New painting completed

'Comforter', 18" x 24", enamel and crayon on Masonite.

This me with mom at the hospital shortly before she passed.   She was covered in her favorite Biederlack comforter blanket, red and white with a hearts design.

Ever since that day I've been needing to paint this. For a while I lacked he courage to try.

It's looser than My usual work and took maybe two weeks of experimenting with the paint and crayon before I got the look I wanted for the texture of the blanket.  I've never done anything this personal before and I think it may be a huge step forward for me - provided I follow up on this direction.  I want to, lacking at the moment the time, material, and next image.  I'm even happy with the actual finished texture of the painting itself, once I'd coated it with satin sealer.

goodbye Dana

Dana will never, ever be free of her cage.  She built it herself, I cannot free her from it.  Her cage is her fear of speaking to me.  She refuses to leave it.

She blocked me from sending her message.  That's it.  She broke my heart again.  She found courage and compassion for one brief moment and now it's gone.

Think I've established that that is NOT Guanyin on Dana's back.  Compassion is a meaningless concept to her.

Dana, If I offended you I'm sorry.  I'm sorry my morals and values aren't what you thought they should have been.  I 'm sorry that I refuse to judge a group of people you'd have me condemn.  I'm sorry you have a doppleganger.  I'm sorry you acted guilty and afraid and helped me believe something that wasn't true.  And I'm sorry you didn't have it in you to be a true friend.  I'm sorry you decided now of all times would be a great time to break my heart again.


I'm curious, Dana, what part of my love and support for you as a friend offended you most?

The Two Times I Overcame a Block

No images and no apologies.  It's on-topic, and it's a piece I'm proud of.

The second was pretty undramatic, just flexing muscle memory.  I had a photo of Jesseca that I wanted to draw...funny, all this time later, I know longer recall how I was going to render it except that it specifically was not going to be pencil.  Probably pen and ink, simple lines and  blocks.  The point was specifically not pencil because - ugh - too long away, too daunting.  But I got to the folds of the jacket she was wearing and...juuuuuuuuust couldn't help getting drawn in by them, really, really wanted to dive in and explore them.  So I ended up with the first finished pencil drawing since probably Franklin.  Let's see, that was (I think) 2009.   That's a hell of a block.  25 years.  But I did it.

The first time, though...that's another story.  I warn you right now that it's very uncomfortable, very private and personal.  Intimate.  I offer it to the depressed, the hurt,  the lonely, the blocked, to any who may be helped by it...but above all I offer this to Dana Cooper, an enigma and beloved friend, cherished and badly missed. I write this as a spell from my soul and set it free unto to the world, may it heal where it needs to heal.  May it find Dana's heart.

As high school came to a close, I didn't know that I had depression.  Neither did anyone else, so I got yelled at  a lot for the piles of homework I didn't do.  No one could say I wasn't paying attention in class, because I aced the tests and knew the material, but when it came to transforming a blank page with the info in my mind it always worked the other way around. (Tryin' to keep this short and give you the basics, but I do need to set the stage.)

By the end of '84, Dana had left for L.A. via a holiday in Europe.  She sent a few postcards, and I discovered that when I tried to write her the same thing happened as with the homework.  I  couldn't make it happen.  It was about this time I fully admitted to myself that I was head-over-heels in love with her, and wondered how I'd managed to keep that squelched.  In love?  I wanted to marry her!

I did a handful of plays, including an independent sci-fi bit in which I met and fell in love with Lori Hamilton, who by strange coincidence I had never know at Franklin.  She was class of '83.  By the end of that year, 1985, Lori also was gone - just packed up and vanished, no word to anyone, no way to reach her.

I was still attempting to draw, less and less, and never finishing anything.  I did a small painting, and several pen and ink works - posters for plays, print ads for White's Collectibles.

In 1986 I had an unusual dream.  I dreamt of an acquaintance from school.  She was a ta a mall (in the dream), we met and said hello.  This was someone I had never seen anywhere save one class in one year of school, and never expect to see her again.  The very next day I went to a different mall from than the one in the dream.  She was there, we met, said, hello, and that was that.

My friend Jesseca would say that was a testing of the signal to see if I was tuned in and paying attention.  A number of minor incidents of the same sort followed, inconsequential but fun.  Skeptics of ESP like to argue that believers who've experienced it have a prior bias: they want to believe it because it's fun.  The barrage of dreams that lasted throughout 1986 were neither wanted nor fun, and I desperately tried to believe that ESP was not real.

I will not detail these dreams (that's you knocked over with a feather, right?) except to say that they all took place in L.A.  Some were about Dana, and gave me no real information at all except that she was miserable and apparently isolated.  The rest were about Lori, and those were rich in details.  There was also an evolving and consistent narrative concerning the nature of the scene she was immersed in and the company she was keeping. 

These were not normal dreams.  They had an intensity like few I'd  ever had before.  I'd awaken fully from them, convinced that they were actually taking place.  The dreams were not strictly literal - that is, they still had bits of dream-embroidery about them - but the meat of them was overwhelmingly real.  A mutual friend of Lori's, Robert, began to appear in the dreams.  He would try to persuade her to save herself from the situation, and she'd laugh him off.

My friends, these two women I was madly in love with, were in trouble and I had no way to help them.  I made more attempts to write to Dana but the block was firmly in place.  Lori, I had no one to contact to find her.  I began trying distance myself from the dreams.  I mean...they're just dreams.  Be real.   Lori could be anywhere in the world, why would she pick L.A.?  And then another dream would hit.  It was irrational how guilty I felt.  Dreams, really.

A pattern began early that year.  I began to lose sleep.  Those hated dreams, I tried to stay awake days at a time to avoid having dreams.  I would raid a local video rental outlet for movies of all sorts to binge-watch.  I could make it awake for the better part of a week.

But still the dreams would come.  All year for a year. 1986.   Then I stopped having them.
1987 was uneventful until nearing the end, Winter, when I had a surprise phone call from Robert.  I asked if he'd heard any news of Lori, and he said "Man, you better sit down..."  When Lori had left Portland at end of '85 she'd gone to Los Angeles.  From there Robert proceeded to lay out her story, what he knew of it.  The details were the same as from my dreams, with a few variations.  Lori had been in trouble, willfully, self-destructively, and when Robert arrived on the scene and tried to persuade her to help herself, she laughed and ignored him.  Eventually, though, she did come to a sense of herself and extracted herself from all of it.  That was around the time my nightmares had stopped coming.

I could not have known any of this...but I had.  It all came to me in my sleep.
(So...the dreams of Dana?  They were real too?  But they had told me nothing, I didn't know what had troubled her so!  And were they too resolved, if no more bad dreams called to me?)

Lori had returned to Portland.  She was having trouble meeting with most of her old friends for personal reasons, but she was doing  well.  I asked where I met leave a letter for her and was told she often came to her father's house.  I wrote her a letter - in itself a huge breakthrough but not the one I'm building toward.  My art was long gone by then, no longer even trying. 

I didn't hear back from Lori.  Which is...about as far as I care to delineate that memory.  It triggered the depression that had been growing in me.  It was perfectly reasonable for her part, I must have been an association to a past she wasn't ready to engage with yet.  But for my psyche it was too much.  I'd spent a year terrified for her and she couldn't even say 'hello'.  I crashed. 

I began having fantasies about my death, about how she might feel when she learned. These became suicide fantasies.

Now...it's one thing to read or hear about depression clinically, or even anecdotally, as I had many time before.  It's another thing to be inside it.  It wasn't something I recognized.  Part of me kept thinking there must be something wrong with me, but I kept that brutally crushed.  There are people out there with REAL problems!  How dare I claim to have a problem?  How privileged!  Besides, I'm just...fantasizing.  I'm just indulging in a little fantasy, the way someone might do putting on a sad movie when they're down.  (No.  People, no.  Readers...no.)  Or the way you can't leave a loose tooth alone but keep nagging it with your tongue.

This is how the brain-chemistry imbalance feeds itself, pushing the balance even further out of alignment until it reaches a critical point.  Listen, please, if you reading this recognize yourself in what I've written, if you're there now - whatever you do, you must stop those thoughts.  Do whatever you can to distract your brain.  And tell someone.  Your thoughts will kill you. Literally.  Stop feeding the imbalance.  Right the boat.  They're not just fantasies, and you do have the absolute right to claim this problem for yourself.  You're not alone.  Plenty of us have been there. 
I'm reaching the nadir.

I had heard of a phenomenon called the "suicidal urge".  It's not a general leaning but an explicit impulse.  Talk is that if you've never felt it, you cant know just how primal it is.   That's the kind of things that sounds like hyperbole to everyone else.  One night in February 1988 I found out for myself. 

