Mrs. Potts, the third eye chakra, & Brad Paisley

I have always appreciated how well I can remember my dreams, even some of the not-so-great dreams.  Wading through the contents of a dream is like holding up a mirror to my subconscious self.  Sometimes it's the best way to know if I'm still chewing on something, my mind is trying to comfort me, or there's an answer to something I've been mulling over for a while.  Robert, on the other hand, rarely remembers his dreams.  I didn't really think about it one way or the other until Robert.  Now that I know some people just don't remember their dreams, I definitely thank every single dream for sticking around long enough for me to mull it over when I wake up.

I often see the same people and things in my dreams.  I am a grown-ass adult who has lived in a few different places, but a surprising number of my dreams still take place in my grandma and grandpa's house.  I'm living my adult life, but their house just happens to still be my house.  Or I dream I am younger and it's my house.  People who are long gone are often alive, and there's absolutely no moment where my sleep self thinks, you silly goose, those people are dead.  I've often wondered if the yearning to have them back is so strong I've somehow made them a permanent part of my life through dreams.  

There are a lot of recurring things in my dreams too.  Pretty much all of the carpet in my grandma's house is the flooring for that house, my adult house (when it decides to be a part of my dreams), and any place I'm living in my dreams (thankfully red shag carpet goes with everything).  No matter the place I dream, my grandma's house still finds a way to sneak in with its carpeting, placemats, linoleum, kitchen utensils etc.

There are a few other constants in my dreams too.  One of those constants is a teapot who has a face but never says anything.  It just sits there with its face that almost blends into the blue of its pot, the only movement an occasional blink of its third eye.  I totally blame Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast for this.  Though they are both living teapots, that's where the similarity ends.

My teapot is always blue, quietly listening, and sometimes growing flowers from the top or with a handle that's a flower.  As creepy as it sounds, I don't feel any ominous vibes from the teapot.  But the teapot's presence is so loud.  I can feel the teapot nearby no matter what's going on in the dream.  Start a load of laundry, get the teapot feeling, and yep there it is.  In the car, listening to music with my brother, Scott, feel the teapot nearby, and there it is.  Making sandwiches with my deceased grandmother, get the teapot feeling, and sure enough it's there.

I have tried sketching the teapot a few times right when I wake up to capture its changes and try to make sense of it.  No such luck.

I have no idea what the gender of the teapot is or if that's of any importance.  I haven't been able to decipher the meaning of the teapot.  The only thing I know for sure is that it has something to do with the third eye chakra.

I waffled about the teapot's lid, since it does change in the dreams.  After several changes, I finally decided to lean into the third eye chakra.  Thankfully, I had just the tea boxes for the job.  I dipped into my jar of quote tea tags for the background to represent all the unspoken wisdom from this teapot.  Little did I know that by doing so, I would never get a decent picture with everything in focus.  It's a perfectionist's nightmare.

For the sides of this piece, I used what Robert calls my "doily paper," which seems appropriate for tea.  The doily paper is the only paper that didn't come from tea packaging. 

If you look really closely, you might be able to spot Brad Paisley.  When I finished this piece I asked Robert, "what do Mrs. Potts, the third eye chakra, and Brad Paisley all have in common?"

Imagine if I used those three tags in Etsy and there's someone out there who types in all three LOL.

Turkey Vulture and his friend, Mauve Chair (who is really just the embodiment of David Attenborough)

I have been working on this turkey vulture so long she is almost real to me.  I've caught myself talking to her a few times! Too much paint and glue fumes and not enough tea breaks.  

Just like a collage, this piece came to me in pieces.  First, I saw a vulture in my neighborhood, which is crazy because I've never seen one.  I live in the suburbs and vultures just don't hang out here.  Then, a few days later, I saw one of the ugliest chairs I've ever seen sitting next to a dumpster. What little upholstery left on the chair was this horrid 90s mauve, and there was just something oddly special about it.  I remember telling Robert, who was walking with me, that we needed to stop and stare at the chair for a minute. That night the chair and vulture were part of a dream that I woke up and hurriedly wrote down.  Unfortunately, it was not poem material. But I wondered if I could capture what the dream was trying to tell me through collage, and I think I did!

