I don’t know about you, but I’ve been having remarkable dreams during this pandemic time. I’m always an active dreamer, but these are particularly vivid and powerful. Probably my subconscious is busy busy trying to make sense of these times … and help design my new future. From night to night some of the same characters and constructs appear in the story … not advancing the same plot line … just the same elements appearing here and there … much like in my paintings. (Right now, in fact, the image of tulips I’m using for a dragon piece has showed up in two previous paintings.)
One recurring construct is that I’m living inside my computer, moving around the universe via programs and portals. And the cast of characters — the archetypes — are the Yellow Dragon, Michael the archangel, various talking animals of unrecognizable species I’ve come to call the mixed-mammals, and my big brother. The brother archetype is not the dreaded Orwellian “Big Brother” … mine is a buddy, a confidante, and a protector …. the brother I’d always wanted as a kid because he would play sports with me. And unlike other members of the circus, he’s just a normal person. Except that he looks a lot like my father. Fair hair, blue eyes, fine features, and thin lips.
In the mid 90’s I was conducting marketing research by day, and madly hacking away at portraits and figures by night. I had just begun to paint when my father died. From the time of his cancer diagnosis to his death was a year. I had been expecting this most of my life …. but that’s another story.
It took him two weeks to die. My mother, sister and I rarely left his bedside. Although we all lived in Charlotte at the time, he was in the Wake Forrest teaching hospital in Winston Salem. He did not die from the illness or surgery. In a small room crowded with medical students and Dad’s surgeon, one student asked “Why are his systems are shutting down; this is not the result of his illness?” The answer was “He has chosen to go.” His girls already knew that, of course. No one had to say it. My father always walked his own path.
As he lay dying, he moved in and out of the here and now. He’d come back from time to time to report on his wanderings across the universe … visiting all the places a dying rocket scientist dreams of. He wouldn’t let us take his glasses off, saying “I want to see everything.” Always a lover of the moon, and avid numerologist, he kept telling me, “don’t worry … it will be 7 or 8 … it will be 7 or 8.” None of us could decipher that, but we figured it had meaning. Turns out he left at exactly ten minutes before midnight on December 7th. Seven or eight. The night of the full moon. He was 62, the age I am now … or will be in a couple of days.
During those two weeks I was in the middle of a huge research project — the wide ranging public opinion study that would guide development of Charlotte’s ten year plan. A total of 22 focus groups, two per night, had been scheduled for months in advance. All sorts of community stakeholders. There was no way to reschedule, and there was no way to replace the moderator. So I drove to Charlotte every evening to conduct the groups, and then returned to WinstonSalem to sleep on a chair in Dad’s hospital room.
With the groups finally completed, I relaxed in his room while my sister and mother popped out to shower and eat. I watched him dreaming and longed to freeze that exact moment forever. I had not started drawing at the time, only painting, but my hand was twitching and moving … so I found a tiny note pad and one of my treasured Sailor fountain pens. (Always loved the feel of painting words and numbers on the paper with sepia, green, or lamp black ink. ) This is the only rendering I’ve ever done of my father from life. It was his last day.
Last night I dreamed of my brother again. We bumped into each other in a grocery store, then stood and faced each other for a while. We reached out both hands, touched all ten fingertips, wove our fingers together, and held hands.