I had taken to sitting in my room for hours at a time, inanimate, overwhelmed with longing and rejection and pain and a loss for answers.  My mind wandered.  My mind was numbed.  My mind was battered.  Then, suddenly, for a moment, my mind was sharp, clear - get up.  go to the kitchen, get a knife, bring it back, put it to my wrists.  It wasn't how I wanted to go, but...I could do it.  Easily.  Right now.  Middle of the night, no one will see and ask questions.  What is this clarity, is this what they call the "suicidal urge"?  It's like my brain has produced a batch of chemical imperative and flooded my system with it, an "off-switch" message stored in the lizard brain and invoked when things pass  a critical point of no return.  Before it had been speculative, fantasy, but I could.  Right now.  But it would have to be right now because I've heard that the urge is fleeting, that it only lasts a moment and then is gone.  That's probably right, the chemical "shut down" command would break  down quickly, dissipate, so if I'm going to it needs to be right now.  I don't want to be walking back to my room with a knife in my hand and then not be able to use it, that would be humiliating.   I want this, this relief, finally, I don't have to go through this anymore.  I can actually feel my right arm plunging itself toward my left forearm and elbow!  This is fascinating, my body is locked and won't move but I can feel the tension of my right arm struggling to be free and use a knife I never went and got.  I can't make myself stand up.  None of my muscles will move.

And then it was over.  As intense as it had been, I was in a dense fog again.  I remember thinking absolutely nothing, just getting out of the chair and walking to my bed, laying down and falling into a dreamless sleep.

I don't know how many days it was after that that I ran across a lecture on PBS about depression.  I put it on as background noise while I did something else.  It's a marvel how the mind works...sometimes it will do something that's brilliant in a Homer Simpson kinda way.  As I listened, I recognized myself as the subject.  Hey!  This thing I've been telling myself isn't a real problem?  It's got a name!  It's a diagnosis!  I'm not imagining it after all!  Here's the 'D'oh!' part of it: it was such a relief that a great lot of the depression lifted!

Part of what had kept me from writing to Dana all those years was the fear of having to explain to her why I had remained silent for so long.  Simply, I couldn't.  I didn't have the understanding of it.  Learning that I had depression solved a lot of that.  It unlocked something.

There was a night when I was walking one of my nieces home in the dark, and we talked about things...I spoke about Lori and about Dana...and as I was talking I became aware that in the back of my mind I had already made the decision to write to her.  More, that I was fully capable of it.  The letter wouldn't be perfect and didn't have to be.  She might reject my explanation and my apology, but that would be okay.  If she didn't get it, I did and would have made the effort.  When I got home, I wrote to Dana that very night.  It came back undeliverable a week and a half later, but I took it to her former address here and tried again.  Her father Ralph met me at the door and said he'd pass it along to her.  By that point I had already written a  second letter, and put them both in the same envelope.  It was a review of the D.O.A. remake that had just been released.  Dennis Quaid finds out he's been poisoned and has days to live.

She wrote me back, happy to hear from me.  I didn't tell her that I was on love with her.  Or that I'd been suicidal, or about Lori, or about the ESP.  Dana keep asking me if...how did she put it?  I have the letters but it hurts to look at them...she kept thinking I was holding something back and urged me to open up.  When I finally did it was too late.  I think in hindsight, when she sensed me hiding something she was  thinking of something else  entirely.  But I wouldn't know about that for a few months yet.


*******
For Dana Marie Cooper, with deepest love and admiration
12:34 AM
11/26/2017

Ties

Dana spoke of loss and darkness in her life.  I don't  know who  she lost.  A child, or her parents, or a husband...I wish I had been there for her.  Several of my dreams suggested it would be her father who finally brings her to speak with me.   How do I win her trust?  How do I show her that she can speak with me on things that are deeply personal?  I'm wanting tonight to offer something of my own that is personal, that is painful or private.  I did that all the time in the no-longer-extant former blog  years ago in which I could post anonymously.  But not knowing Dana's heart or her story I don't know if anything I could offer feels right.   I was suicidal once,  only weeks before Dana and I began to write each other in '88.  Should I write about that?  It's personal and private, is the point - that I can open up about it... but I don't think it's relevant.  I don't know that anything would be.  I'm not making a  sympathy play, that's not it.  It's an offering I want to make, not a sacrifice.  There have been a few occasions where talking about my depression openly online  helped strangers to get through the same thing.  Sharing makes a difference, even here.  Maybe, if I could find something like that, even if it's utterly unrelated to anything Dana has struggled through...maybe just the effort would mean something.  I'm just at a loss as to what to write about.  I'm still trying my best not to feel anything.  Just coast.  Just float.

Still don't know if I have to go to New York.

I took mom's bedclothes out to the  garage tonight, ready to donate to a place that helps women trying to escape abuse.  Seeing them in a heap like that being discarded hurt more than most of what I've been having to lose.  I held the blankets and cried some.  I keep  feeling as if mom is just gone out of town.  It isn't sinking in because when it threatens to it overwhelms.  I made a peanut butter pie a week ago and realized it's the last one I'll ever make in this house.  I  tried it with brown sugar this time.  Wasn't strong enough to make a difference but either way mom wasn't here to try it.

I held mom's hand in the hospital.  For a long time.  She had wanted me home, not there,  so I left the hospital.  I was told later what time she passed.  It  was during the  ride home. During that ride, at the hour I was later told of, I'd had a sudden and vivid sense memory for a moment of holding her hand. 
The  one sister that lives here moved in about two years ago to help take care of my parents.  She's not  openly hostile to me most of the time but doesn't mind making things as difficult as possible, throwing up new roadblocks to me sorting my stuff while pushing me to get it done and passive-aggressively cutting me down...insisting we sell the house before I can ready a place to go is the worst part of it, scares the shit out of me and she knows it (doesn't care).  The tension is there and some days worsens.  The night after one of those damned 'family meetings' I dreamt that we had  caused mom to retreat to her bed crying.  We did that, we caused that.

Mom had had two children by her  second husband before me.  I was the one that lived.  I had never heard of them from her and never knew until many years later.  One, a girl,  was told me by one of my sisters.  The loss had put mom in a  clinic.  The other I learned of by accident when I was looking through some magazines being thrown out.  Hidden among them had been a birth certificate for a brother born not much more than a year before I was.  I never wanted to hurt mom by asking so I put the certificate back in hiding and soon it was gone.  To my lasting shame I can't remember the name on the paper, what my brother's name was.  I've never asked anyone else in the family and never will.

I remember my first Christmas - it had to be, because I remember not being able to walk, just crawl.  I recall the living room in Vallejo, the tree towering in the corner with the blown-glass onion-shaped ornaments in all colors.  I have an impression (but is it mis-shapen by what I have learned since?)  of the many smiling adults who kept urging me to play with an  arrangement of toys on the floor, and being reluctant to do so because I knew they weren't mine but belonged to another child.  I was the only child there.

I  had a nephew Tony,  who was a year older than me.  he died a few years ago after a troubled life of drug abuse and homelessness.  I used to believe that he had visited us down there, but everyone swore up and down that he never left Portland.  See, I thought Tony had been with us on this one occasion I remember of my father  taking me to play at a park in Vallejo.  I  remember a structure with holes and tubes to climb through, which I and the other boy with me really enjoyed.  He was only a little older than I was, about a year.  I felt he was family somehow - why not, as he rode in the car home with us?  But everyone swears that I was the only child on that trip. 

Mmmff.  None of these are what I'm looking for.  Personal struggles over hard choices.  I've only two of those and I'm not free to write either of them - they involve other people's private stories.

Not sure just now what other memories to write about.  There are many good ones.  Some  from the Franklin Green Room,  the one time I felt truly part of a family, like I belonged.  Walking the three miles home in a gentle rain after a rehearsal, one of the most blissfully peaceful experiences I've ever had.  Or going across the back campus for crinkle-cut fries at Dairy Queen in the evening when I was on the makeup crew.  Falling in love for the first time when I never questioned that it wasn't my place to even speak to her (Kris), or the second time when she (Diane S.) was the first girl who ever spoke to me like it mattered to her that I was the one listening.  Or discovering sex, or always feeling like the perpetual outsider.  I have memories about Dana.  I've shared most of them before, some of them here and some under pseudonyms.  I would like the chance to share them with her personally.   Even the awkward or bad ones.  I'd wish to share hers.  Speaking literally, I wonder if I ever appear in her dreams, and whether she remembers them when she wakes in the morning. 

Hope I fall asleep tonight.  Started watching Backstairs at the White House, 1979 miniseries now on YouTube.  Me and mom watched it together in '79.  It holds up well.



NOT Dana:

Quick ballpoint doodle while I was waiting on a job interview.  Not meant to look like anyone in particular but a few elements of Dana did appear.  The mouth might be a little more...Joanna Lumley, New Avengers era?  She often had that expression.

(edit, 11/25)  Hypnagogic flash of Dana yesterday evening, I won't describe.  Could be imagination, could be her reacting to the PM I just sent.  She reacted badly, but I don't know if she blames me or herself. I needed her to reassure me about her intentions, that she's not shut the door again.

(edit)(sent.  a few hours later, hypnagogic flash of Dana in what looks like a park or playground, seen from across the grounds.  She has her hair long, straight, and copper, wears a baggy black sweatshirt, and tan pants.  She has two or three female friends with her, dressed the same. They are trying to restrain her as she is in hysterics, crying and raging, seems like she wants to hit or destroy something but there's nothing to destroy. don't know if this was psychic or imagination.)
(the above flash was on the 25th.  Dana was on FB on the 25th, she posted and she blocked me from messaging.)

