Lately I have been coming across too many "news" of couples getting together, getting engaged, going off to beautiful places to celebrate their togetherness. Heck, even my recent catch-up episodes on my favourite TV series happened to fall into the parts where people finally get together (regardless of how it all turned or twisted afterward) -- Nygma and Miss Kringle, Sheldon and Amy, Oliver Queen and Felicity, Clara Oswald and Danny Pink. I guess when it rains, it does pour. Oh, and the Darkling kisses Alina.
In times like these I burrow into my studio and stuff the empty lonely spaces with dreams brought forth into physical form -- into a painting, a poem, or a story. I coax my patience to keep breathing and not give up nor abandon me. I immerse myself in deep play, to wash myself of all the clinging questions and sadnesses and threats to hope.
"When one enters the realm of deep play, the sacred playground where only the present moment matters, one's history and future vanish."
Stabs of loneliness are sharper with the cold Christmas season, when mass media plays up reunions, reconciliations, and revelations. These scenarios are not part of my daily life. I tend to be a difficult person to keep and keep up with. My greatest gift this year has been finding the Creative Bootcamp Tribe. Otherwise I would have remained adrift and lost in a dissonant sea, cut off from lifelines.
But I still dream of that other kind of belonging. Despite my impossible standards and ideals, Despite my irrational imaginations. Despite my stubborn belief in fairy tales. Everyone else says, be realistic. Well, my grasp of reality has always been tainted by Other Worlds spilling in.
And that now becomes a major theme in the art I am making for the creative exhibit. Heartstorms. Love. Longing. I will conjure them all into visibility. Tangible on paper and canvas. The greater half of a long story-telling that began with a leap into the void. Perhaps even a mating call of a sort. Even if it is like that of a certain type of whale whose song is way below the hearing range of its sought-out partner and thus the partner often misses the call and passes by.
My art and my stories are dreams, often dreams of love, fathered by the King of Dreams himself, dreams that go back nearly twenty years and still very much alive, taking on various forms of manifestation. For the longest time they have stayed on the sidelines, content to be wallflowers, hidden like a secret, perhaps even hidden with a hint of shame. How dare I? To be so bold? To be so brave? To be something else than what I had been expected to be?
"Dreams still fascinate me: the way they color our lives, what they tell us about ourselves and the world we inhabit. And Dream still fascinates me: what he lets himself feel and know, how he lies to himself, how he keeps going."