Dali-like Dreaming This Morning

Dreams are funny things. The ones you have just before you awake and remember, are near impossible to explain so that anyone can get the gist of what your experience was. Dali, I guess, tried to explain his in his paintings.

Salvador Dali painting hand re-painted by quality artists

When Ms. SpoolTeacher was 17, she was given the gift of a scholarship summer retreat to a college in San Francisco to study art for six whole weeks. It was a magical time. A time that set her sails.

As the wind blows, you must set your sails.

Image courtesy of Edenchanges. Click image to “attend” a lovely motivational blog. Words by Thomas Fuller.

She dreams of that event time and again, but they are always one of those kinds of dreams where you want so badly to get somewhere but your feet feel like lead. They won’t move. You are stuck and distressed.

She was so young when she went and she was not at all well emotionally. It was one of the best experiences of her life in spite of her emotional state.

For the two years that she prepared for the competition, making an art portfolio to send for evaluation, she was in that same emotional state and everything was a lead foot kind of struggle. It would be called depression now. Everything she did for those two years was geared for the hope that she would be selected. She worked after school to earn the money it would take to pay for her room and board and anything else she might need; some more supplies, extra food stuffs, souvenirs. Her wonderful art teacher made sure to give her plenty of supplies from the school stock that met most of her list of required art tools and paints to bring along.

Near the deadline to submit her work, she was missing one piece of art (a requirement on the list for judging) and had to hurry up a pastel chalk drawing she was struggling to complete. Because it didn’t quite fit in the portfolio, a neighbor took a Polaroid picture of it for her to send with the others. (She thinks it was that last drawing that gave her sumbission the edge it needed because to that date, it was the best she had done). She packaged her portfolio just how they said and drove to a third class postal center way out in a remote burg outside of her own little Podunk town to get it sent off.

Art PortfolioBy that time, she had amassed the clothes she would need to take with her should she win. She had sewn her own outfits those same two years waiting and preparing. As it turned out, once there, she bought a pair of overalls and pretty much never got out of them, painting them up as she went.

The dream she had this morning before waking was a little happier than others have been. She was in San Francisco with a friend and had a nice place to stay. It was a bright colorful dream unlike ones before that have mostly been dull and dreary; but there was still a kind of hunger in her soul. She couldn’t get satisfied. She wanted something she couldn’t find. It was the friend’s event this time. The friend was taking a pleasure trip and there was a satchel involved that always had to be kept track of. It was orange, an upholstery weight fabric and had all of Friend’s needed things in it. They decided to go see a movie. Friend somehow got in ahead of her because Ms. SpoolTeacher was busy talking to her sister (who in reality passed just this last Feb. 2013). She was so delighted to see her sister there and had lost track of time and of Friend. So when it came time to get into the movie, she had to climb a funny stair case in a funny building and open a window so that she could crawl in over the head of a bed of a sick person laying there. The sick person’s relative was sitting by her side complaining why the theater did things like this and Ms. SpoolTeacher backed out and went back down to see if she was doing it right. They told her to go back, it was the only way in. But Ms. ST spotted a different, ground level entrance and sure enough there was Friend with her orange upholstery satchel, contents spread all over a table she was sitting at eating with other people and the concession stand was in front of them, behind the table. Ms. ST looked over and it was some kind of spaghetti stuffed in a bread roll oozing with Velveeta cheese and other things she will not eat.

Of course, this barely depicts the vivid colors and autumn charm of the scenes of this made-up San Francisco Ms. SpoolTeacher had going through her brain circuitry just before she woke or of the peculiar emotions she was feeling. Dreams are so funny. She wishes she could paint like Dali to depict the scenes because they were wonderful.

It was a better dream than some she has had, remembering or longing for her wonderful summer scholarship trip to San Francisco, but she thinks it is because she is much better emotionally now and has lots of hope and great expectations for the life still ahead of her.

Lone Mountain College, San Francisco 1972When she came back from that trip to San Francisco, she had wonderment in her mind. She was sure she would be some kind of artist, she was determined that she would be. She had to get a job right away because her family was poor, monetarily. Her mother had already lined her up with a prospect to inquire about and sure enough she got the job. There she would work for about a year as a Girl Friday, working with artists of various kinds. It was a pre-Kinko’s kind of place. The man who had the business start-up had his hands in everything, a true entrepreneur, but one who was more charismatic than successful at that time.

She has had many J.O.B.S. since then, but has always been in pursuit of some way to be free to express her creative side. She thinks this might be the reason why her dreams are more vivid and satisfying now. She has given up giving in to forgetting her dreams and has found that once her sail was set way back then in San Francisco, there was no turning back. She wouldn’t go off blowing in the wind, but she wouldn’t miss any opportunity that would show itself to her that would help her live the dream that she had set her sail on. No one should, give up their dream, even if it is Dali-like.