'I Bet My Life'.  No, Dana, you bet mine.  And I lost.  Put this right. I don't want you hurt.  But you're still bent on hurting me - over a mistaken belief you've built a world on - and instead of making amends you want to keep hurting me, justify hurting me, twist it into something noble...and you actually want and expect me to be okay with it.  And that's fucked.  I wonder if you see just how selfish  and cruel that is.  It's not okay.  It'll never be okay.  Or forgiven, if you let it stand.   How could you think I'd just sit and take that?


That vision, I think Shiva just put a finger on Dana's world.  She was counting on me playing along instead of having to treat me like a real human being.

So her typo, 'free me', I know what that meant now.  She had no intention of trying to be a friend.  I can't free her, because the cage isn't what she thinks it is. She made that cage herself, it's her own fear of talking to me.  I could move to Siberia and she'd never be free of it.  Only when she confronts her fear will she be free of that cage.

Sorting and Packing

If I make it through this I may be able to post actual created work again.  Imagine that.


Looking at air fare to New York.  One way ticket, don't think I could ever come back.  Portland is my home, and this house.  Born in Vallejo, first four years there, but this is my home.  Can't afford it here.  At least one person in my family I never want to see again, too.  Trying to buy some time before I have to go.  May have as little as a month left.  Hopefully more.  Wanted to see Dana again in person.

Hoping to go to Franklin again on Sunday, see if the dedication plaque is up yet.  Try to get a  photo to post.  'Buy-a-Brick" campaign.  Dana's name is on it, and Lori Hamilton's.  I found my Franklin Class of 1984 sweater with all the names on it.  Still have the Kellogg yearbooks.  Dracula poster signed by everyone.

My high school timeline gets muddy in memory now.  When did I draw Kristina Burley?  I think I was already falling for Dana, though I'd been deeply in love with Kris since 5th grade (Mr. Sherrel's homeroom, the portable out back of the  school).  A lot of people knew I was drawing Kristina, but it was only Dana who intuited that I chose Kris because I felt something for her.   I remember her asking me, "You like her, don't you?"  "Yeah.  I do."  "No, I mean...you like her."  "...yeah."

I also think it was around then I was overhearing the girls in another class talking about how Dana was impressing them in The Music Man rehearsals, and I felt a mix of...I'm not sure what exactly, except that I was proud for her.   Or maybe it was a little later I drew Kris, when I had taken a part in The Time of Your Life, if for some reason I had similarly won a spot on Dana's radar.

Kristina still appears in my dreams from time to time, but then she would as she was the first I ever fell in love with and so she became part of the dream-vocabulary of my subconscious.  I was over her a long time ago but the fondness and warm memories are there.  She's a kind of avatar for those feelings.  Sometimes she appears as a proxy.  I dreamt of her a few months ago...as the dream was fading out, she asked me how I was doing.  She didn't look much like Kris anymore by that point in the dream, though.  She was looking a lot like Dana. 

There was a woman who looked a bit like Kris at the Franklin re-opening.  Her eyes, especially.  Kris had the face of an angel.

I recall one time in February '88 that Lori Hamilton was going to come see me to talk to me about her disappearance and her time in L.A.   I had been severely depressed, suicidal.  Hadn't seen Lori for some three years.  An hour or so before she was meant to arrive I was standing at street's edge to cross for the mail.  In my peripheral awareness a car was passing, driving too slow to be regular traffic, but then sped up as it came abreast of me... and I'd have sworn the woman driving was looking at me - and looked like Lori.  But it was only a fleeting impression.  And I still wonder whether she saw me standing there and got spooked.  Maybe it wasn't her at all.  Anyway, she never showed up that day or after.  She didn't call to say she'd try again.

I saw Lori just once more after that time she did or didn't drive past.  Bobby Jackson's band Blind Push was playing a gig at a bar and he invited me.  Lori was there.  She was happy to see me, and she knew I was happy to see her...but I gave her the space to walk over and talk to me.  She didn't.   That was the last I ever saw or heard from her.  I loved her too, I fell pretty hard.  I'd still like to have her in my life again as a friend, and I wonder what it would be like to spend an afternoon talking with her.  She was a spiritual nomad, I wonder where her life has taken her.

******************
(Dream, morning, October 26th)  I'm in  a public diner or cafeteria, sitting at the center of one side of a long table which is filling as the members of a specific group arrive.  Our table is in the corner of the place, so we are surrounded on two sides by glass walls.  It's daylight, in an urban or suburban setting, business district, all concrete paving.  The group has already been in existence for a short time without me, has met several times, but some of them are longtime friends and they have always considered me a member of the group from the beginning even in my absence.   Someone new arrives, invited to join.  He is very neat, dapper,  with dark short wavy/curly hair, very much a business type, and when he sits he begins a dialog with me.  He's bright, outgoing, cheerful.  I can't recall any of the conversation.  He sits at the end of the table to my left, either on the opposite side or literally at the table's end.  We shake hands, he gives his name which I don't catch, and I offer mine.  He says "Name?" as if I've confused him.  I say, "Well, you can use anything you want, really."  By this I mean he can apply my name to whatever he likes, but realize he might hear that as he  can call me anything.

There is a shift in time, more have arrived and the table is just about full.  I have moved to the right end of the table to make room.  A sign in front of me on the table indicates that the group is launching a podcast.  The new guy at the left end is saying something (I no longer remember) about his nature being malleable, that he changes.  He then goes outside, and I watch him through the windows as he begins to dance in ways that seems out of character.  He seems to enjoy his dancing.  No one but me is paying any attention, but I point him out to a female friend sitting at my immediate left and say that I think this guy is going to be really interesting - as long as he's not turning into someone hostile.

The guy comes back in and looks completely different.  He's shorter, younger, rounder of face, hair is longer and straight, now more red than brown.  His clothing has changed, very Mediaeval peasant, loose-fitting (suggestive of a very artsy stereotype).  He sits directly opposite me at the far right end of the table and his demeanor is markedly hostile - though like before he devotes his attention solely to me, like I present a problem he needs to understand.  Again, too much of the conversation is lost, but he challenges me with remarks and I try to address them openly and in a non-combative way.  I tell him that when he  said his nature is fluid I believed him.  He says to me that mine is not, both a statement and a question.  I reply, "Probably".  He's not sure if he's right, and I'm not sure what the question refers to - what specifically he needs to know.  Then his demeanor changes. He's been defiant, but I see this now as defensive, as he willfully drops his guard and asks if he can ask a question.  Now he looks uncertain and vulnerable.  He asks me, "Could I get your heart wrong?"  Dream ends there.

I'm sure I heard "Could I get", not the more sensible "Did I get".  Maybe 'could I have gotten'?  Any number of things point to this person being Dana, the most tangible being the hair.  Still, didn't get a sense of her presence while dreaming so it's probably an extrapolation from inside my own imagination. I wish I could recall the rest of what was said, it might have been important. 

Did she get my heart wrong?  Only she knows.  She's never told me what it is she sees in my heart - malice, love, compassion, weakness, I don't know.  It doesn't look like she's ever going to tell me. That too makes it hurt worse: I lost her and I will never even really know why.  Will she get my heart wrong?

As coincidences go I keep getting nods to one of the other reconciliation dreams, including motifs of dancing, rooms lit in red, and a piano. That dream of long ago has been very much on my mind, so I'm very sensitive to any iteration of those elements.  If they appear, I'm going to spot them and magnify them in my awareness. That leads to hope, which is killing me.  Dana's rebreaking my heart all over again.

I've been getting the feeling Dana hasn't even been looking at her FB account at all, never even saw my replies.  I think the dream of the woman on the ocean liner* re-enforced a notion that Dana had to get away.  Immediately prior to this dream I had a dreamlet flash of a PM someone sent (not necessarily to me) which consisted of three words, the only clear one being HOME.  Emphasized, was seeing it in all caps.  I think another was 'again'.  Suggestion was 'arrived home again'.  Wondered if home meant California or Portland.

*In personal notes, not posted.

Fuck the Past

It's been two weeks.  Time is messing with my head.  With mom I wonder how it could have been two weeks already, it feels like yesterday.  But with Dana every passing day feels like weeks.  It had to take a lot for her to say anything, so I know maybe she'd need time to let that register before she'd even want to see if I responded.  I get that intellectually but emotionally it's eating me alive.  I think she still wants that distance, and I think she wants it permanently.

Moony might be coming over towards the end of the week unless something comes up he needs to attend to.

Scott's having trouble too.  I don't want to take his attention away from home, he's needed there.  Jesseca is needed with her mom.  I'm here for them for as much help as I can be.  Seems like moral support is the best I can do right now, just be here for them to sound off to.

I keep fearing Dana will say that the moment for a reconciliation has passed and we missed it.  I want to say fuck the past, I want to be a part of her present and her in mine.

Did I mention already?  Mom enjoyed watching auto racing.  A week ago from last weekend my sister was getting up from a chair in the living room (remote not in hand) when the TV turned itself on, switched to a channel with NASCAR.