 

The collage was originally going to be mostly paper and very little paint.  However, I just couldn't get the paper to recreate what I saw in my dream.  It was that two steps forward and one step backwards kind of work that involves a lot of poking and squishing paper.  It was one of those pieces that required a lot of brain power, but it was also thrilling to see something that only existed in a dream slowly come to life.  Especially since I couldn't draw it very well each time I tried to sketch it.  Drawing is hard!

After the piece was "finished" I painted over every single flower to make them stand out less, which took a lot of time and blending.  I also redid the vulture's beak and spent one fun day working on the chair's flowers. That was definitely my favorite day!  I kept the spirit of the 90s mauve but made a slightly different chair than the real one.  In the dream, the chair was alive and it was really wise.  Only recently was I able to recognize its voice as David Attenborough's voice, which makes a lot of sense. That's why dreams are great, right? 

Now it's time for the vulture to fly away and make room for the next project.

predicting the future, one Easter bunny at a time

Last night I had a dream that all of the face outs (when a book is on display) in the children's section were Easter books. For reasons still unclear to me, this stressed me out considerably.

As I was tidying and organizing things before we opened the library I saw something truly horrifying.

Not one, not two, but three Easter books on display.

It's very possible I predicted the future.  It's also possible I saw all three books on display yesterday but was distracted and didn't change them, but I have no memory of this.  And surely I would have cared just as much yesterday as I did today.

It's also possible this Easter weirdness is a sign I'm ready for a vacation.

I have been opening the most important boxes...

How do I describe what it feels like to reunite with my book collection after 1 1/2 years?  

Thrilling.  Emotional. Way way more than I can possibly handle in one day.  The above box is part of my poetry collection, which is the only genre that is color-coded.  In the past 1 1/2 years I have reformulated my color-coding system so there will be a lot of happy work ahead.  

Since the beginning of October I have cleaned so many cabinets and shelves that I am now dreaming about it.  It's become the 'ordinary' part of my dreams that is always interrupted by the unusual. For instance, I will be up on a ladder cleaning shelves and I'll look out the window and there will be a dragon wearing a purple bikini walking her dog.  

Or I will be cleaning my shelves and cabinets but the building I'm in is my workplace at the library. Occasionally a patron will ask me to come down and help.  Apparently my sleep self is like, so you're officially a cleaner of cabinets and shelves.  Ok, I can make that your default setting.  

Cleaning the shelves that house my books are worth all the crazy dreams.  After touching and smelling all the books that make me who I am, all the books that say so much about my family and life, books that have cleared the paths that make up the veins of my very soul, I feel like I'm fully alive again.

Now I just need to find the rest of my books...  Buy more of course.  And every time I walk by the shelves, patiently listen to where the books want to sit and who they want to sit next to.  

For instance, yesterday I thought my Fancy Nancy books wanted to stick together.  Turns out it's a little too much glitter and pink.  Do I keep them with the other kid's books or should I do something radical and put them with my books on grieving and death?  Who knows?  My Fancy Nancy books may become the globetrotters of my collection, spreading their fancy words and serendipity to all those books who need it.

No matter what, once I've cleaned all the shelves and cabinets of all the land, I will happily spend my days shuffling my books around.  I will never be able to take them all the places they've taken me, but I can help them navigate the mighty living room and perhaps take them to new heights.  But only if I decide to have any shelves upstairs.  I may decide I don't want to clean them.   

We didn't know

A few nights ago I dreamt I was vacationing in the mountains with various family members - Robert, Rusty, Heather, Harper, Scott, grandma and mom.

We spent the entire vacation hanging out in little groups but never all together.  

At the end of the vacation we all gathered for dinner at the motel where we were staying.  Some of us wanted to stay an extra day and some didn't.  This led to a dispute, which led to silence.  

