Le Questionnaire 

du Surréaliste

The following are questions 

meant to unlock your soul

and dethrone your mind. Read

with caution as there may be

questions you’ll find your 

reason unqualified to answer

for risk of collapse!

What does it mean to be a serious person

and would it necessarily entail a 

serious reappraisal of both joy and sorrow?

Which of your greatest strengths were 

born from a recalcitrant inferiority?

Which answer best reflects your inner life? 

A) Your outer life.  B) Your face.

C) Your dreams.  D) Your words.

E) Your discriminating taste.

How does the law of compensation 

manifest in your problem-solving?

If it’s best never to look at your watch

when running late, then why do it?

Have you ever been hospitalized or 

institutionalized because you were 

too in love?

Should an odor taste like it smells? 

If so, name something that does

not rhyme with its appearance.

Did you know there is an octave 

in perfume the same as in music?

If sentimentality is the shadow of cruelty,

what shadow does the self cast? 

Have you ever questioned the efficacy 

of a prayer that arises from ego, fear,

or vanity?

Have you ever realized you were asleep 

by taking being awake for granted?

If you were to assign a color to silence

which color would it be? 

Have you ever rearranged your

environment in hopes of changing

your inner state?

What are the hours of the day 

you feel most alive?

Do you think colors could effectively

categorize feelings?

Do you believe weathers are 

the emotions of the earth?

Do you ever smell a sound 

and think of death?

Have you ever walked into a new shop

and felt the self consciousness of

the employees so deeply you wanted 

to cry?

How often do you question your privilege?

Have you ever left your body and

worried you might not remember

how to return? 

Have you ever felt everyday conversations

an inappropriate receptacle for your best

thoughts?

What percentage of words do you find

are meant to confide and/or conceal the truth?

This world is most like a _________.

A) Hospital  B) School  C) Church  D) Playground 

E) Museum  F) Psyche Ward  G) All of the above  

H) None of the above  

Which do you most resemble on the inside?

A) Predatory animal  B) Flower  C) Weed  D) Poem

F) Filing Cabinet  G) Student  H) Teacher

Which genre is best suited to chart

the arc of your life? 

A) Diary  B) Memoir  C) Movie  D) Docudrama 

E) “How To” Manual  F) Cautionary Tale

Are your heroes dead or alive? Do you

still have any and if so, why?

When you think of beauty, what is the

first prerequisite quality that occurs to you?

Is health a qualification for superficiality?

If you could take off your name

and dip your face in a stream

would you be ready to accept

all that would want to fill you?

11/4/21

 

Art

of the

Antibody

i

My bed, a hospital bed.

My sleep, a remedy.

This is how I work

with the universe,

by allowing angels 

to operate.

Sleep, my anesthetic.

Once under,

the surgery begins.

Serving a greater good

was not my youthful intention.

I am as selfish as the next,

encouraged by an errant 

culture. Everything a bait for

choice and self expression.

But a dream is choice-less;

the way of a leaf in wind.

I was born in Selfservia;

a country that is nothing

if not self aggrandizing.

I was born to individuate.

Illness is my muse.

From the very beginning I had

immense capacity for joy.

It sprung from disparity:

a sorrow of circumstance.

I felt the fate of things

having been discarded,

an inconvenient child. 

If a thing is valued for

it’s beauty, usefulness, 

or cost, we are objects.

But I am not an object.

I am an antibody.

ii

Our mission, a holy one;

to incorporate and disperse.

But first we must live as one.

One with things and people 

outside and all around us.

One we contain within;

a dream within a dream.

One we remember fondly.

One we recall with regret.

One we wish for.

One we deal with.

One we are afraid of.

One we escape from.

One we can’t escape.

One we return to.

One we come back from.

One you see.

One we show.

One we hide.

iii

To dream is to

perform our illness

on a stage

as both

play and patron

and most of all

player. 

In the first stage

my bike is stolen

and I’m stranded.

I need a vessel 

to do what I 

need to do.

With nowhere to go

I pass the time

halfheartedly hovering 

over a puzzle

whose pieces 

float up to

the surface 

alongside images 

awaiting inclusion

in a

more authentic

work of art.

Both suspended 

and in suspense,

I live under arrest

for living life 

as if I were

dreaming as well.

