As a kid, dreams were so vivid. I would awaken from sleep with a jerk, bleary eyed and confused, and realize I had escaped the unadulterated pleasures of my unfettered imagination. I would close my eyes tightly in a vain effort to return to the parameters of the previously romantic notion. It hardly ever worked. Rare was the night I could return to the sleepy fantasy I had so carelessly abandon.

Plenty of people put stock in nocturnal dreams, and what they reveal about your hopes, your fears, your future, and your psyche. I’m not well read enough to offer interpretation, praise or disembowel Freud on this one. At this place in life, I’d rather not overanalyze, and prefer to enjoy to dreams for the escape from reality they offer.

Most of my nocturnal dreams are positive or neutral. As a kid, there were recurring locations. Most were not real places, but accessed from my childhood home, either through the attic, or crawl space. In my dreams I explored these fictitious spaces that seemed to extend for miles.

In my twenties the dreamscape changed. I ceased exploring, and fell into the trap set by college and wage earning. These dreams were non-restful and stressful. In college, I threw pottery in my sleep and awakened to the buzzing of that fucking alarm clock and felt absolutely exhausted. If I could have brought all THOSE pots back from my dreams, I could have easily stocked a crematorium, and a flower shop. My first full time job, fueled computer dreams. I would spend hours plotting points on paths for die cuts, and later writing html (Can you tell I have trouble letting go of things?

Recently, I woke Mister Hombre up talking in my sleep. Make that, talking loudly. Apparently, I was talking to my father in the dream, and I wasn’t being heard. I woke up, firmly saying, “I’m going to be fucking clear about this…” It was with the strained tone, you have when you fight to emerge from drowsiness. The Mister laughing, and we were confused and amused.

Dreams I remember fondly are light and airy. Sometimes I am ice skating, gracefully. I can leap, but most importantly, I can land (I can skate. I am NOT graceful. Think daschund walking a tightrope.). These dreams feel weightless, as if all the burdens of ordinary life have been discarded for the moment. In some, I can fly, or at the very least float. I wake up feeling relieved like I have released some unnecessary, but tightly held burden.

The best dreams usually include friends I don’t get to see often enough. These are people I long to spend time with, but life, families, jobs and geography always seem to interfere. Last week, one of these friends came to me in a dream and it was wonderful. We were hanging out in a grassy meadow lounging on a blanket, talking about nothing and everything, leaning shoulder to shoulder, and laughing. The memory is so crisp, like it really should have happened…maybe it did.

Study of hands from sketchbook. Gel pen on colored paper. Probably my hands.

I’m angry, and part of me would rather simmer in it, furrow my brow, and throw a raw egg at the golden retriever that’s hunching to take a crap on my lawn. You’re right. It isn’t the damn dog’s fault. It’s his owner, in her two hundred dollar running shoes and Chanel shades who is carrying her cell phone instead of a plastic bag to curb her dog. If I throw the egg at her it’s assault. If I throw the egg at the dog, he sprints away mid-pinch, and I get to watch her step in or maybe slip on fresh dog shit. Who says adult’s don’t have imaginations. Maybe vindictive imaginations, but it’s still imagination. (Dog’s constipated, now it’s someone else’s problem)

Right now, I’d rather be indignant, but I’m getting distracted. I’m working in the kitchen because the light is good. It spills in through the windows leaving dappled patterns on the tile from the silhouettes created by the holly trees outside. It has a fluidity to it, with the patterns shifting ever so slightly each time a stray breeze dares to infiltrate this oppressive heat.

I hear the gentle whir of the air conditioning unit outside, but that doesn’t compete with my attention as much as it cloaks me in empty white noise. The kids next door are screaming obnoxiously. But at least they are screams of joy. They are splashing about in the swimming pool, immune to the heat, while the adults pay obligatory compliments to the newest, ugliest pool house in the neighborhood. Like the ac, the screams of excitement eventually blur into the background.

The sound I can’t tune out, is the gentle snoring of the four-legged furry one laying at my feet. Devoted, he spends his days napping wherever I spend my days contemplating. It’s difficult for me to maintain a closed fist grip on my anger, when he’s rubbing against my leg, or head-butting my shoulder. House pets may be deprived of souls, but they aren’t without conscience, compassion or affection.

I don’t want to be the angry one, the hurt one, the scorned one, or the bitter one. I would rather be the thoughtful one, the adventurous one, the creative one, the foul speaking one and the compassionate one, but first I have to get about the business of exorcising those other assholes. It isn’t enough to chase them away and buy time. Until they’re vanquished, I’ll be stuck in this holding pattern.

I’ve been preoccupied with events concluding this weekend, and have written of little else. If only my mind were uncluttered. I’ve been considering my mother’s health and the changes she will endure in the coming years. Having seen a glimpse of what her future holds, I’m not optimistic.

She’s been cursed with a wretched spine for years. There have been three back surgeries with little success to alleviate pain or improve mobility. The most recent, implanting a device in her hip that provided electrical stimulation to reduce pain. Today, she was in the surgeon’s office pleading to have it removed, because it causes more discomfort than it alleviates.

