In my dream, I am making a collage..the images are Klimt-esque, from the late 19th century. All around me are artists, including two acquaintances from my real life studio. There are samples of work to emulate, tapestries with these images interwoven, themes of women, of places, of technique. Around me are tables with piles of like-themed images, I search through them, and kind find no way of organizing them into a project. One artist is working on a lamp that is sitting in a bucket of colored water; my acquaintance points out the achievement of my other friend, “her best work ever” even though it is a metal sculpture. I find a pile of photos of little boys, and think I could develop them into a theme, a collage; but when I leave and look for them again, the images are gone. My starts are feeble, and everyone else is underway. Perhaps I took too long eating the snack that was offered earlier.
I wake to the reality of aloneness. My daughter will wake soon; she will have plans. At seventeen, she can only be so considerate of her mother; she is not, and should not be, concerned about my life. I long for a foil, a partner or even an “arch enemy”. I could escape to the movies by myself, do my dyeing project, grade papers for my graduate students, walk the dog. Improve my business prospects, worry about taxes. There are ways to occupy my time.
I wonder about selling everything and going on a world trip. I’m filled with nostalgia and I’m afraid I’d be in pain. I wonder about moving to a remote part of Arizona, and taking a well paying job that will allow me to bring horses. I hope to avoid being drawn into rescue projects, the rescue of men. My dog should be my last rescue. Is that why I couldn’t find the images of boys?