Lion Confrontation and the Gelatin Hockey-Puck Gift

Lion  from dream
mixed media
soft pastels and acrylic
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Lion Confrontation and the Gelatin Hockey-Puck Gift

I am with a group of people that includes Sara and Erin at a wild animal Park with free-ranging wild animals.  We are on foot, not in expedition vehicles.  I leave the group briefly to climb to the top of a large hill, and from there, I see below me a huge maned lion chasing a wildebeest.  There are 4 or 5 wildebeests running ahead, but he has his eye on one and as the other veer off to the sides, he follows the one.  The lion and the wildebeest are running from my right to my left, approaching me at an angle.  Suddenly, another lion appears from the left and rears up, roaring, confronting the first lion.  The wildebeest escapes.  I realize how close they both are and am frightened and run down the hill to where the others are to warn them.  I am afraid, but the tour guide and others seem to think we are safe.  That the hill between us protects us.

We continue our conversation and at some point later, I show Sara and Erin that I have this hockey-puck-shaped gelatin block with which I am going to make a gift for Alden. Saturday, September 19, 2015

What does this remind you of?

First, the dream was very long and complex and I feel sad that I can only remember such a small part of it.

I am, of course, much sadder that I am missing Alden’s babyhood, Frankie’s childhood, and the other three grandchildren, too. L  I wish I were rich enough and healthy enough to travel much more frequently to see the grandchildren.  (And Sara and Erin et al!)  And I wish we weren’t estranged from the other three grandchildren.

I know that female lions normally do the hunting.  However, I dream most often of male lions, and they seem very threatening and scary in my dreams.  I may dream of male lions because I am afraid of men.  Especially roaring (angry) men.

When I was hiking alone in Colorado, at one point, I came out on the top of a cliff and looked down into a marshy wetland and saw a grizzly bear.  I had read about female hikers being mauled and killed by grizzlies and was a little worried and fearful. The cliff I was on was not very tall, maybe fifteen feet.  It was however, very steep, vertical, and I knew the grizzly bear could not climb it.  I also knew from experience that is it often possible to climb around a cliff.  However, the bear paid no attention to me and continued on its way. 

If I were in a shamanic frame of mind, I might consider the lion(s) to be “spirit guide(s)” with something to tell or teach me.

Yesterday, I went a field trip with my Japanese woodblock printing class to see an exhibit of prints at the Lawrence Street Gallery.  There were some gelatin prints there and I told Lori and Joan that I had considered buying gelatin plates to make monoprints at Utrech when I was there with Sam and Joan (and other times).  At the exhibit, there were books handmade from prints, and I told Joan and Lori that that was why I had originally signed up for the printmaking class, besides thinking it would be fun.  I thought I could maybe make children’s books with woodblock prints.  I had no idea, never having taken a class in woodblock printing, how complex the process was.  Cindy and Lori both take a YEAR to make a single print.  That would totally not be conducive to making gift books, which would need a number of prints. (Maybe potato prints would work better!)  Also, yesterday, I picked up a circular piece of plywood upon which I considered making a painting to go with the others I have tentatively made for Alden (which need to be framed.)

Which brings me to the topic of guilt, I wanted to make books and art for Frankie and Alden, but I have so many ongoing projects and there’s been such upheaval in our lives that I haven’t been able to complete any in quite some time (including one from two years ago that is partly done, Frankie goes to France, Italy, the Pinery, Welcome Home Alden, New Kid, The Welcome Home generic, and one I started for Gail that was supposed to be for last Christmas.  That was a version of one I made for Frankie, but I wanted to include the new painting, since I finished the painting—I only need to clear the gutter and upload it. And then there are a number of kids’ books I’ve written and thought I shouldn’t do until I finished the others.)  So I feel sad and guilty.

Once a project gets on the back burner, it’s difficult to pull it forward again. L  Because I’m immersed in my current projects, such as carving the blocks for my Japanese woodblock printing class.  Which I’m having insufficient time to work on because of my novel and the other things going on in our lives.

