14 thoughts on “A dream

  1. Reblogged this on Musings and commented:
    I really love this painting.
    There is a man/woman in a trench coat, wearing a watch, with his/her hand in his/her pocket behind the door.

    She could be a call girl with her pimp in the background, or just a beautifully wrought woman contemplating her power or burdens, someone separated, perhaps, from her effect on the world co-mingled with the fact of just being.

    This image speaks to me of what a woman must do in a world of men, selling her wares, submitting herself to the desire to be lithe and luxuriously at peace.

    What is she thinking?

    My mother was once this beautiful,
    She always seemed to be oblivious.
    She thought not of men, but of designs
    On paper, oil paint, and how the world worked,
    Wanting to change, in her later years, junk
    Into things of beauty.

    She would contemplate,
    Smoke her cigarettes and look out from her balcony
    Out and at the hillside, which grew from under her
    And then up almost to a point
    You could not see the sky unless you bent down
    When you were sitting.

    She said she was raped by an uncle.
    Was forced to live with foster parents
    Because in the 30’s with her father dead
    When she was two and two other brothers,
    Her mother could not afford to take care of her.

    When her mother died, my mother said that
    She was hours away and her mother died alone.
    She never wanted that to happen to her,
    So she kept us close.

    When she got her first commercial art job,
    She walked in with a band-box look.
    They hired her out of all the prospects.
    Just out of art school at CAL,
    She presented a few pieces.

    Then one of her bosses raped her.
    My aunt said that she took off a couple of times
    And my father, a doctor, had to take care of us.

    All, I am sure she did was go to a place where she could think.
    How do I know this?
    I am like her.

    We dream a lot.
    We have our drinks, but non-alcoholic,
    We don’t like to dull the powers of our mind.

    I too have stared into the distance
    Traveled through memories
    And met loved ones.
    Mainly, lovers and their sleek lines,
    How they made me feel and
    When we shall meet again
    Is all I think,
    In the meantime,
    I make beautiful things
    Like peacock feathers
    To entrance them.

    Liked by 1 person

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  4. Ester, you could probably remove one of my posts and then remove this one. As you know, I love the chance to respond to what you put out there. I read it to my mom this evening. She’s in the hospital with Bronchitis. She listened to me but didn’t know it was about her. She has Alzheimer’s.

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  5. You are so succinct, always. It wasn’t sadness, per se. It will be. I remain in denial. Last month, she fell down and fractured her hip. She’s not been able to walk. Before that, she’s passed out in the bathroom about 3-4 times. I was holding her so she didn’t fall down when I bathed her. (A son bathing his own mother; I never knew this would happen.) But, she doesn’t drink enough fluids, hates water, so one of the times, it was the hot water and the steam, the struggle because she hates taking a bath but must eventually. And she first warns me and then sinks into the tub. I call the ambulance, they come and lift her out. She will not let the nurses or doctors do anything because she is afraid. My dad, a doctor long passed, would tell her about hospitals as places where people would die and so she won’t trust anyone. I was there tonight feeding her pills embedded in apple sauce, which is what I did last night.

    But, almost the whole time, we laughed and she was so glad to see me. Everything goes smoothly when I arrive and the nurses get their work done.

    Let me warn those who have not been through this, all you have to do is be there. It is in not being there as much as you can that you experience regret. There are two lives in the helping dynamic. Both parties have to allow each other the freedom to be there if they want or can be.

    Sadness comes in finally understanding the meaning of death. It is absence and memory. And because it is tied to our own perceptions of life, we monitor the event closely.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. This is truly beautiful!
    I don’t know you, nor am I aware of the context, but I can relate completely to the painting.
    Almost a moment of contemplation, over a glass of whisky.
    A singular random stray thought… and just that!
    Splendid work!
    Cheers!

    Like

Pétales de roses

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