Purple and pink. Burnt umber and grey. Who can tell what is real or dream? Last night in a dream I walked in tall grass. It scratched my legs. Today I walked through the same grass. Little white bugs flew up but never touched me. Fiona called them flies. “Mommy” she whined. “Flies are getting on my horsy”. I walk back through the flies and tall grass. A bit of asphalt on the ground catches my eye, I hadn’t noticed it the first time I passed this spot. The area intrigues me. Old remnants of structure, of road that used to be here. A strange brown bridge Jack, Fiona, and Valentina sit on. It’s old pieces of round, dark brown, wood, it almost looks like tree branches. It’s scratchy and splintery. It goes to nowhere over nothing, as if it were transplanted from a place it belonged. “Fiona, your horsey loves grass.” I say. She got a new play horse yesterday, she loves it. Memories flood me, being a kid, playing with my horses in the grass, pretending they were eating and I was going on a ride. I imagined what I did and did what I imagined. In nature. Under the sun, the dirt, red ants biting my butt, stepping on nails, getting tetanus shots. Bugs and beetles and pollywogs. Frogs and snakes and old barns, old trailer campers. Vacant rose greenhouses where the sun shines through the broken fiberglass roof and roses still bloom. We rode our ponies through, feeling what was, feeling what the space is for us. A vacation. A dream world with real spiders and scary stories. Purple and burnt umber. Pink and white. These are the colors I chose to paint with today. It was a good, productive day in my studio. Painted in my notebooks. Pulled apart tons of pages that have stuck together leaving scars. Leaving repairs to be done. Structure. But it went well. Realized I have a lot of pages to finish in my gargantuan notebook before my show this fall. I can do it. I take deep breaths throughout the day. I stay connected. I cocoon when I need to. I got what I needed today.
Category: dreams
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I have a Dream. I walk by the door of the Gallery, my show is being installed. I can see three small framed portraits being hung, the installers say, “not yet”, they don’t want me to see yet. I wake up. I want to clean my studio. Something inside is leading me, a part of me more certain than emotions or intellectualism. I clean, throw away, I paint all the paintings on board, on canvas, white. All the paintings I’m so-so about. I haven’t been able to work in my studio the past couple Of weeks. I write and complain, it’s because my kids won’t take their naps anymore, its because they are being bad, its because they aren’t giving me any space. I throw away three bags of trash from my studio. I throw away paintings on paper that never worked, that scattered the floor, my press, under my table. I throw away junk left from frantic studio sessions, old yogurt containers with dried yogurt. I couldn’t work in my studio because it was too cluttered with the past. Not because of motherhood. Now there’s space here. I create a special corner for Fiona with her easel and her art supplies. I haven’t had a chance to paint yet; I have all my notebooks opened up to clean white pages, painting surface after painting surface gessoed with only ghosts showing from what was. Fiona tells me she wants to paint in her new spot; It’s after 5:00, I should be making dinner. Alan is playing with Jack in the house; Fiona and I go in my studio, she starts painting, cutting string, gluing, she is completly absorbed in the process. I start drawing, reacting with new lines and reacting with lines that connect with the ghosts of the past paintings. Jack comes in and says he wants to throw paint. I set him up with a canvas and black paint, he starts splattering the paint, Jackson Pollock style. I continue to work, my head feels light and my body free from the neck work I did in yoga this morning. Fiona and I paint for almost two hours together. Alan comes in and says he’s getting really hungry and it’s really late. I tell Fiona, we clean up. I go upstairs and make dinner. I have a dream last night: I’m re-writing a story to read out loud, I get up in front of a group of people and I can’t read myown writing. Its so confusing, I can’t tell what happened to the words. I try to skim it and fill in the blanks, I’m so confused. I wake up and here I am.