Keep feeling like I'm having a blood-sugar low but my numbers are always okay when I check.

I've had three more pieces of major bad news tonight.  I don't want to elaborate.  One involves the husband of a niece. 

Just been told - er, the upshot is no more art of any kind until this is settled.  Unbelieveable.  It's not natural the way this keeps piling up.  Can't help noticing, it's everyone who might be able to help me get out of this alive that gets hurt.

**********
Had a dream of a frog that spoke to me. Jesseca advises that frogs are a big thing in Modern-Tradition British Witchcraft and that I may have been contacted by a spirit guide.  The frog said "Look out for the broken one".  "Look out for" can be interpreted not as a warning but as an instruction to be protective or compassionate.  Within moments of our exchange, a post popped up on Jesseca's FB feed proclaiming "I'm not as O.K. as I pretend to be."  It came from a site titled "Broken", and the poster was not someone she knows directly.  I can't help but wonder if I'm being advised to be extra careful with Dana, though I never thought of her as broken.  I've always felt protective toward her, but I've also always wondered if she doesn't much care for people taking that attitude.  She's very private.

There are other aspects of the dream symbolism I need to consider, introducing much ambiguity, but none of it apparently indicates Dana.

Edit: My sister just described herself as "emotionally broken".  She wants to sell the house quickly and doesn't think I should keep my belongings.  Worse, I suspect she thinks my stuff should be sold along with everything else, the profits of which are to  be divided.  That can't be right.  So, yeah, I do have to look out for my own future.  I want my stuff but if it has to be sold, dammit, that's my money to live off of - as little as it will last!

Tried a melatonin pill last night.  Dropped off right away but slept less.

***********
I sent Dana a friend request.  Was going to wait 'til she gave me permission, but she's breaking my heart all over  again.  I noticed the last time she posted to FB was early June.  What was the date?  The 8th or something like that.  I just noticed from my own notes that the last time Dana appeared in any of my dreams  was the 8th of June.  Cutting and pasting:  "Thursday, June 8th.  Three hypnagogic flashes.  One was of Dana's face, beaming with joy.  She was wearing a crown (slightly tilted to her right), and she seemed to be looking at me.  This was quickly followed to by more of her face, in close proximity to me,  happy and without the crown."  Tiara doesn't make sense.  Detail points to Tammy, not Dana.

She had appeared a few days earlier: "Saturday, June 3rd.  Had a dream I was at a shopping mall with Dana.  She had short hair and a mid-light blue outfit that included a short jacket, tight  at the waist, in a checked pattern.  First we were in a music store, I bought four LPs - one of the album jackets folded out to become an actual wearable jacket.  (Hmm,  lot of emphasis on jackets here...) , then we headed into the crowd and down a narrow flight of stairs where she chose a restaurant and took a booth.  We were both having a good time."

On July 24th I dreamt of Lori Hamilton, and couldn't tell if it was meant to be Lori or a proxy for Dana.  "This morning (July 24th) I dreamt of Lori Hamilton (who looked like herself throughout, wearing faded jeans and running shoes).   We sat on the kitchen floor together, her leaning back against the oven.  Funny thing was, from her POV I was only there as a psychic transmission in her mind.  She could hear me though she didn't speak.  She held a large, hardbound book, and I had to guide her to hold it so that I could see the pages.  Across the pages was a live moving image of her as she sat before me, holding the book (imagine the book as a laptop, I guess, and my eyes the camera feeding it the image).  Then I was sitting closer and the book was gone, and maybe she was aware of my corporeal presence...she raised her right foot and rested her ankle on my shoulder, leg to my cheek, her left around my other side.  Her silence and expression were melancholic.  I gently kissed her leg, and caressed the outside of her left.  It was a profoundly intimate moment, and I wanted to make my caresses more erotic but was afraid of doing the wrong thing by her.  Her gesture contained an inherent eroticism but it seemed half-hearted, her mood seemed more sad than anything, like I was on her mind and she missed me."

The Bonfire of Inanities

Have prepped a page to draw or sketch Ilhan Omar.   Think I wanna do it in pencil, but it's in a sketchbook so not quality paper for a finished work.  I'll try to consciously be less detail-strict and focus on the feeling, the textures.  Small so it's less intimidating.  Finished a painting for one of my sisters, but not my kinda thing.    Working on a platform for cone incense, because they won't burn if air is cut off from the bottom.  I've taken some screening and wired it to a plumbing slip nut.  Over that I've baked some Pluffy.  That's uneven but can be made to look nice by dding asymmetrical details in putty - say, vines/leaves and clusters of grapes, or leaves and ladybugs.  You could do that with clay in the appropriate colors, I'd prefer grey putty and enamel paints.  Because the mesh allows ash to fall through, it can be set on a brass platform for candles.

I'm moving out of one darkness a little (my broken friendship with Dana, having at least finally been able to say to her the most important things), have faced the second (my mom passing), and am still in the middle of the third (fearing for a roof over my head).  As for the first two, I'm still alive.   When I do get a little sleep at night most of my dreams are dull and innocuous.  No Dana in them.  But then I wake up and I suddenly remember that mom is gone, and remember the situation.   The shelter of the room and blankets no longer feel real.  Most nights are like that now, I get more sleep only when my body forces it.  Most nights dreams are forgettable and neutral.  Tuesday or Wednesday night was puntuated by miserable nightmares of loss, one each of the four times I slept.  Fucking long night. 

I am - maybe?  sorta? - at a place where I'm thinking this is survivable.  I just don't see anything good coming.  Nothing that will be worth it.  Just more whitling away at my life.  New York is so far off.  Meanwhile I keep trying to part with things are a part of me.  Things my mom gave me, things I created, aspirations I'd had and have been trying to achieve. 

I'm not suicidal, which is surprising.  Wish I'd get hit by a car, though.  Struck by lightning maybe.  Just scared and dealing with grief a moment at a time.  Wishing I didn't have a greedy, grasping, lying brother making this as difficult as he possibly can...his behavior is bordering on sociopathy.  I think he wants us to sell the house so he can buy it in order to either flip it or give it to one or both of his own kids.  Anything to get us out of it.  Family meeting had some choice word for and about him.  I tried telling him on the phone yesterday, and he refused to hear it: however he thinks he's coming across, he's not*.  He's got a perception problem, and it stems from himself.  No one in the family can figure him out, we all think he's crazy.  If what he hears doesn't suit the narrative he wants to cling to, it's fake news and we're all lying and out to get him.  Sounds a lot like a certain criminal POS he voted for.  (That's not a right or left thing, ANY of the other candidates would have made more sense.)

*I imagine Dana could say the same of me, exept that I'm willing to listen.

I do still hope Dana will share with me what she's been through and tell me of her path out of it.   I want to hear that things are good for her now, and it would be so good to hear it right from her.  I want to see her smile.


Well, whatever happens Dana did right by me.  She saved my life, I think, and she did finally reach out to me.    I'm not abandoning hope of her doing it again.  And I'm not falling out of love with her.  I wouldn't know how.

Will have new glasses finally in ten days.  Progressive lenses, never had before so will take getting used to.

Haircut is growing out.  Instead of looking like one of Trump's thugs, now I look like a muppet.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Edit, Saturday morning.  One of my nieces has bi-polar disorder.  Between the loss of her adoring grandparents and the abuse of her so-called boyfriend, she had a bad low last night and called out to Karla for help.  As of this morning I haven't heard word back yet.  Karen said she might have to go to the hospital.

Her young daughter Katie fell out of a playground swing the very day mom passed, broke both her forearms.  My friend Scott, his father was badly injured a few days go (recovering).  Jesseca's mom's car flipped over a few days ago.  I have urged Jesseca several times to please do a protection spell for herself.  I'm not kidding about it.

***********************
My niece is...I don't know, it's too early to say she's doing better but she's still with us.  She's considering her options on how to proceed for the next few weeks.  Another close one.  No one in my family is getting much of a break, no day to rest, to wrap ourselves in a semblence of peace. 

I'll try to work on Ilhan tonight.
 
Time has become inconstant.  At least I'm not Billy Pilgrim.

I dreamt a prophecy, dreamt it over and over.  Dreamt of the recconciliation before there ever was a rift.  A few weeks ago I heard a hypnapompic voice in my halfsleep say "It's coming true".  I didn't know if it referred to Dana coming back to me.

If this was it, if this is all shell give me, then the prophecy was a broken promise.

Most of those dreams came while she was still in Portland.  One was a day or so before Thanksgiving, a year in the early Nineties.  In the dream, I am home by myself as my parents are elsewhere.  A car pulls u the driveway, the one Dana used to drive to school.  her father is driving.  I  step  out on the porch and we meet there face to face.  The dream ends before we speak, as the first snow of the year is falling. 

I was always half afraid of that dream because the universal interpretation of snowfall as a metaphor is death.

The night before mom died I dreamt that she and I could see the snowstorm arriving.

Dana reached out as the snow fell.  But I don't sense her presence anymore.  I think she's chosen to be gone again.  I thought for a moment, for a day or two, that the pageview stats might mean her, but now I'm crashing again.  I think some good friends from Dark Discussions might have looked in. (waves!) (I wonder where Mr. E 2 Me is these days?)