Speaking of guilt, I got to bed later last night than I intended.  Since it was early, and I didn’t get a story, I read a chapter of The Forest Lover, by Susan Vreeland, which I am loving.  Then, I read a chapter of How to Fix your Novel.  I was only going to read one chapter, and go to bed, because I was feeling utterly exhausted, but the chapter was short and I continued reading.  I read three chapters, and of course, that book has assignments having to do with the novel you are currently working on and one of them seemed particularly relevant, so I started working on it and then next I knew, I was eating (some salami) and working on my novel and the next thing I knew, it was 11:41.  I dropped everything and went to bed, but I’d meant to go to bed early.  And for me, being in bed does not mean being asleep.  I couldn’t sleep.  My goal is to get to bed by 10:30 and get up by 7 AM or earlier, and when I sleep later (or lie in bed later, more like it, because I am tired, but can’t sleep), I feel guilty that I am wasting time.  And I feel guilty for going to bed late, because then I am more likely to get insufficient sleep and waste some of my morning work time.

Speaking of guilt, I was reading a (“stoopid”) article about type A personalities which said that they are most likely to die of a heart attack.  I don’t want to be a type A personality!  L  (I don’t want to die at all, I have too much to do!)  You’re a Type-A Personality if your to-do list is ever-present (and ever-growing), if, in fact, even your to-do lists have to-do lists (or, at the very least, lots of highlights and annotations). “You know you’re a Type A person when you go over your to-do list first thing in the morning and you’re multitasking to a superhuman amount,” says Melissa Heisler, stress-reduction expert and author of “From Type A to Type Me: How to Stop ‘Doing’ Life and Start Living It.” So use your affinity for color-coding and list making to your advantage. Capitalize on your organizational skills to help your non-Type A family members and coworkers and motivate them to do well without setting unrealistic expectations, says Ramani Durvasula, Ph.D., licensed clinical psychologist and professor of psychology. Take charge of planning your next family vacation, volunteer to head up a new project at work or organize a weekend getaway for your friends. But maybe, just maybe, learn to delegate some of those action items.  (I don’t want to do any of those things—I want to organize my novel, my kids’ books, my art, and my love for Keith.)

I’ve been keeping color-coded to-do lists for years.  And I feel guilty about doing it and guilty that I don’t get everything on it done.  But there is more on it than anyone could ever do!  But I can’t leave anything out!  (Except what I finally forget!)  It stresses me out and the things I don’t have on the list also stress me out (like cleaning, for example!)

I have other characteristics of a Type-A personality as well, but I am getting OFF the topic of the dream and have much else I MUST do. 

Beater Mess

Beater Mess

I am standing by the front door with a group of children, nearly ready to leave with them to go someplace when my mother hands me a beater to lick.  It is thickly covered with super chocolaty batter.  One of the kids bumps me and the beater with its batter falls to the floor, which is covered with a very new and clean-looking rug.  I immediately pick it up, but a huge amount of batter sticks to the floor.  I say to the milling kids, be careful not to step in the batter, and one boy comes over and intentionally sticks his foot in the batter on the rug and then backs up, tracking it to the door.  He stands with his back to the door wiping batter from his foot on the door.  I am horrified by the mess, guilty and worried about getting it clean again, but I do nothing about it because I want to get the batter licked off the beater before I move to try to clean up.  I worry about the kids tracking through the mess and making it worse.  My mother reappears and the mess is miraculously cleaned up without a trace or stain.  I feel relieved but guilty that I didn’t help.  Tuesday, July 28, 2015

What does this remind you of?

I am reading the book, It was Me all Along, by Andi Mitchell, about food, over-eating, obesity, which was given to me by my daughter, Sara, for my birthday.  In the opening section, the author describes, among other things, licking raw cake batter from bowls and beaters.  Her mother gives her one to lick.  My mother did that too, and of course, I continued to do that as an adult.  Probably, reading It was Me All Along yesterday stimulated the dream.  I loved to lick beaters.  It’s one of the reasons I rarely bake anymore, because licking the beaters and the bowl etc. is so very tempting to me, even if I am cooking something I shouldn’t eat.  A huge discrepancy exists between what I would like to eat and what it is safe for me to eat with my allergies, food addictions and health issues.

I also have issues around messes, messes I make, and messes I have to clean.  I feel guilty about making messes and about not keeping things as clean as they “should be,” but I absolutely hate cleaning; it is one of my least favorite things in the whole world. (Although I do like things to be reasonably clean, neat and organized, getting them that way is not my forte.)  And I worry specifically about the expensive cream-colored rugs in our house, including under the dining-room table! (Seems so weird to have a rug under a place where people eat!)  The amount of batter on the dream beater was way out of proportion to what a beater could actually hold.  And it kept expanding, like the amount of anything sweet and chocolaty that I would want to eat if I ever allowed myself to do so.