Someone in the family shouted, it's like we don't even know each other.  

A stranger, who was passing by, responded with well let's start with the most basic thing.  Think about what makes each other laugh.  

This was met with silence.  We didn't know what made each other laugh.  

Finally, Harper, who was about 7 or 8 in the dream, said, while I was waiting in line to get a candy out of the toy barrel I saw a boy dig and dig for a Luigi candy.  When he found one he dropped it on the floor, turned around to pick it up and stepped on it.  It was SO FUNNY.  

And then I woke up.

While this dream is, at its best, confusing and stark, it has been grounds for some serious contemplation.  And I think this contemplation has been a very remedial kick in the pants.

fever dreams

Whenever I am sick my dreams always shift dramatically.  Interestingly enough, my dreams usually change the night before I’m truly ill.  It could be said that these dreams are the blossoms of a climbing fever.

My fever dreams are quite different from any of my other dreams.  In most of my dreams I am conjuring up complete images, correct in size and shape.  In my fever dreams I am inside and/or smaller than the completed image.  For example, in a dream of playing tennis I am not playing tennis.  I am crawling through the strings of a racquet or navigating the tread of the player’s sneakers as they race around the court.

In my fever dreams I have leapt from banana to orange in a gigantic fruit bowl.  I have rolled through the canyon’s of a tiled floor in a runaway droplet of water.  Perhaps my favorite fever dreams are those that place me in a field of threads.  Whether it’s a corduroy couch or a crazy quilt I am always consumed with the repetitive movements of climbing with absolutely no goals of reaching any summit.

While somewhat off putting, my fever dreams are always meditative, cathartic and quiet.  I am reassured by the soft embrace of static that hums around me as my dream fumbles to put the giant scenery in my microscopic hands.

Towards the end of an illness an ordinary dream always emerges with a snap.  It’s always when I am beginning to feel better, but just out of the reach of recovery.  This last time, towards the end of a victorious battle with the flu I slipped into sleep, hopeful for the foggy static but finding myself standing in line with a full shopping cart at a packed mega store of some kind.  As I waited in line I leaned against my cart, but was also simultaneously aware that my sleeping self couldn’t turn over because of the shopping cart.  I woke up very sore after hours of being trapped by a pretend shopping cart.  What a terrible way to transition into ordinary dreams again! 

beneath the burka

Before I tell you my latest dream I will give you a little context. First, the other day, while running at the gym I noticed a woman dancing in front of the racquetball courts. The courts were dark so she was able to use them as a mirror. She was wearing a burka and only dancing with the top half of her body. The dance she was doing was very intricate. I have never seen anyone use their arms in so many different ways. And because she was completely covered, even her face, she looked like some kind of magical flying creature. It was stunning.

Second, I started a new job as an administrative coordinator for a non-profit charity (I believe I’ve said all this correctly). I cannot tell you very much about it, because it is so unique, but it is a job that I want to do well at, and it’s for a cause that really touches me for personal reasons. The problem is that I am totally lost. There are only four people who work in this office, and the girl I am replacing is training me. I have been freaking out because I do not understand all of the job responsibilities plus I am struggling to learn a new database I have never seen before. I have been consumed with anxiety because this job is really important to me, and I really care about the people. I don’t want to let them down.

And third, I have been fighting another cold. So, I have been draining the Nyquil again. I should also note that every dream I have is pretty darn spectacular in some way or another, whether I’m stoned or not. I typically dream in wet paint. I am always in the process of drying in my dreams. And about 90% of the time I smear something on myself. The landscape is typically wet paint too, although there have been trees that have been real and outside of the painting. And while just about everything is wet paint there is often something that is perfectly real inside the painting. Mannequins visit my dreams periodically, as well as music. Music is always visual as well as auditory. If I can hear it then I can see it too. It usually takes on interesting roles such as houses, stairs, clothing. And there are always breasts and armpits in my dreams. I have always had a fascination with these body parts, and have drawn them many ways, so it makes sense that my dreams include them. All of this is when I do not chug the Nyquil. When I chug the Nyquil things get a bit more interesting, and a lot of the wet paint disappears which makes the parts that are wet even more fascinating and meaningful.

