The Artist’s Wife

March 21, 2013

I’m in a room, maybe a gallery, with a man who stands very close to me on the right but is mainly a felt presence. I see through a doorway into a living room and the portrait of a woman. Who is she? I really want to know. But the opening through which I perceived the portrait is gone, replaced by a huge pile of square sheets of paper twice as broad as a person and almost as tall. I’m vaguely aware now this is probably a dream and I have an opportunity. I peel off the top one, laying it face down, and proceed to go through the rest of the stack in this fashion. They are all original paintings of people, mostly close-ups of their upper bodies and several figures together, done by the same artist, interspersed with minimalist black-and-white sketches. The colors are brooding, dark-blues predominating, with occasionally a vivid dark-green which in one instance takes the form of a bird-like mask worn by a woman who stands out from the other figures. I pause on this one, my search for the portrait of the woman having turned into a curious appreciation for this mountain of work. I sense they are the work of the male presence on my right. A woman, one of a handful, on my left, is taken by the work, as we all are, but she remarks that she won’t consider buying any of the pieces until the artist begins using acid-free paper. I find this comment foolish in the extreme. “Oh come on,” I say, “this is a dream!” How silly to worry about acid-free paper on the Other Side.

I become aware of my dead father. He leads me left, away from the stack of unframed paintings. He tells me that the artist, when he visited once briefly, was quite taken with my comments on his work, and urges me to get in touch with him. He begins writing down his address. Watching, I realize the artist has already left for his home in Europe, so I wonder what’s the point, since obviously we won’t be seeing each other. I watch Papi writing and distinctly see a three character combination such as 2KR or 2NL and to its right an upper case U, which clues me into the fact the man lives in Europe, maybe Germany. I wake.

When I went back to sleep, I still remembered the artist and was busy working at a black old-fashioned typewriter with “gold” rimmed keys, beginning to tell his story. It opens with a carriage on which rides a woman in a long blue-black gown carrying the ashes of her late husband, on the way to the funeral ceremony. She is speaking rapidly and I can’t possibly keep up with all the information she is imparting. I catch only the fact that the container she holds in her arms is not all ashes, several bones have been left intact and rimmed with gold. I press the Rewind button, trying to get back to the beginning, and meanwhile become aware that I need more honey to power the typewriter. I collect a large jar and pour it into the even bigger container beside my desk. As I do so, I’m aware of having written only one colorful paragraph, but it doesn’t matter; the important thing is I’m writing, being creative, whether what I produce is fabulous and read by millions or not. But I’m having an issue with honey overflowing even after I empty the jar, pouring off a shelf beneath my desk, and I quickly catch it in my empty jar all in one gush, and it’s so dense and abundant and heavy it’s impressive I can hold onto it. Nevertheless, there’s honey soaking the dark-gray-black rugs beneath my desk reminiscent of car rugs, and a young light-haired man kneeling beneath it is critical of my efforts to contain the flow while trying ineffectually to help. I ignore his hopelessness and drag the rugs outside to soak in the wet earth and dry in the sun. But I realize this is not a sustainable way to write, just one page of typing uses up an entire huge jar of honey, and I wish I could have my computer back.

Dream Notes: This has the markings of a past life dream. It required a huge amount of honey to type only a few moments of a single scene of a past life. There was also too much honey, impossible to contain. I feel this way about the seeming past life memories that have been flooding my dreams for four nights—too much too fast and yet also too little information.

Honey: Immortality; initiation; rebirth; the sustenance of the gods. In astrology, honey is associated with the moon and thus with increase and growth. And the moon is associated with physical incarnation.

Comments and Questions Welcome