Dream: Crab Cracker

Onward with the crazy dream odyssey. Last night I had a ton of wild dreams that had a lot of traveling themes. One part in particular that sticks with me this morning is a journey taken in a Winnebago with my mother and a younger blonde teenage girl. We drove out to see a man who lived on a rock outcropping jutting into the sea. He was waiting for us and was going to make us dinner. When we got there he asked us to help him set the table. There was a huge pile of silverware on the table, and not just the ordinary stuff, but also crab crackers and shrimp forks and special butter knives and things. I was the only one who knew how to set it all up relative to my plate.

The man brought us a bottle of white wine, and paused while he was pouring it to note that outside the panoramic windows in the dining room, the sun was setting, He said "Watch the waves." and as the sun set, the waves settled down from crashing against the rocks to lapping them gently. He continued. "It always amazes me that the ocean knows that the day is done and it is time to rest. It is so peaceful."

The young blonde peered at the waves through the green glass of the half empty bottle of wine and smiled.

Dream: Action Gopher

My dreams are like being in a surrealist film every night. Here's the latest proof that I have lost my mind:

I dreamed that on the spur of the moment, I would leave a bar where a blond man was buying me a shot of tequila, and instead go white water rafting. Wait-it gets weirder. I payed money to rent a raft and they made me take a safety course. In addition to giving me a flotation vest, they also gave me the following essential items:

A live blue parakeet
A live black kitten
And a pound of ground beef wrapped in butcher paper

But no sunscreen

So I took the elevator down to where I was supposed to present my receipt and get my raft, but to my horror the parakeet flew into the space between the floor of the elevator where the track of the closing doors crushed it to death. I went back upstairs and tearfully confessed that I had killed/lost the bird. To replace it, they gave me a gopher named "Duncan". He seemed a little more sturdy than the parakeet and I set off.

I was worried again about the lack of sunscreen.

At the first set of rapids, I lost the kitten and the ground beef overboard, and was very upset. I was determined that I was not going to lose the gopher.

We made it through the rafting trip, and I took the gopher home, where I housed him in a cage and he made friends with another strange, possibly alien creature that I had in there. Duncan the gopher cuddled up with the other creature and seemed glad that his rafting days were over.

Dream: Torch Singer

I had a strange stress dream last night that all the students in my nursing class and I were in some sort of stage production that involved singing and dancing. That is, I was singing and they were dancing. For some reason. there was a choreographed dance sequence that I was not involved in. I was going to sing a torch song instead. I was sort of relieved, since I am short and way overweight for hoofing it in the spotlight, but I was very aware of this in the dream as being the reason I had been given something else to do.

The main action of the dream was taking place in the few hours before curtain, when everyone was dressing, curling their hair, and putting on makeup. The pace was frantic and we were all scrambling to get ready. I had been forcibly strapped into a very tight corset, stockings, and a black off the shoulder evening gown. I had my makeup on and I was wearing deep red lipstick that I kept touching up. But I needed help with my hair and couldn't find my sheet music to give to the pianist. Everyone was so busy that I was having trouble getting help.  In the end, I was stretching the limits of the cord of a curling iron to try to do my own hair in front of a mirror that was a few feet away from the electrical outlet.

It reminded me a bit of my old vaudeville days at the Gaslighter Theatre. Nursing School is almost over. Am I the proverbial Fat Lady Who Sings?



Image:

http://collectiononline.chrysler.org/collections/OBJECT_edit.asp?id=23935&page=1

Poetry-Dreaming of Trees

I dreamed I owned a giant house
With room enough for everything
And tall trees living monuments around it
With whole societies of fauna therein.

I dreamed my life was lush with love
And I took each step in validation
That my existence was cherished and adored
And that my love was returned full measure.

I dreamed about a sumptuous feast
Surrounded by loved ones with raised glasses
Toasting our good fortune in a golden sunset
Letting the air echo with our laughter.

I dreamed this, and on awakening,
I was suffering a terrible thirst.
I hungered for a loving touch on my skin.
I was alone in a hungry world.

The color drained from my vision.
So that all I could see was the black and white
Of my endless to do lists and mundane chores
To even gain a fraction of my dream.

I long for dreams and untroubled sleep
For a glimpse of what my Heaven holds
But equally, I dread the nightly shadows
That stretch long into my waking days.

Oh Pieta! Have pity on my soul!
Begone, Morpheus, and your tormenting visions!
Unless you are here to place the tools in my hand
And help me, to the temple build.

Unless these things can all be mine,
Unless I can earn them through my patient industry,
Don’t instill me with such hunger and longing,
So that every day I burn with want.

I can shine in gratitude, now, for all my blessings.
I will work harder, now, for the things I need.
For in my dreams, I am larger than life.
In my dreams, I am the authentic me.

Stacie Ferrante 2-26-10

Poetry-Grey Dove

Soft and grey, on branch of evergreen.