In a dream from last week I was in the office where I have been working. It was my first day working alone, without any help, and as I walked into my area I noticed everything was gone. The gal who had the job before me had taken not only her personal items, but also the printers, telephone, pencil holder etc. This made me incredibly frantic because I wasn’t sure how I was going to do the job. As I walked around the area it became obvious that the office was inside the racquetball court at the gym. When I looked out the glass doors I saw the lady dancing. She looked exactly the same as the other day, but unlike the other day, she was stripping down to her skivvies. And as all of her garb fell to the floor I could see that she was tattooed head to toe in the most wonderful fauvist landscape. She danced with just her arms and the movement caused the landscape on her body to change, kind of like tv. The whole time she looked straight at me, and as I woke up I knew that I was looking at myself.

on the other side of my eyes

I had 2 odd dreams last night.

The first involved carmex. Did you know I love carmex? Well I do. Last night, and this was very realistic, I was attempting to put on some carmex and when I touched my lips they were sausages, links not patties, and I just didn’t have enough carmex to cover 2 giant links so I begin to cry and wail that I did not have enough carmex. And no one heard me.

After a little research I discovered that it is not a smart idea to google dreams about sausages, but I also learned that there might be a little penis envy going on. Which is understandable. I used to be a man you know, in another life. A gay one with fruit boobies no doubt, but I think maybe I was crying out for that man.

Another possible interpretation is that my lips were really chapped.

After this dream I guess I took a break, because I remember a particular blank grey, that prompted snow and ashes and dying birds on my windshield.

But that didn’t last of course. Suddenly I was at the top of the stairs leading to the basement and I was picking up clothes I had thrown down the stairs (they hadn’t made it very far), and out of the ceiling popped a black spider. Screaming, I half fell down the stairs. Josh and his current girlfriend came out his room, and to my horror I had somehow lost my shirt in the tumble and was coughing like a maniac. Thankfully I was wearing a granny bra that covered everything, but while Josh went to get the spider his current girlfriend just stood there awkwardly with me and didn’t say anything. Nobody laughed, which would have made the situation so much better. I finally coughed myself awake, and as I flipped over in bed it was quite apparent that I had somehow really lost my shirt while sleeping.

I didn’t even try to interpret that. I just know that I was horrified, and that I felt tackled by my fears.

It should be noted that I have been tipping back the Nyquil, and that I’m an extremely sensitive person. One swig of that and I’m waking up to chase purple unicorns down the hall (which is probably how I lost my shirt last night). I also haven’t been dreaming in paint lately, which is lonely and sterile. I miss the sloppy ranunculus buds and fat drops of unfinished sky.

(!)

I haven't felt much like writing or painting lately. But I have been using the extra time wisely. Playing tennis ha! Reading - just finished Dawn Light - holy wow, a brilliant book. I just started The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, and I think I'm going to fall in love with Almodine. I also have been reading a lot of poetry: Glück, Baxter, Jong. Oh I love Erica Jong.

Starting tomorrow I will start packing. Robert, Audrey and I are going RVing for a few weeks (Josh is staying here). And Friday we get the new RV (!!!!). I have a lot to do. In addition to normal packing I have to gather up everything we had in the old RV, the stuff that has been hogging up all the precious room in the basement. I think R has a fear of running out of toilet paper, even RV toilet paper. Is there a phobia for that? Ok just googled it and had a few laughs. You've got to check it out.

And the dogs need baths.

Less than a week though (!).



I had a dream about this song. There were mannequins with boobies and little droopy men with holes in the front of their pants. Of course I looked. C'mon really? And when I did there was a mini-world instead of boxers. And the world was a collage where nothing fit together.