Dana, you asked me not to rob "us" of my gift.  You are a gift, your friendship, your presence...you.  So I ask the same.  That's fair, isn't it?  Don't ask of me what you are not willing to give.   I've never accepted you as  anything other than you.  Don't be afraid to let me know you.  

I know you believe in yourself, and I'm so proud of you.  I don't have the first clue what you had to pay to win that.  I hope it wasn't so much that you have no room in your heart to let me believe in you too, at your side. You opened the door once already.  You don't have to run away before the person on the other side can see you.

Whatever your darkness you spoke of or your demons, I can take them.  If that's the problem. That's one of my strengths.  Trust me that much.   Don't rob me of everything else over fear of those.  That's such a tragic waste.  I am your friend above all else.

(ugh.  There's a reason I'm crashing.  It's a song I was listening to a few hours ago, 'I Bet My Life'.  "Remember when I broke you down to tears ...
never in my wildest dreams
Would I come running home to you"
I never want to hear that song again.  Fuck.  This is a song written by someone who just plain ran, who didn't bother to find out what his lover could accept or even thought.  Someone who never lent an ounce of trust.)

(later)  I get that the song is a plea for understanding, but...you don't get to have it both ways.  If your plan is to leave the person you hurt in hell, then stop acting as if you care.  You  don't get forgivenes just so you can keep on hurting someone.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Jesus, Central Eastern Multnomah County is under a flash flood warning and are being told to evacuate.  I'm in SE Multnomah, somewhat higher elevation and should be safe.  Hope those people are okay.

Restarting Ilhan, the page got a bad crease in it.  Maybe I could use it to practice watercolor pencils though.  Pretty thin paper for it but it's just a practice piece.

Dana, you did help at the darkest hour of my life. More than you'll ever know.  I know It was heartfelt.  I must mean something to you.  You reached out, and you meant it.  Please don't disappear again, I'm still in the middle of this.

Being loved really does frighten you, doesn't it?  God I wish I understood you.  Please let me try to understand you.

And - well, I mean, sticking with my understanding that may be way wrong - you're so sure I wanted no part of it.  That I wouldn't have backed you, or would have chosen not to be at your side good and bad.  Biggest fucking facepalm in history and you don't even know it.  Because you didn't ask, Dana, you never dared to find out.  I get that you couldn't then.  But  you're still not asking me anything now.  Don't you have questions?  Do you think you have it all figured out?  Cuz i sure the fuck don't.


You told me to keep reaching out.  You probably meant in general, but I'm hoping you also meant keep reaching out to you.

Still writing books, aren't I?  You called the letters I used to write books.  I'd love one from you. ❤


Hey...y'know, I'm in pretty bad need of money, you could commission a drawing...? Not  a terrible  way to break the ice, get past the wall.  I love your hair in copper, btw.

There have been times I wasn't sure if you were worth all this.  I know it now, you are.  Please put this right.

Still spiraling

Thanks my piece of shit brother, a vulture, we are being forced to hire an estate agent.  I expect to be forced out soon.  Nowhere to store my belongings, and  as far as I know of nowhere to move to.

See, I was trying to get some artwork done today to sell.  Every fucking thing I do to try to get out of this I get punished for.  I spent all day yesterday working towards a job only to find public transit cannot get me there for the shifts offered.

Dana is not looking in here or FB.  I failed that too.

Sexual predation, Weinstein, and supporting the Me Too wave

I seem to have stepped in it again.  Not with Dana this time, at least.

With the outing of Harvey Weinstein as a monster, women everywhere are speaking up in solidarity. It's the Me Too movement, growing like a tsunami.  I hope it sweeps the world.

This is not a time for men to be speaking.  This is a time for men to be listening.  That said, men need to be openly supportive of this tidal wave.  Stand up.

I've known three women in my life who were sexually molested, two more who probably were but haven't told me so, and the odds  are I've known even more without being aware of it.  Two of my nieces were stalked by a known rapist as they traveled to and from grade school.  Fortunately, they were never touched as the family grew vigilant.

One of these women posted a "Me Too" to Facebook.  I didn't feel right about commenting (besides which, what would I say?)  but also felt it wrong to do what so many do - ignore it.  Ignoring it is part of the problem, part of the culture that allows predation to continue.  So I joined the dozens who gave a 'thumbs-up' like in support.

This morning the post was invisible, and I had a message from Facebook advising me on privacy issues.  So, I'm a bit confused and not sure why I was wrong, only that I apparently was.  Not complaining, I want to do  right by my friend.  The lecture didn't illuminate the situation, advising that should the author of the comment choose to make it public then my support would be public as well - and, gosh,  wouldn't I find that embarrassing?

Ummm...no.  FUCK no!  Goddammit, fuck no!!  No I am not embarrassed to stand against sexual predators and the conspiracy of silence that abets them.  What I'm embarrassed by and ashamed of is having possibly hurt someone I care about by being clumsily intrusive on a matter that is deeply  personal and painful.  I'm proud of her for standing up and speaking out.

(edit) Here's something worth reading, an article by Wagatwe Sara Wanjuki on why she made the personal choice not to join the Me Too movement.  She supports it, but feels the focus is mistaken.  The basis for her choice is a belief that men already know how widespread the problem is and do nothing about it.  I disagree with her belief, I think most men are truly blind to it.  Still, her piece speaks to a concern of mine, which is getting men into the discussion of how to address it.  The commentary section is very much worth consideration.  See, I'm hoping the Me Too wave keeps building until it can no longer be denied.

Mom has gone.

Tuesday.  Was going to post about it but I don't have the heart.  I spent it on Facebook, and what I didn't say there I told Jesseca.  I would share it with Dana if she asked. 

I still don't have the sense Dana has any plan to continue talking with me.  Okay.  Well, no, not okay, but nothing I can do about it. I'm determined not to ask or comment to her again, since that's the space she needs.  I didn't say all that I wanted to, but for a moment we were speaking to each other.  It's still surreal.  And cherished.  I said what was important maybe, which is simply that she means everything to me and I care about her, and she can talk with me if she decides to.  I've been saying that for thirty years, but this time she heard it.  That's...that's a lot.  For her to have spoken to me at all is tremendous.

Dana still has the drawing I did of her.  I thought she'd have thrown that away long ago.  I don't know what to think.  I must still have some meaning for her?

Anyway, she's proven to herself that she can talk to me.  She doesn't have to talk about anything she doesn't want to touch on.  I am absolutely here for her.  She just has to reach out.  She did it once, she can do it again.  I'm here.  I'm proud of her, I'm her friend, and I love her.

Oh, Dana, please don't pull away again now.  Not now.  We're so close.  At least, finally explain to me why you won't talk to me.


Hoping Dana will extend an invitation/friend request.


Still watching the fires.  None near San Mateo but the air has to be unbreathable.  She must have people she cares about in danger spots, hope they made it out.  I wish someone would tell me if she's okay.  I won't ask mutual contact  Tammy, I fear she's already feeling caught in an awkward position.  I'm deeply grateful she tagged Dana to see my post though.  I've been so overwhelmed by hearing  from Dana that I was able to deal with...yeah.

The family bullshit already started, not even a day later.  One of my brothers tried to raid the house and garage of belongings.  I don't know what some people are made of.

******
I've now faced, met, and made it through the worst grief I may ever know.  The question I'm dealing with now is: why bother?  Things are still bad and getting worse.  Moving to New Your fell through, moving in with Lore is falling through.  I can still stay here for a little while but not long enough.

Took one day, I fucked up already.

I can't deal with talking about mom right now.  Things keep developing, and the last I was sure of was...it's...everyone has gathered.  I reached out to FB.

Dana replied.  I didn't think she would.  Moony called and told me, and I was terrified of looking in in.  Had to find the courage to do so.

I replied.  And I'm scared of saying the wrong thing, and stumbling.  My aim was not to push her or come on too strong, and I think I went too far the other way and came off cold.  Fuck.  She and I did that once before, miscommunicated from fear.

I just hope I haven't already blown it.

I haven't looked at her FB page, not wanting to until I'm invited to.  I don't want to intrude.  Jesseca checked it out, and tells me that Dana is now an artist!  I hope I get to see it soon!  Jesseca sent her a friend request.  I hope she accepts.  I am so unsure of myself, it would help if they were talking to each other for awhile.

Meanwhile...yeah.  At this point I'm dreading the ring of the phone.  I could almost convince myself that no news is good news.


********
Sunday morning.  Mom is still fighting.  Went into the hospital a week ago now.  God my body won't stop shivering.

I caved to temptation and glimpsed at Dana's FB page.  I was right, one of her avs is the rainbow one. I'm proud of  her!  She had up a vid of Lady Gaga talking about hate.   And...she has a picture of a tattoo - is that hers??  It says "ENOUGH" and is of a bird escaping a cage.  For so, so many years I was having dreams of her as a bird not only trapped in a cage but afraid of leaving it.

