Sunday, July 8, 2012

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with sleep - W.Shakespeare

I woke up dreaming about a future show.  In the Fall of 2013, PomonaLIFE is coming to The Dufferin County Museum and Archive.  I will be working with a crew of exceptionally passionate artists from various backgrounds and disciplines.  We are putting an installation piece in this magnificent building.

I am still rubbing my feet against the ground, thinking about these dreams I had.

I rewind: There is this voice inside my head that isn't mine. I don't know if these are my eyes either, as I tour through this place in my head.  I see art, hanging like tapestries and I see trees like a forest under a roof in a house that looks like a barn.  I see black and white photographs of portraits (head shots of men wearing suits hanging from thin shoulders and straw faces.) I hear laughter and glasses clinking together, but this room in this building is empty.  Dim golden lights shine from some place like invisible flashlights on motion sensors and they light my way with each step I take.  I am accompanied by no one except a presence I can't explain.  I have a serene smile and a glow but I don't have a body to walk in.

I had a pen in my hand when I woke up, as if in my sleep I reached for my book before I was consciously aware of what I was doing. I wrote down nouns and continued to rub my feet together while coiled up in my bed sheets.  A part of me is still wrapped up in the cotton and a note pad.

I'm missing a piece, but not for long.  It's all about to come together.

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