In stage three

a plane falls 

from the sky 

beside me,

the impact 

so violent

there’s nothing left

of the plane 

or any of its 

passengers,

as if the ground 

had swallowed 

a dead thing 

with wings.

My double arrives

on the periphery 

taking an interest 

in my puzzle,

dabbing at the pieces

in order to lock

them in place.

I allow 

my double

to dabble,

turning away 

ill at ease 

at being stuck 

in this place 

without a bike

to take me

to the touchstones

of time and space. 

Turning

back I find

my puzzle

whole.

How’d you do that?

My double says 

something 

I can’t hear

though I pretend 

to hear

and then I 

ask my twin

his name.

What does it matter? 

What will that do?

“I need to

call you something.” 

I notice my double 

scrutinizing my

impromptu attempt

at art

like a spy 

gleaning for clues.

I tell my twin

I lost 

my agency

in stage one, 

even though

this was stage two 

and there was

no assurance

of a stage three

we might

reunite in.

My double too 

had had 

something taken 

from him.

So we are

both in the same 

imaginary boat

on a fabric

of water

without an oar

between us,

let alone

a bike.

My double says, 

unbidden:

No worries,

we are many,

you and I.

One with things 

and others

outside and 

all around us.

One we have 

within us,

a dream within 

a dream.

One we remember.

One we wish for.

One we deal with.

One we are afraid of.

One we escape from.

One we escape toward.

One we return to.

One we return from.

One we create in.

One we perform.

One we observe.

One we move on from.

One we wake up from.

 

My twin continues:

In this operating

theatre,

habits, meals,

jobs, pastimes,

hold no weight. 

All that matters

is what we

let go of.

Yet, at this stage

we can’t make

anything happen

without incorporation,

while life goes on

being a grace

granted only 

through 

surrender.

11/1/21

                                                             

 

                           ~Maxfield Parrish

The Reveries

“I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow

and called out: “It tastes sweet 

doesn’t it?” "You caught me,” grief 

answered, “And you’ve ruined my

business. How can I sell sorrow,

when you know it’s a blessing?”"

                               ~Rumi

If thoughts think themselves

then what are we to believe 

and where are the thoughts

we think for ourselves?

Are they the only ones we own

by having taken them to heart?

If so, then it must be the heart

that ultimately defines us.

If we put a thought out

of our mind because it

doesn’t suit our sense

of self, then who we are

boils down to a series

of rejections and denials,

choices and gravitations. 

The trouble with hearts

is that they’re invariably broken,

tending to hold grief and joy

in equal measure;

the brighter the light,

the darker the shadow.

Maybe that’s why grief is 

also love

and joy 

a respite.

They say the present is

the only place to be

as anywhere else is illusory,

so I choose to hide out here,

the past being too beautiful 

to revisit anyway

because the heart (being rent)

is an instrument that doesn’t see

clearly and is prone to poetics,

some might even say histrionics!

If you’re like me, you’ll hole up

in the last place the past will look

in order to keep sorrows

from gaining a foothold 

because like grace, they’re both

fierce and ruthless when taking

up residence in the senses.

I can smell sorrow a mile away.

Though grief may taste sweet,

too much curdles any pallet.

The conventionals curse 

disappointments

and glory in successes

even as another

might weep over success

and glory in tribulation.

Why? Because they realize

nothing can ever happen 

the same way twice. 

I could easily be someone who

lives in the past in a state of

perpetual reverie, if it were

not for feeling needed here.

One could even argue that everything 

that ever occurred is still occurring 

on some level and that 

diving beneath the surface of

anything will only displace 

one’s equilibrium. 

 

Of all the rooms of triggers, 

for myself

the woods are the worst.

Every tree is clearly out to get me.

A tree can make me cry quicker 

than anything I can conjure.

Memories set traps in trees,

preferring to ambush their prey,

their likeness pressed upon our hands

like leaves in a book. 

A crisp red leaf is 

a dagger that can draw blood 

from my eyes.

But only because

I see their death

as beauty.

If words strung together

constitute food for thought

then what we love to chew on

will shape us in its image.

And so I keep sorrows 

like stones in my pocket

for tempering my disappointment

over what can be no more.

10/25/21