And I take back everything I said about her being a coward.  I hope she will tell me her story.  I've always known Dana's a strong fighter and a survivor.  I want to know what she was up against.  It's still hard to take in that she has at least for a moment torn down the wall between us and reached out to me.  I wonder what it must feel like for her to have done that.  Will it make it easier to do it again?

God she's beautiful.

I want to tell her how much she means to me, and I have to hold back lest she turn away.

I think she has a new fan in Jesseca!

###########

Had a dream of a hummingbird about a week ago.  Must have been Friday night.  The dream was that a bright red hummingbird was hovering stationary at just under eye level.  I approached, which it didn't mind at all...petted it, cautiously, which it seemed to enjoy.  Told her she was beautiful.  Her wings spread, she had white and black lines in an abstract pattern over an all-red body and wings.  She seemed injured, so I took her indoors to see if there was anything I could do to help.  She immediately got angry with me, bit me hard, dug her talons in until I took her back outside where she could fly away.  She thought I was trying to trap her for keeping.

That next day, Karla bought a meal at Burger King and got one of their kids' toys, which she brought home and put on the kitchen window sill.  It was the red bird from Angry Birds.

That took a little of the sting out, but might have been meant to punctuate it as important.  It seemed pointedly cautionary.  I have been afraid to interpret it, because the obvious first message is to let mom go.  Maybe that's not it, as mom is holding on her own, as is her nature.

So the next interpretation that comes to mind regards Dana, though it was  a week prior to her reappearance.  I have to not hold on to her either.  She will not be robbed of the freedom she has won for herself, that she should be proud of, that the tattoo represents.  And I will never try to take that from her.  But, god, I hope for another gesture from her soon.  Her note to me has meant so much more to me than she can guess, it's been helping me try to make it through this.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Monday.  Jesseca has advised me a few times to let go of any preconceived notions - be prepared for Dana to be revealed as never having had anything to do with the narrative I've been living with for years.  No need, I'm already there!  I don't know a damn thing.   Honestly, I'm ready to delete this entire blog out of self-conscious fear.

My biggest dilemma with Dana right now is this:  If this one message she sent me is the only time I ever hear from her again?  I want to fully express to her how grateful I am, what it has meant to be.  Instinctively, I want to be open, authentic, and unhidden with her. Yet if I do that, will it be too much?  How cautious is too cautious?  And...if I miss the moment to vindicate her gesture with my honest gratitude?

################

Watching the California fires.  One near Vallejo where I grew up, none close to San Mateo.

Sepsis. Bad.

See last post.  Trying to get a ride to the hospital.  Will try to have Scott post to his FB later and tell people.  I want to ask if someone will inform Dana.

I hope Lore comes through on the room she said she'd have for me.  Will have to abandon everything I own.  Not even time to sort or  donate it?

The only person I even want to survive for is on the other side of the country in New York, and she just got married.  She had said she'd take me, nd I know she wants to, but she's also said it can't happen soon enough (if at all, I'd add).

Every time I think I have a shot at moving forward, sorting things out, making an escape, things suddenly get even worse.  If there is a god he's fucking evil.

Angel Kelly

At least, it's meant to be Angel Kelly.  I'm not happy that I couldn't do a smoother job with her face.  She really is a beautiful woman.  I like the composition, though.

8"x6" (will trim it a touch), two ballpoint pens, took three hours.  The pens are not fresh so they didn't give me even control or smooth shading...I had to keep switching them out.  Because the pens would spit out blotches of ink when I was trying to build the shading, I ended up having to go darker to compensate.  That's why her face doesn't look quite right. 

Trying out a new signature.  I like the look of it, but I don't want to hide my real name.  A 'J'. two dots for an 'E', an 'L'.  The two dots alone didn't quite carry it so I added the bisecting horizontal line. Nod to Amsel.

Damn.   No, it needs work still.  I've made her look like she's been crying.  Also, I'm wondering why I can't find her eyebrow...should find another photo to go by.  If I do this again in pencil, it will turn out right.

(had to edit:  I had said Jill Kelly.  Bad mental state tonight, can't think.)


I was wondering if I might try Inktober this year.  Do 31 ink drawings or sketches, one for each day of the month, on that day (be done by midnight.  The idea is to work on your skills.  While ink isn't my main , it still teaches me plenty.  But I think my time is up.  I have weeks at best, not months.  I don't know what happens after that or if there will be an after.  Mom is taking a nap this evening.  She never goes to bed by 7,  usually 10:30.  I don't know if it's because Karla has made her sit in a hair all day doing nothing or if she's worse tonight.  Has been looking paler.  I am frightened and have been getting little sleep...Probably won't tonight, I'm freshly terrified and already filled with grief.  I don't think I will have time for Inktober either way.

I really need the help of Dana's Vodoun heritage right now to save mom and to save me.  Okay, so I don't know that she actually has that in her family or not, but since I'll never hear from her again I choose to believe it's so.  Why not?

************************
(edit) Reworked the drawing slightly last night.  Didn't sleep last night, got a rough hour or so today.  Woke to a note on my door, mom is at the ER.  Waiting to hear.  Still waiting.
************************


Hmm, I was always taken with  guitarist Wendy Coleman in the video for Raspberry Beret.  She and Dana looked just a little similar when they both had short hair.  I love Dana's hair, long or short.

Dana, This is my last shot.  Please talk to me.  My time is up.

I should have had Moony or someone reach out to her for me, but I hadn't wanted to explain to them or put anyone in the middle.

*********
Y'know, this needs to be done properly.  Angel Kelly deserves a better picture than this.  I need to do her in pencil, then you'll see what I'm talking about.

It's not just her looks.  I've seen her in a  few interviews, has always struck me as a warm, thoughtful, intelligent person of empathy and conscience, strong in a softspoken way.  She's just all-around beautiful.

Mom

Mom just went to the hospital.  Her knee has needed replacing for some years now but the doctors decided she couldn't survive the surgery.  She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and her last appointment they said stage 4.  That's maybe 6 months...and that was two months ago.  Could be longer or could be a lot less.  Everyone is telling me she looks a lot paler lately.  I've noticed she eats even less.

I have no survival plan.  No money and will have no home.  No intention of living like that.  My countdown clock is on.

If I'm awake

Being involved in a play at Franklin felt more like home to me - more like belonging - than I've ever felt anywhere else (the week I spent with Jesseca in upstate New York was a different kind of heaven). 

I attended the grand reopening of the remodeled Franklin.  Had hoped I'd meet anyone I knew but no luck.  Saw a woman who might have been Kristina Burley, or not.  At any rate, she had Kris' eyes and smile.  Shape of her face was right.  Kris always had angelic eyes.  Also saw someone who could have been Jacquie Williams.  I guess I'm glad I went, I enjoyed seeing the school...but it was also a lonely experience wandering through, alone and no one to speak with.  The locations of both my past and my dreams have been wiped away.  I walked down the stairs to the cafeteria recalling the dream in which I reunited with her there...and it only led to an empty hall of classroom doors.  The student commons is now where the parking lot was where I first saw her smoking a cigarette.

 I think Dana was subscribed to the FB page for Franklin alumni but I don't want to look.
 
Didn't get to see the Green Room.  Nice new stage though.  It is now at the opposite end of the building.  Comfortable auditorium seats, very nice...which means I'd no longer be able to conquer them as I used to, draping myself over them in ease.  I might be the only student Franklin ever had who actually enjoyed auditions.  BTW, casting call was posted in the hallway for Hamlet.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Trying to draw, or paint.  That helps keep depression at bay during the task, but depression robs one of the energy and drive to actually do it.  I feel overwhelmed by just getting by, hard to get my head above water.  Jesseca's birthday is imminent.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++



9/10/17  5 in the morning, can't fall back asleep.  Went to bed at 1:30.  Dana finally appeared in a dream.

We're at Franklin - the dream posits us as somewhere inbetween both the adults we are now and still students, apparently, still attending.  The school day has ended, a schoolful of us are leaving, many are staying.  It's more like a college that will remain open and active well into the night.  Dana walks ahead of me - I never see her face.  We head to an exit in the drama wing, someone is singing, rehearsing.  It's not an especially pleasant sound, but I don't care much for the song itself, the music.  The sound is muffled as we step out into the dark of evening and the door closes behind us.  It's been raining.  "Oh, that's better." I joke, referring to the silencing of the music.  "Is it?", she replies coolly, apparently thinking it was an asshole thing for me to say.  She's not impressed.  I've just made a snide, superior diss of someone with talent, trying their best*  We're in the parking lot.  I'll be walking, she heads for her car.  As I still need something in the building, I walk the length of the lot...thinking that I should have looked to see what kind of car she owns so I could watch for it.  One drives past in the dark, exiting the school grounds, but it can't be here as she hasn't had time to get in and start the motor.  My heart is aching - why can I not turn and tell her I love her?  She's right here and I'm letting her slip through my fingers!  I cannot break out of the script.  She's in a play downtown, I'll go see here there (Dammit, why can't I turn and ask her what the name of the thing is - or where??)  As I move, I wonder at the cigarette in my mouth.  Why is it in my mouth?  I don't smoke.  Oh...I guess I chew them as a habit grown out of using them as a pose.  I keep them in my mouth because she smokes.  I  dunno, do I want her to see me like that or not?  I take it out of my mouth but can't seem to flick it away.  I reach the sidewalk and turn to merge with the crowd that is entering one of the front doors.  In my peripheral vision I see the headlights of her car move across the lot as she backs out of a space.  Then the building cuts off the view.  There may have been more as I walked inside, possibly some interaction with or an overheard remark by a younger student...I want something at the office, but the school has been remodeled and I no longer know where the office is.  There also may have been something forgotten at the dream's intro as well, I can only recall the coldness and crushing loneliness of Dana's presence.