Your voice low and mournful in the morning stillness.

Sweet peace, perhaps in your avian heart

As you call the filtering dawn’s rays by name.

What do you long for? Such simple things.

Shelter from the rain and wind.

A place to anchor your downy bed.

And a future for your nascent progeny.

Only the spare economy of winter fruit

And rare desert dewdrops concern your consciousness

If they concern it at all, as you thrill to fly

Over the rooftops of worried men.

Stacie Ferrante

2-26-10

Be More Real

Image :  http://www.toothpastefordinner.com/120708/be-more-confident.gif

One of the things I am trying to do with my life, assuming my life is a canvas for art, is to be authentic. What that means from day to day varies, but it mostly has to do with ridding myself of the desire to compare myself with other people and just be myself.

I don't know if that sounds easy or not, but who I am is a constant work-in-progress. I set lofty goals for myself. I work hard. I am my own worst critic. In spite of that, I need to be more real.

When I get into trouble is when I try to be what my perception of a societal role should be. When I try to be what I think a "good wife" or "good mother" or even "good artist", I fall into a trap of trying to be what is expected, rather than taking the time to think about what that means to me. Does it matter if I put honest effort into something that ultimately is not natural to who I am? Doing that just leads to feeling like a failure.

Example: When I was Little A's mom, I did a lot of things with her. I wanted to be a good mom, because I loved her and also because some measure of my self image was wrapped up in that. I kept beating myself up because some of the things about parenting I wasn't so jazzed about, and I felt like if I was a "good mom" I would naturally enjoy them more. For instance, I dreaded bath time. Not mine, hers. I felt like if I was a good mom I would enjoy bathing my child. I would laugh through getting splashed with soapy water, I would be good-natured about getting that slippery kiddo to wash her hair. Tony was way better at it. Frankly I didn't enjoy it.

I also, for some odd reason. didn't enjoy playing on the floor as much as Tony did. Little A always wanted me to play with toys with her on the floor, and I did it, but I also had to make dinner and do laundry, so those moments often felt conflicted for me.

What I did enjoy were the afternoon tea times we had together, when we would have snacks and listen to music (often Mozart), and we would do drawings and color together. We had lovely closeness in those moments. Is that somehow less valuable than playing with a commercially ubiquitous plastic doll with her? I don't think so.

But when we had to reunify Little A with her biological mother, the first thing I noticed was that she played with Little A on the floor a lot. And even though I had my shit together in a lot of ways, I felt some harsh self-judgment feelings. I was glad for Little A that she would get that play time like she wanted, but after she was gone, I missed those more contemplative moments making fridge art the most. I missed most what came most naturally to me.

Little kids and friends and artistic audiences can smell it when you are not giving full commitment to the moment. I got up and read some of my poetry at an open mic recently (my first attempt at such a thing). I was nervous and unable to fully commit and I think as a result I got a tepid response. I had also chosen to read some stuff that I thought would have a broader appeal and be less about my inner persona. In retrospect, I think that was a wrong choice, based on what I thought a "good poet" would read. I made my selections based on what I thought were good representations of my work, instead of pieces that revealed something visceral and real about myself. If (or when) I decide to do it again, I need to not be afraid to show what is real about me. I need to bleed a bit, be a bit more raw. It is scary to do, because what if is isn't accepted? What if it makes people laugh?

But for me to be able to be satisfied with it after the fact, I need to experience being real with other people watching, even if that means I am not understood by everyone. Playing it safe will do me no good. Doing what others expect or worse, what I think others expect, will only prove that I can be superficial and concerned with the opinions of others. I don't even think that kind of art would ultimately resonate with anyone. It might be pretty, but ultimately forgettable.

I don't want to be forgettable. I don't want to blend in. I don't want to be "whatever is in these quotation marks", but the real thing. Even though it takes more energy and involves more risks, I want to be, as much as possible, more real.

Dream-Dragon in the living room

Dreamed this morning after I went back to bed with a gnarly red wine hangover. All kinds of mixed up things, including living in a house with lots of family, and someone had brought home a young dragon, who had set up a nest in the living room. The room always hung with smoke from its breathing, and I wasn't sure I could live in a house like that much longer.

Little A was in my dream again, just being there in her proper place, misbehaving and just being a kid. It is always so sad to wake up and have that not be true. I miss her.

I also dreamed that I went to a large specialty fish market, and a friend of mine who worked there had set aside a package for me with 4 different sizes of shrimp, from tiny bay shrimp to large Vietnamese Tiger prawns as big as a man's hand. I remember thinking it was thoughtful of him to pick them for me. I had to stand in a long line to pay for them.

When I woke up my headache and nausea were much better, but I had lost much of my day to paying for last night's frivolity. Oh well, that is pretty rare for me. Have to have some fun sometime.