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I used to have Dreams. One of my teachers once said, “Shoot for the Moon, you might catch a star.” I have never felt like I was anything special, except in my optimism and fearless enthusiasm. Lately I’ve been going through periods of feeling like my dreams have been crushed. Or my capacity to dream? But I have decided that’s bullshit. I have to move forward with optimism and follow my intuition. Not feel guilty for taking studio days or buying art supplies or getting pieces framed. I planted a garden this year, the old garden, wood fence, under the fig tree. I cut back the branches that were blocking Sunshine.. The soil hard and dry, filled with strange roots running back and forth and back and forth, impossible to penetrate or remove. We have a green bell pepper plant, a yellow squash, oregano, strawberries, purple cosmos, burgundy marigolds, and nasturtium. My kitchen smells of onions, garlic, mushrooms, it’s the best spaghetti sauce I’ve ever made. I eat, at first all of us, Jack, Fiona, and me enjoying the pasta. Before dinner is done Jack has a full blown tantrum, red face, crying, I pick him up. I show him the bright red pasta sauce with steam rising up. He begins to calm, I set him on his stool, he sobs again. I serve us all our dinner and eat. Jack finally eats and enjoys the pasta. Then out of nowhere he sobs. Is it a tantrum? Is he sick? We sit on the couch and read books. Quiet, relaxed, new rule, No One on mommies lap, just one on each side. “It’s fair that way right?” I ask the babies.
The day is becoming night, Friday night. Should I have a beer? I am content in my decision to remain a dreamer, an artist, a woman who follows her heart. One day of childcare and a day I can be me is priceless. Last night. Nursery time, cuddles and books. Wanted to finish writing but didn’t feel like I could. Felt like I needed to sit with Husband and watch a show. It was the right thing to do. Be available. Be present. Be good company.
Now it is Saturday. 10:29am, getting ready for hiking. Knees weak from decision making. Need to stay focused. Need to keep cleaning and make picnic, finally got babies and husband out of house for five so I can do what I do. Sneaking to write a few lines. Dog getting into open trash, pulling out bread and empty containers. Just another minute of silence. Just another minute of non-negotiation time. Let my shaking quell, let my heart rest and positive vibes enter back through my body. Everything is not a negative. Everything does not need to be questioned and all the negative aspects pulled out. They are there, they remain till the end of time. Move forward, it can be positive dreamy experience. Back to the kitchen. “I want a nice sandwich; do we have stuff for a nice sandwich?” My husband asks. “Yes, we do, I promise I won’t make a grost sandwich.”
I assemble the sandwiches, for Jack and Fiona, a skinny baguette with butter and turkey, for Alan and I chunky brown bread bought last week at the farmer’s market with mustard, mayo, cheese, fresh tomatoes, and red onion, I think to myself, I take making picnics and school lunches very seriously. I wrap the turkey and cheese nicely and put things away in the fridge as I go. Alan and the babies wait for me to pick them up at the park for our picnic and hike. I take the kitchen and food very seriously. It’s eroding to not be appreciated for it. It’s the housewives burden to bear. But I love cooking, I love cooking for people, Heart stay pure. Heart stay pure.
Late Saturday Night. Date Night.Home. Heart pure. Purer than when I left. Dry mouth, spinning, slightly, time for sleep.
Sunday morning. Or should I say afternoon. House quiet, babies relaxed. “Airplane, wow” says Fiona. They are eating red popsicles, pajama shirts on, diapers, no pants. Every so often the serenity is broken with, “I WANT MICKEY MOUSE CLUBHOUSE!” then I say “No, not now” then Jack has a little tantrum. I’m learning to ignore those, distance myself. They come and go, like withdraws. I make o’s and chamomile tea. Slice watermelon. They eat and play. I think they are done with o’s. On my knees wiping up o’s, they stick to the floor. Need a wet towel, Jack starts eating little soft ones off the floor, as I clean them all up he cries, he wants more. Just a few minutes ago, I think to myself, “They are done with these” The leftovers in the bowls, a film has formed over the top. I throw it down the sink, put all the dishes in the dishwasher. Now I realize I should have kept the food a few more minutes. He gets over it fast, moves on to the empty honey bear on the counter, the half-eaten slice of watermelon on the carpet. We read books, they want to go to the nursery. I think they are asleep now. They had a late night last night and so did me and Alan. I’m feeling the Champagne, Glass of Italian white wine, a glass of French Burgundy, and a glass of Tawny Port. I don’t get out much. But it was good. Good to be out, downtown. My Downtown. Little San Rafael. But San Rafael has a big Heart, filled with dreamers.
Now it’s time for lunch, the babies are really quiet now. Did they really go to sleep? I’m just letting them guide me today. Except no T.V. I’ll read as many books as they like, play with dolls and legos, cuddle under covers, play puppets. They can sleep when they want, eat what they want, go anywhere in the house they want, except my room, the extra bathroom, the garage, on the tables and counters, but beside that they’ve got free range. It’s been a surprisingly mellow day. A Dreamy Sunday.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 