What Dreams are Made Of_Part Nine: A Life So Surreal.

It had to be a dream. He'd fallen forward and bumped his head on the black iron base of his easel. He must be lying on the studio floor unconscious and alone. His vision blurred briefly and then his left hand shot up involuntarily to shield his eyes against the glow. He glimpsed it gradually like a child peeking between his fingers. It could not be.

An impasto moon with modeled hills and incised trenches produced by some colossal painting knife loomed large enough to touch. Stars speckled around it like punctuation points of light against indigo clouds. Near the horizon the painted fir and pine trees emerged from patchwork white. Rich texture and detail dappled ground and sky, along every tree branch, rock and hill in every direction.

For a moment he felt like fainting. A sudden flash of recognition had informed him that the handiwork here…was his own. But how?             

The air grew suddenly cold and he began to feel how heavily his worn t-shirt and faded jeans failed against the wailing wind. His feet were freezing and his socks were already wet from the icy ground. All around him was this thing so surreal and beautiful that it hurt to look upon. He felt equally full of fascination and fear; his uncertainty was a razor against his skin. To stand and walk in some direction seemed the only possible thing to do.

He remembered the plan he’d had several days before. It had seemed so simple, and now here he was; lingering at the edge of reason without a clue. He stared briefly up into the liquid blue and headed for the furthest hill, in the direction of the Moon.

To be continued.

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What Dreams are Made Of_Part Eight: Into the Night.

The panel was dry and needed a thin coat of linseed. The watercolors done from earlier that day were taped to thin boards near the easel. He lifted one to the lamp to consult the splashes of color that flowed into passages of light and movement. The days between and ahead lay neatly plotted in paint, yet their meaning was cryptic. They were hieroglyphs on the walls of his mind.

He set them aside and tightened the support under the half-finished oil. He couldn’t sleep. This was the second time in two hours he’d sat here to think. Smoothly brushing on a bit of oil from the jar near his easel, he wiped away the excess. A translucent layer of zinc white looked like a caul stretched across the underpainting. He mixed fresh color into the milky film with deliberate design.

His brush moved with its own cadence but still swayed to match his intent. It skated along the distant hills and snow dusted trees and dipped into deep purple shadows; its bristles moved across the craters and fissures that covered the luminous orb flying high above the forest floor. The sable tip was an extension of his fingertips, and with it he caressed every facet of his creation.

In the foreground he found her once more. She was sculpted in shapes and tones merged subtly. The illusion of reality was astonishing. Their eyes locked. His brush found highlights there. He felt along her cheekbones and stroked under her chin. Her hair seemed to flutter and catch reflections from the sky. Leaning in for a closer look, his energy started to flag and his eyes fluttered closed. 

A hand sought his. It was both warm and supple; gently, it guided him into the cool evening air.

To be continued.

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What Dreams are Made Of_Part Seven: An Unchained Heart.

Sometimes life can feel like an awkward fit. Even on a day as bright as the snowfall that fell over the last three days, it was easy to slip into cold winter thoughts. That anything would come of his efforts seemed a more narrow idea now than ever. He had done far less today than he liked.

This was a journey without a haven. The drawings in piles, in sketchbooks in boxes, and pinned to the wall looked forlorn and unfinished. Dust gathered in the corners of the room. Despite attempt at order, he felt disheveled and detached. He could admit his weakness. Understanding himself was part of his strength.

An unexpected message from a friend was a welcome consolation to the offer he’d felt forced to turn down in the face of his need. The words reached across the years that had separated them. Something inside him awoke: perhaps the search for an unchained heart was not his alone. This didn’t take much thought. He knew it was true.

He went to the wall and chose a scene with a figure silhouetted on a hill. The note that he jotted below the border read: There are those of us that hear the heartbeat of the world and dance to its pulse; a few sculpt in sounds or paint with words; some even see pictures outlined in the stars and keep drawings of their dreams.

To be continued.

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What Dreams are Made Of_Part Six: A Promise Unfolds.

By the next evening, both more artwork had been completed and real progress pertinent to his immediate needs began to show up in his inbox. He was both elated and disappointed. His mind kept drifting back to the dream. He sat down to write before bed. 

There were a few false starts before the words began to flow freely. A deeper part of his mind began to emerge. He relaxed as wistful notions that often amazed him, pour out into prose. The hours passed without warning. It was late when both the clock on the screen and his cat told him it was time to retire. He shut down his program and put the PC to sleep, clicking off the lamp as he left.

For a while, he lay awake without a word or a thought and watched the beams from the street lamp play on the wall. He was starting to drowse when his cat crawled under the covers. He stroked her gently under the chin and she settled down for her nap. He’d just turned onto his side, when a notion from nowhere flew into his mind:

“Sometimes opportunity knocks in a form that feels familiar and is easy to dismiss. The real promise it holds may only seem separate from the heart’s desire.”

Soft lips brushed against his ear. He glided off into sleep and dreamt of the Moon.

To be continued.

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What Dreams are Made Of_Part Five: A Secret in the Sky.

His thoughts were brushed out in cobalt and rinsed in turpentine. The air in motion was a clear evening blue. A hand moved across the sky and the stars were stroked in titanium. A brown palette with brilliant spots of color rested against an iron easel with bright chrome braces.

He advanced slowly and then quickly stepped back; it was a technical maneuver that looked both serious and odd to anyone unacquainted. He squinted. Swiftly stepping forward for an instant, he skimmed the brush along the wooden panel. The moment was charged with such enormous energy that the universe seemed to pulse within the wooden handle and sable brush felt dipped in fire.

After room had been ordered, brushes cleaned and oils put in their place, he stood for a moment to survey his work. Though far from complete, he saw her clearly for the first time since she appeared in the window of his dream; floating against the deep blue in the light of an oil painted moon. Her gesture and countenance were compelling and filled him with awe. There was a secret hidden here, waiting to be discovered.

To be continued.

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