She’s in considerable pain, otherwise she wouldn’t have made the appointment (she’s stubborn that way). She requested a consult with the orthopedic who recommended the procedure, but he isn’t available until September. My sister was at the previous appointment with him and the prognosis was not good. He believed there were more surgeries in her future, but he didn’t offer much to relieve pain, only hope to keep her mobile.

She walks unassisted, but watching her move makes you wince. She isn’t comfortable sitting or standing, leaving few options. She doesn’t discuss the pain, or tell us what meds she takes. (Anyone with a lesser constitution wouldn’t be able to drive on them.) My sister and I play different roles in order to extract information from her. It’s difficult asking the right question. I play the game, because I’m like her when it comes to disclosing information.

There isn’t much to say or do now. Only time will tell if she has fifteen mobile years in her future or five. I will enjoy the days on her behalf as long as they last. I don’t care how she passes her time as long as she enjoys herself. Maybe she will learn the humility required to ask for help, and hopefully I will learn too.

Tension. ©2007, Mixed Media
Note: may rework later.

English Landscape III © 2000

As promised last week, here is the third and final work in the landscape series. Obligatory Technical Information: The base media is viscosity monoprint. Details were added with colored pencil and oil pastel. Color may shift depending on your monitor settings.

Timing can be such a beast. So often in my life, things seem to happen all at once. In some ways, I function better under high levels of stress, but usually there is a price. In the end, I come crashing down in need of solace. It’s like a runner’s high functioning under the pressure, and when it’s over I’m empty. I’m not talking about drama. Drama is something I don’t need. I’ve spent wasted enough of my life picking up the pieces of someone else’s drama. I’m not interested in any to call my own.

Circumstances have smiled upon us this month, and Mr Hombre has eight days off. We’ve made plans to leave town. Provided no one falls and breaks a hip…I know that’s cold. Age related accidents and illnesses have prevented us from going away three times in the past few months. No one chooses to have health related issues, but the correlation between them and his time off is uncanny.

I’m leaving my laptop at home this time. When both of us travel with computers, we tend to behave like roommates instead of lovers. Life in a hotel mirrors life at home. He carries his baggage and I carry mine. It becomes routine and sometimes easier to drift apart. Ironic, since the idea of leaving home is to get away.

I’m not pointing fingers, I’m accepting responsibility for my actions.I’m consumed with engaging in the ongoing dialogue of blog reading and he’s engaged in computer games. Neither of us is keeping up our share of the deal. But drama makes you so fucking tired, and a quiet place to paint is so easy.

Good things happen when I leave the computer at home. I spend more time drawing, I catch up on my reading and I can share a crossword puzzle with the Mister. Of course, the downside is I spend entirely too much time thinking…

This will be a challenge. I’ve grown rather attached to google reader, and I like to know what’s happening. Maybe the Mister will let me borrow his computer if I ask nicely.

I was pacing on the deck this week while Patches was outside. I keep him confined indoors most of the time. I know there are plenty of cats with no front claws, who made excellent hunters and savvy explorers, but he isn’t one of those. He’s not very confident and I suspect he has depth perception issues.

In between plant sniffs and marking the rail, he would return to me to rub against my bare legs and mark me as his own. Occasionally, if he ignored me for more than a few minutes he would return, fall at my feet, and roll from left to right so I could rub his belly. While I was scratching his ears and rubbing his chin I couldn’t help but think how much my dad would have liked this cat.

My dad passed away twelve years ago, six months before I turned twenty-one. He was sixty-three. Dad was an affectionate man and told us he loved us often. Considering he lost his own father when he was two, he was a remarkable parent. His male role models included older kids in his neighborhood and my grandmother’s business partner. I can’t attest to his fatherhood skills when my two older siblings were young, but when they were adults he was always there for them.

Dad liked animals. He didn’t have many pets growing up. His mother was raising two children on her own and running a full time business, long before the single parent boom that followed decades later. She didn’t have the time or energy to care for a cat or dog.

By the time he married, dad had little experience with animals. His technique for showing affection left little to be desired…by the cats, that is. He implemented a method which I affectionately referred to as, dribble, dribble, dribble, sand, sand, sand. He didn’t know how to stroke a cat. He would begin by patting the cat on the head, the way you would a dog. A gentle dribble to the head like a basketball player. Then he would rub the cat, with the same stiff motion you would use to sand wood. The cats weren’t enamored with his technique, but they would ask him for attention if no one else was around.

With the exception of myself, Patches prefers men. He likes the way they smell and he likes their big hands. Not one to shy away from visitors, he often falls at the feet of men and waits to have his belly stroked. Then he sniffs their pants and marks their shoes. I believe, he would fall at dad’s feet, and roll from left to right until he sanded his belly.

English Landscape II © 2000

As promised last week, here is the second in the landscape series. Obligatory Technical Information: The base media is viscosity monoprint. Details were added with colored pencil and oil pastel. Color may shift depending on your monitor settings.