In the dream, I also felt guilty that I had a beater to lick and none of the other kids did.  That didn’t seem fair, yet I was unwilling to give it up.  I have guilt about having things that other people don’t have and need, about not donating money to worthy causes, etc.

The boy who came over and stuck his foot in the batter reminds of my brother Robert and Graham, their contrariness, of which I have a large dollop as well.

On my recent trip to Syracuse and New Hampshire, I felt guilty that I did not help more with cooking and finances. Also sad that I lost time at Heidi’s dealing with the phone.

The Forest at Night IV
by me, Mary Stebbins Taitt

“Ya cain’t get they-ah from Hee-ah!”

I am going to a personal retreat at a rented cottage that seems to be (in my mental map) south of Syracuse (Tully, Pompeii?) in the hills.  I am driving my normal little silver Cruze headed down there, happy and excited.  I start feeling a little confused, like I’m not total sure of the directions, but I think I can find my way there.  I come to a construction site and the road is totally torn up, the pavement is gone.  I consider continuing on the road past the ‘closed” signs until I see ahead huge earth moving equipment.  Then I become a little nervous about continuing and decide to turn around.  It appears from the tracks that other people have done the same thing and I follow the well-worn tracks of a U-turn that takes me onto a different road that seems to be heading the way I want to go.  But a little while later, the road diverges west.  I keep turning on other roads trying to head back south, but every road takes me in the wrong direction. The next thing I know, I am walking south, determined to get where I am going.  I run into other people also trying to get to cottages in the same area and we talk about the cooks that will be preparing our meals.  The cooks are fat.  The other people are younger than I am and walk faster.  The trail we are following takes up over what appears to be a mountain pass.  It gets progressively more difficult and dangerous.  The people ahead of me enter a mass of huge, pointy rocks and boulders.  I follow, but a few minutes later, they return.  “You can’t get through?” I ask.  “No,” they say.  I consider going to look for myself, but they are younger and fitter than I am, and if they can’t get through, I probably can’t either.

I wake up distressed.  Dream, Thursday, April 24, 2014

How does this make you feel?  What does it remind you of?

“I consider going to look for myself, but they are younger and fitter than I am, and if they can’t get through, I probably can’t either.”  I need to remember that that statement is not necessarily true—think of climbing Seward, Donaldson and Emmons, when I was only one out of 26 people, all younger than me, who made it to the top.  (Speaking of which, a “secret” inner goal of mine is to be able to climb again, but I feel very discouraged about that happening [which is why it is secret].)

I am feeling confused about where it is that I want to be going.  I want to be healthy (physically, mentally, emotionally, socially and spiritually), I want to deepen my relationship with Keith and with Frankie and my kids and I want to publish my books.  I want to be lean.  But there is also the feeling of something deeper.  In the dream, I seem to be going to a personal writing retreat (not an organized one, but one I set up for myself, like the one at 7^th Lake.)  But since this dream theme is constantly recurring, I need to explore it a little. I would like to do some special work on it, including writing and journeying, as well as talking to Brian and friends).

I feel as if I need to pick ONE project that is the most likely to succeed and try to keep it on or very near the front burner until it is finished.  But meanwhile also look at the trajectory of my life and deep goals and see where I might be failing or headed wrong, or how I can remove the roadblocks.  I also feel that for me, it is OK to work on more than one project at a time, because they act as mind cleansers and feel each other and give me a break when I feel mentally exhausted from.  But not more than 2 or 3 on the front burners.  (A regular stove has four burners, so maybe that’s a good symbolic analogy-2 on the front burner, two on the back burners, the rest in the fridge and freezer.)

In the dream, I feel sad and thwarted.  In my phenomenal life, my health, my writing and other aspects of my life (tidiness, cleaning) seem to meet with one obstacle after another.  Some are internally generated and some are from outside myself, or seem to be.

The Forest at Night III
By me, Mary Stebbins Taitt
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The Lesson and the Game

The Lesson and the Game
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The Lesson and the Game

My first round of practice teaching occurs at a mixed-race, inner-city school.  Most of the kids are black and the teacher is also black and male.  The two student teachers are my friend and classmate, Hank (Henry Phalange) and me.  Hank, biracial, is equally at home with whites or blacks and can switch speech and mannerisms in the blink of an eye.  I, on the other hand, in spite of having been here for some time, have trouble making out the speech of some of the children.

