i remember dreams as real as needles in my skin. i remember dreams i had when i was five years old living in the mountains of new mexico. i can’t tell the difference between the real of purple mountain sunsets and the false of escaping an orange muppet monster through the back alleys of hong kong.
last night i dreamed about a beautiful girl wandering through gorgeous oil paintings. recurring themes of beauty and the beast, alice in wonderland, and st. george and the dragon appeared in every painted room. the walls were thick brush-strokes of purple and gauzy gray, but they were as solid as stone.
this labyrinth was not a maze, exactly, full of dead ends and dropoffs. it was a cluster of painted rooms and the way through was to solve a little puzzle in the paintings.
then, at the center of the maze, her minotaur was mostly a man. he had pale skin, small black horns, and an elegant robe. he had jewelry.
he reached out for her with a broken kind of love, all torment and pain disguised as destiny.
she said, “You have no power over me.” The world came crashing down.
I woke up.
Was I the elegant minotaur? was I the beautiful girl? i was neither. i was both.
art feeds your dreams. 1/3 of your life is spent asleep. ingesting art will feed your dreams, and make landscapes and stories that no other soul can tell.