I’m trying to lift them, which I can’t, but because I’m trying to figure out how to do it
and still play golf with Sarah, which is infiltrating my mind in such a way as to conflict with the
brainpower needed to do the job. I get guilty because I’m not able to do any of it: can’t move the boats
into the truck, can’t figure out why they’re called sculptures and not boats, can’t get away to play golf.
Theme seems to be me dissapointing others, not figuring out how to take care of myself. Slave or warrior
ship?
Dream: I told someone “I love email, but I lost it in Brunswick, New Jersey at a hockey game.”
Dreamt my breath was so bad it was like a sepia haze unleashed on world
Dream: Paint in a blender. Portraits of paint blending.
Dream: PhDs in water turbulence so passé. Physics departments looking down on those who specialized
in water turbulence in the 90s and aughts.
Cave of Forgotten Dreams notes:
first figurative representation of people is of fornication with bison.
bear skull altar entrance, tropical nuclear greenhouse
symbols, to symbolize. that process is a leap for humans. is it a narcissistic leap?
experimental archaeologists
Dream of blue sky with visible stars and wind hitting those stars and making the sky look like a river.
Crazy ski slopes visible on other mountain that looked like individual amoebas etc.
Dream: Seascape trails in sky. Heavy hot winds. Laughably hot winds.
Hot wind does no good. Furnaces that laugh. Slept with my hands on my head, like in gesture of
exasperation.
Dream of word/ phrase: Prongitory miasma.
It appeared right after dreaming of a t-shirt that had been sewn into the inside of a sweater, thereby
taking the place of a sleeveless sweater with a shirt on underneath, which was so torso-centric. No, the
new fashion is for this t-shirt that grew wool arms.
Dream of truck with twelve sets of wheels and paperthin body
Wrong dreams
Dream of piece of art called “The Struggle,” which is a birdcage filled with coasters
What is it? It’s a calf’s blood margarita cosmopolitan tonic torture tincture bedazzle perchance to dream a
little dream of economic incest. Want a sip?
Dreaming out of guns/ dreams made of guns – if you dream it, they can build it. Unfortunately they do
make dreams out of guns for some.
Dream of the Rolling Stones showing respect for The Kinks. Clearly a dream.
[…]
Andrew Choate is a writer who was born and raised in Columbia, South Carolina. His books include Language Makes Plastic of the Body (2006), Stingray Clapping (2012), Too Many Times I See Every Thing Just the Way It Is (2014), Learning (2018) and A Rational Arrangement of All the Senses: Season One (2024). As a passionate admirer of bollards––the concrete and steel posts that protect buildings, equipment, and people from vehicles––Choate adopts the persona of Saint Bollard, performing with and photographing these ubiquitous objects (IG @saintbollard), leading Slate to call him “the world’s foremost bollard photographer.” Awards for this work include Best Newcomer, Best Visual/ Performance Art and the Warwick Broadhead Memorial Award at Fringe Festivals in Dunedin and Auckland. He curates The Unwrinkled Ear concert series in Los Angeles and is working with Keith Rowe on an artist’s book documenting Rowe’s visual work.
Fossilized Dream, by artist Md. Shajedul Islam is a journey into the quiet archaeology of the inner world. In this painting, I explore how memories, emotions, and dreams accumulate inside us like ancient sediments—layered, weathered, and partially erased by time. The textured surface becomes a landscape of psychological geology, where fragments of forms, shadows of creatures, and traces of forgotten moments resurface like fossils exposed after a long burial.
The work is guided by intuition rather than narrative. I allow pigments, textures, and accidental marks to interact freely, letting the painting reveal its own history. The result is a space that feels both primordial and intimate—a site where the boundary between imagination and memory dissolves. Through muted tones and intricate organic patterns, I seek to embody the silent tension between what is lost and what still remains alive within us.
Fossilized Dream reflects my ongoing attempt to understand how the subconscious preserves its stories. It is a meditation on time, erosion, and the fragile imprints of human experience—those delicate, dreamlike residues that continue to guide us long after the dream has ended.
Title : Fossilized Dream
Medium : Mixed media on canvas
Size: 24×30 inches
Year: 2025