Then I woke up and remembered.  There won't be any seeing her at her work or in any play.  Haven't been able to go back to sleep.

*Now that I type it up, I remember someone from school who had exactly that attitude.  Smug, superior, better than everyone else, contemptuous of  others.  Wasn't me, but  someone we both knew.  I'm acting like him in the dream.

Is this what my dreams with Dana will be like now?  Dreams of bitterness and regret.  She  wasn't my friend in the dream, she didn't even like me much.  Her picture here, I still ask her to marry me as if ESP  worked that way.  The words ring hollow, there's no hope in them anymore.  If she asked me to forgive her, I would.  I never will without her asking.

The smoke of the forest fires has lessened but still makes my eyes dry and itchy.  Portland has never had them so close before in my memory, within the city boundaries.  Some six or seven years ago the fires in the hills of L.A. had me worried for Dana's property though I'd no idea whether she actually still lived there.  Jesseca cast a spell of protection for Dana's house just in case.

I love you, Dana.  You're a coward and you broke my heart the way no one else ever could.  But I'll always be in  love with you.



Current song: "Am I Awake", They Might Be Giants

Service today

Military  funeral service for my father today.  The flag was presented to my great-nephew Kevin, which I thought was the perfect choice.  I wanted to thank the military personnel for their grace and precision.

Scott attended.  Mom suggested we get an ice cream after, so I directed him to the Baskin Robbins on Powell where Dana used to work.  Dana introduced me to Pralines & Cream, so I had that with Strawberry Cheesecake - I began associating Dana with strawberries some years ago, though the reason why is long forgotten.  I reminisced over Dana and Lori Hamilton.  Scott wanted to drive past Dana's old home.  The fence is no longer there.  We're wondering whether the upstairs room may have been hers. He wanted to look Lori up on Facebook, but didn't know which one to click on...I wasn't prepared to read that anyway, and fortunately I didn't have to dissuade him from trying again with Dana's FB.

I'm trying not to think or feel much.

Grand opening of the Franklin remodel is Friday Sept. 2nd.  I might go.  Would really love to see the green room, if at all possible.  New auditorium, anyway.  The Buy-a-brick dedications plaques won't be up yet, though.  I've never been to any of the reunions: either Dana would be there, or she wouldn't, and either way would've been lonely for me.

(no words)

My father passed today.  I don't have any wish to write about it or talk about it.  I'm posting to say this is where I am right now.

No Excuse

No, no art tonight.  It's my blog, and this is what an artist's life looks like.  I don't need  an excuse to post.

Something is going on in my family.  I don't know what it is and I hope it will pass without me being drawn in.  My father 's deterioration is getting worse and his treatment in the care facilities continues to be a scandal.  Sounds like my siblings are interfering again.   When they've done this before it was done maliciously and out of rank self-interest.  Mom was showing signs today of not being fully with it today,  that scares me.  People are talking at me about my "plan for  survival",  they're all  so goddamn sure I actually want to survive.  I don't.  Not with the future I'm facing.

Dana, as much as I'm angry and hurting I still need you to be okay.  Remember, that's how we came to be where we are.  I needed you to be okay.   And my fear was not vague or general but very specific: I've never treated you like you're not capable of protecting yourself, or making your own choices, and I've never tried to change your life.  I've never spelled it out here...but, fucking christ, do I need to?  Remember the era.  No one, no one, was taking it seriously.  Everyone insisted it was someone else's problem and they were immune.  The only care anyone was taking was court-mandated.  You know what I'm talking about.  I tried to talk to you about it because I had to. 

I love you.  I always have.  Your unforgiving hatred of me over that is a wound that will not heal.   You've done so much damage, please find your heart and put this right.  All I'm asking you to do is talk with me.

Tunnel Vision

Starting to wonder if my sister isn't reading this blog.  She reads the condition I'm in and makes sure to whisper at me that mom's cancer could...that if it suddenly speeds up I could have as little as two weeks.( and she wants me to believe it'll happen any minute now).  Gee, nice, It's hard enough as it is to push back being suicidal.  And she knows every time she does this shit I don't sleep for days or weeks.  What the fuck am I supposed to do to be "ready"?  Ready to do what? 

Had to interrupt me while drawing to tell me this.

It also fucks with my head on what to pursue artistically.  Stick with drawing and to hell with learning to sculpt or paint?  Work on things that I won't have to throw away at a moment's notice - if I choose to survive?  Some of this is to save  my goddamn sanity, so throw it away.  I'm a sentimental guy, things matter to me.  So throw them away.  Strip me down to a cell.  Take away anything that makes life worth living.

If I'm after accuracy in portraits then the best way to draw Dana is to do a very large drawing over a callage of Post-it notes on my wall,  and watch as each one falls away over time until there's nothing left at all.

No dreams that so much as hint at Dana, even by distorting them with improbable interpretation.  No proxies, nothng.  It's throwing stones into a pond and not even getting a ripple.  She just isn't there.
How can I address Dana's concerns when no one will tell me what they are? 

Day by day my life narrows with my options.

(film noir voiceover) "They tell ya there's a light at the end of the tunnel.  What they don't tell ya is that the light is a flyblown bare bulb in a flimsy cage, painted over birdshit white to hide the rust.  It's only there to mark the end of the tunnel, and once you've exited it's still pitch black but now there are no walls around you anymore to protect you from whatever's out there.  You'll be lucky if anything or anyone really is."  Yeah, OTT. (shrug)

I'm making a tool for sculpting hair/fur based on instructions from 'Creating Lifelike Figures in Polymer Clay' by Katherine Dewey.  Instead of a knitting needle segment for a handle I'm using a wooden dowel.  One end is a set of three sewing needles cemented side-by side.  The other end is a cone that will be ridged for making impressions.  It's a crude-looking construct but sturdy.  I think I'll need to make another with finer needles.  Both will be useful.  I'll post a shot after it's Sculpey'd & baked.  It's six inches long.  I've some sparkly Sculpey to encase it with, purple and white.

Maybe it's a moth riff.

Can't sleep, and my nighttime numbers have been terrible.  The new med is time-release, and I think it doesn't stay in my system overnight. 

I have not had any dreams of Dana.  I have had two dreams of my late parakeet dying.  Two nights in a row - last night, and one just a half hour ago.  In dreams past, Dana has been represented by parakeets, usually caged by someone.  So, though it may be foolish, I'm responding to that: Dana, I love you.  I do not know what the problem is, or  whether there is one at all.  I can't know if you don't tell me.  I'm looking for some reason to believe in you still.  Give me a reason to forgive you.  Talk to me, anything at all.  Just open the door, figure the rest out later.  Baby, it's in your hands.  It is. 

(unhappy, worried)

I am going to order the Milliput delivered, the grade I need always sells out faster than I can grab it at the shop.  Per drawing, I keep looking at Dana's hair and I think I see a way forward on her portrait.  There might be some pics of her in whatever yearbooks I have, but it's not the past I'm looking for. 

Warmth

Chanced upon a can of Plastic Wood, mostly dried out but I was able to cull a usable (just) amount from the bottom.  I might be able to do a lot with this stuff for filler if it were fresh.  I wonder what it costs.  I used it to fill out the legs and torso on the 1/12, (white clumpy material below), then covered them in Mod Podge and paper napkins.  The armature's shoulders were not high enough or wide enough, but it wasn't a problem.  The wire would have been the core of each arm, now they are simply the undersides.  Head a little more filled out, neck is placed without restricting the head too much, upper arms roughly done.  Had to move an elbow up.  Forearms will eventually need shortening to allow room for the hand/wrist subassenblies.  The base disc should have been flat on the bottom but the  amount of Bondene I used to texture the paving bricks warped the plastic, so it's now slightly convex and won't sit flat.  It's also not a problem, as I had intended to elevate the platform anyway (currently doing that) but it's a good reminder to be careful about using too much MEK.  Staff is redone proper length, and the headpiece has a base with a better shape.

^Tidy little waists on those Aurora figures!  Not really, they taper to fit into the upper torso pieces.  It's helpful to have a physical guide to work by.  When I do the pants legs I'll want to do an image search for fabric creasing.

This Plastic Wood puts out fumes like crazy, needs ventilation. 
Right now the only concern is that the base may not be wide enough for his stance with the walking stick

.





