The Journal of Dreams 01/08/2010

There is no time to do much before work except smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, and stare at the black horse.  I think he has way too much hair and the major screw up here is that the hair crosses over all four canvases right at their joints (the cross in the middle where they all connect).  That means I have to apply the hair across all four canvases and make sure it is totally dry, then cut it so very straight between the canvases.  If the edge where the hair is becomes rubbed on something, it will rip off.  What a horrid mistake!

I called my old father and we had a conversation about it.  Life really makes people wise (sometimes).  He can always think of an answer.  One day I’ll pick up the phone to call him for an answer and he won’t be there anymore, just like my mother who died in 2006.  I don’t know how many times I thought about picking up the phone and calling her.  Ironically she died because she received a double dose of insulin in a place where she should have been safe.  I was the only one who did not attend her funeral, I could not trust myself.  The anger was too strong.

It could be a moment of wondering if I had it all to do over again, what would I change but I cannot think that I would change much.  Self preservation blankets me and I avoid relationships, friends, family, or anything which has the ability to destroy me.  When I paint this painting I wonder if my mother was the nurturing vessel which brought me to this point in life.  Evaluating her life, I do not know of any other achievement that could top it.  Am I her destiny and what it was all for?

There are a lot of skeletons in our families closets, a lot of damage was done and time healed some of the wounds.  I have 4 novels I have worked on about these skeletons.  When I write, my grand imagination lets me see it like a movie in my mind.  I feel the warm, summer night air, smell the neighborhood, hear the music and see the moon glisten in the distance.  Pulling from memories is a wonderful thing in creation, like the Interference Blue’s mimic of moonlight…wonderful.

All my life, as far back as I can remember there was a silent traveler with me which as an adult I called: A Sense of Sadness.  When I was 32 my mother handed me a book of poetry I wrote when I was 12 and every poem in it was about death or dying.  It was a shocking Revelation for me because I had wondered often times when the sadness really began and why.  I couldn’t believe it had been at that early of an age and to have written about it then, it originated earlier.

In analyzing how I could have possibly known anything about death at that age, I could not remember any instance.  No one near me had died, none of my friends family members had died and to this day, I still cannot remember how it started.  The similarity of my mother dying at 12 and returning to tell the tale made me wonder about dreams, memories and how we protect ourselves from psychological pain by forgetting.  I wonder…

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