The lesson I learned from doing Moony's picture still hasn't set in: go smaller.  All my life I've wanted to do large work.  Poster size!  Wall size!!  BIG!!!  Well, my technique doesn't support that.  To that end I have a sketch tablet the size and kind that I used to carry around at school.  I've a bunch of smaller images ready to draw on sketch paper of 5.5 x 8.5.  Don't know if the paper is a good enough grade for harder leads.  Hope so, I'd like to do these.  I did a half hour on Sharon Mitchell's hand but the conditions weren't amenable, I couldn't concentrate on it.  Too many interruptions to focus on what I was seeing.  You have to be able to...(thinking)...there's a mental process.  You have to take apart the shapes, shade by shade, tone by tone and see how they flow with the greater image.  You have to be able to recreate that.  You have to make choices about transitions and flow of the drawn image regardless of the source.

Still can't find that pic of Nastassja Kinski but I found another from that photo shoot, and I should be able to extrapolate enough from it to reconstruct it.  That is, as I said earlier, what I have is a low-quality b&w copy of the photo used to have.  That gives me shapes and placement, but little visual info.  Now I have a quality shot that's similar but not the same That could be interesting.

Last thing I need is more material to draw.  It's all I seem up for lately, prepping new pages and then not moving on them.   I have Ingrid Bergman, Anna May Wong, a whole bunch of Shanna Evans, Eartha Kitt, Theda Bara, Asia Carrera, Ilhan Omar, and someone unnamed who showed up at a rally for Omar.  The Anna May Wong could be amazing with a ton of tiny details that will be a challenge.

I am having difficulty finding any image of Angel Kelly that will make a good drawing, even a simple head-and-shoulders shot.  It may be that she's less known today and many of her photos have disappeared.  The photography itself is not the most accomplished.  I've a single photo I'd like to try to work from, best I could find  but it's a typical cheesecake shot and poorly framed at that.  So if I work it, I'll have to decide how much or how little to draw.  None of the options work well.  I might end up with just a head shot.  That's okay, Angel's a beautiful woman.  She always struck me as a friendly woman of quiet dignity, intelligence, and warmth, confident without an inflated ego.   Wait, is there more than one Angel Kelly?  (does a search)  No.  Okay, good.  (later)  Mmmm, this enlarges in my viewing program up to life-size.  Loss of clarity though, details get fuzzy.  So I can do an extreme zoom on her face that could be fantastic and maybe convey a mood.  I love it so far and might go with that.  She's got a sweet body, but it's the face that matters. 

***

Depressed, despondent.  Endless succession of joyless days, each spent getting by for the privilege of doing it again the next day.  Obligation to stay alive for mom, for Jesseca.  I'll never actually be with Jesseca again, she has her guy.   I've never been able to wrench my heart free from Dana.  I've tried.  The last thing I want is to fall in love with someone new.

Dana, it's getting easier to stay mad at you, to hate you.  When I start to remember how it feels to care about you, it doesn't last as long anymore.   A few days.   It makes me feel like the biggest fool for thinking of you with kindness that isn't reciprocated.  It's harder to bite back making posts that I hope will hurt you.  I couldn't reassure you, I can't make you cry, I can't piss you off, I can't spark anything in you that cares.   If you feel anything, how would anyone know??

***

The largest moth I've ever seen in person was clinging to the back screen door this morning, and still a little while ago.  Beautiful thing, great big golden-brown eyes, an almost rabbit-like face, markings that had just a hint of strawberry among the tan, white, black, and silver. It's a chilly day after the heat of the last several.  I blew warm breath on it to see if it was still alive, then took it gently in one hand to blow across it a while.  When it stirred it turned around a few times to let me breathe on it from the front and the back alternatingly.  The sun was out and warm so I carried the moth off the porch and into the yard and sunlight.  It took a while, kept trying to stir.  I hope it understood what I was doing...at any rate, it fell into the grass and willingly climbed back into my offered hand on its own. It fell again onto my shirt, and there vibrated its wings for a good minute or more before it tentatively flew slowly up my chest, onto my face, and finally up and away.

Second time I've resuscitated a frozen moth.  The first had gotten itself trapped in the refrigerator overnight.

Uncle Sham

This is my reaction to living under the horror of Trump's America as we struggle to decide whether to save democracy or sell out to fascist dictatorship or Putin.  I really don't know who is going to win.  Kudos to you if you recognize the pop culture ref.

I've done a few things in color over the years but this is the first one I was fully happy with.  9x11.5 inches, watercolor pencil on drawing paper.  

I've just learned that Keith Olbermann is back.  Olbermann is my favorite political commentator - was about to say second favorite, but Rachel Maddow is my favorite political analyst, an important distinction.  Olbermann is as incisive as he is acidic, and unfortunately for America he has been his own worst enemy with a quick temper and an ego big enough to trip over, and descends to personal attacks too easily even against those on his own side.  These flaws keep getting him fired and silenced.  Even so, I've been lamenting his absence ever since the most recent presidential election began. If ever we needed KO's voice it's now.  And here he is.  This takedown is beautiful to behold:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCcw2sPlplY 
So is this 18-minute piece https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQueaSlvjCw  

Unlike, say, Jon Stewart, Olbermann has no innate sense of when to tone it down, to reign himself in for the sake of the message.  But, y'know, unadulterated righteous outrage is necessary too.  Nobody does it as spellbindingly or eruditely as Olbermann.



4304, I'm sure I had that right.

All Your Base

Tuesday, near midnight)  Capillary action, that's it.  That's the phrase I've been trying to recall all day.  Bondene is an MEK-based glue, methyl ethyl ketone.  It works by capillary action:  Hold the piece tight together, brush the MEK along the seam, and it's pulled in.  What doesn't go in evaporates immediately on the surface.  It welds the two pieces together, provided the plastics are an amenable variety.  It also rocks as a paint to add surface detail.

The day never goes where I plan for it to.  Today I've been doing the base for the 1/12 - a ratty courtyard of worn paving bricks, badly laid.  Remind me never again to cut a circular disc from 2mm plastic again.  You can't use a sawblade, and I've no metal template for circles.  Results are ragged, the scribing tool will not keep to the mark.

The disc shown earlier (1mm thick, and also not a clean circle) was scratched up with sandpaper and swabbed in MEK.  Somewhere I've a brush of hard wire for cleaning metal files with, if I knew where it was I'd have pounded the shit out of the disc too with more Bondene before and after to soften the plastic and etch the results.  Next the disc was cut into bricks of 10x15mm.  These were softened at the edges with an Emery file and a round metal file, made a bit ragged, then glued to the new 2mm disc.

I'm experimenting to get the right texture.   Sanding and filing produced some finely ground styrene which I added back to the first brick.  Results were poor as the plastic simply wanted to melt back into itself.  Another brick I left bare for comparison.  You don't want each brick to look the same, after all.  But, no, wrong texture.  To another I added salt.  Forget it, grains are much too big and they won't adhere.  Nutmeg?  Hey!  That looks pretty good!  Lay it on a little thick, then carefully soak it with MEK.  Let dry a moment, push it in with my fingertip, scrape the topmost away little by little.   Try it again with ground pepper.  Wow!  This looks great!  Okay, I won't really know until I have some fresh grey primer to coat it with, and I think the nutmeg will turn out to be the best approximation.  Then again, it has to show to the naked eye no matter the scale...it's gonna be painted so the best result is whichever yields a texture that looks good when drybrushed.   That's what I do best.  The paint job, with drybrushing. 

The MEK is a good reason to use the thicker plastic as a base.  The thinner the plastic, the more it's likely to react to the MEK by warping, and you've a ruined piece.  I built a fantastic wall for a kit once, using those plastic "For Sale" signs that places like OfficeMax sell.  Looked great until the next day.  The wall had curled up.  I'd better leave this disc alone now for a while before I finish it.  I'll be adding nutmeg and pepper and frying it for breakfast and perhaps find some other trick to roughen it up a bit.  Some pitting would be good, just a little.  Then putty between the bricks. 

The figure's feet and staff have stiff wires protruding out the bottoms to pin them into the base.  Three millimeters isn't a lot, so I'll surely need to add some height to the base.  otherwise, it looks perfect the way it is. 

This is me in my element.  How I'd love to be doing this for a living!!

I think one of these bricks ought to be broken, don't you?  A good crack through one is a nice touch.  And maybe one with a corner missing.   Here, though is a lesson in planning, as I'm winging this and realize now that these should have been strategically placed.  I have yet to situate where the figure's feet will go, and where I want to place a nameplate. 



I've a 1/10 scale figure of Gozer from Ghostbusters which I stood on this, and it looked great.  Can't wait to see it painted.  I'll have to watch the movie again to determine the right color, there are few if any decent shots of that setting online.

I made a similar base once using Sculpey for paving stones.  Looks decent but I boiled the poly clay instead of baking it - a mistake, because they distorted somewhat and would not lay completely flat.  Texture was overdone too.  Still, that was meant to look much more ancient than this so it's being rougher works.  (Oh, is it here?  No?  No.  Treasure hunt later, not tonight.)

**********
No sign of Dana.  No dreams, nothing.  She's not there.  🙍  Have I already said I think this is what's behind the 'tormented artist' myth?  You don't have to be miserable to do great work, but it's a motivator to keep you at it.  It keeps your mind occupied for the time that you spend creating.  Too bad it doesn't last, but it can help you reach sleep a little easier.