The lesson for the day is trees, tree ecology and tree identification.  We study trees in math, social studies, reading and science.  During science, Mr. Hollinger passes out leaves to each student, and to Hank and me. The leaves seem to be hand-carved out of ebony or some other dark expensive looking wood, but they also feel very strong.  Each leaf is on a black chain and can be worn around the neck.

Hank’s is an American elm, Mr. Hollinger’s a white ash and mine a sugar maple.  Mr. Hollinger’s looks fragile, with its separate leaf-lets, but I finger it, and it seems sturdy.  Chantelle has a big-tooth aspen, Tyrone a cottonwood, Egyptia a red oak, DeShaun a white oak, Jonas an American beech, Micah a chestnut and so on.  We talk about the characteristics of the trees and walk in the new school arboretum so that each child can find his or her tree.  We learn three things about each tree, as we go around, and then, when we stop at the end, the kids each recite the three things about their own tree and the other kids repeat them.

My three things are that we can make maple syrup and candy from the sugar maple, that they are used as shade trees, and that they are part of the beech-birch maple hemlock climax forest in this area.  Also we say the Latin name, for me, Acer sacharum.  I didn’t learn the Latin names of trees until I got to college, so it seems strange to be teaching them to these kids.

When we come back in, the girls in the class are sent next door to Miss Johanna’s room and her boys are sent to our room.  Mr. Hollister pulls down the room-darkening shades, leaving only a slit of light visible at the bottom of three of the shades.  The room falls into darkness.  He directs our class sit on one lab table and the other class sit on the other.  Then he says we’re going play a game called pickpocket. I am immediately concerned, and wish I had been sent over to Miss Johanna’s with the girls.  I am guessing they are not playing pickpocket.

The object of the game is to acquire as many leaves as possible.  He does not say if the leaves will be returned, and I feel fearful of losing my own leaf and of other kids losing theirs and being sad.  I think that this is an inappropriate game, and I am unhappy about it.  However, I am the student teacher, and at this point am only observing, so I keep my opinions to myself.

When Mr. Hollister blows the whistle and the game starts, I back into a corner and hope that everyone forgets me.  The room falls into pandemonium, kids dashing everywhere, hooting and laughing.  Unlike me, they seem to be happy.  At one point, a whole crowd of them sweeps past me, and someone grabs one my arms and I twirl helplessly into the running mass of kids and bang against a lab table, not hard enough to hurt, but I am surrounded by bodies moving, thumping and laughing.

Then I realize my leaf is gone.  I pat myself down and I definitely don’t have it.  I feel a sense of loss and grief and also anger and something akin to hatred for being forced to play this stupid game. It seems to go on and on and I make my way back to the corner and sulk.  I have no desire to touch male students in the dark searching for hidden leaves.  The whole idea seems ludicrous and inappropriate to me.

Finally, Mr. Hollister blows his whistle and the game stops.  Kids turn on the lights, pull up the shades, and hold up their trophies—the ones who have trophies.  The others stand back, but they don’t look sad.  They look surprisingly cheerful.  Hank comes over to stand by me.  He is grinning ear it ear.  “I got your leaf,” he says, and holds out his hand.  I stare at all the stuff in his hand.  “Here,” he says, “take it,” and pushes his hand closer. 

Hanging from his hand is my leaf, my camera, my necklace, and laying in his hand is my cell phone, my wallet, a pen, a paint-brush in a metal tube, my glasses.  Everything is intact.  I look in my wallet and my money and cards seem to be there. 

Hank looks pleased with himself, and happy.  He seems to think I should praise him. But I feel violated and sad.  I wonder if he or anyone else has taken anything from me and not returned it.  Something I will miss later, when it is too late.  We stand staring at each other, our face inches apart.  When he leans and gives me a small kiss on my cheek, I steel myself against drawing back, not from Hank, who I love, but from this terrible game and his acceptance of it.

Dream April 5, 2014

Sugar maple leaf by me,
Mary Stebbins Taitt

How does this make you feel?  What does it remind you of?

It may have been influenced by Reality TV, movies and books, such as Hunger Games.  I have fearfully been avoiding seeing or reading any of them, but they leak into my consciousness anyway.  I guess I am a big wimp.  I hate even the idea of them.

I worked for a number of years teaching in inner city schools, but never played a game called pickpocket.  I have no idea where that came from except perhaps because I have jury duty coming up and worry about the pickpockets downtown.

The Studio and Storage Rooms

I dream I am wandering around our house and find three hidden rooms. One, in the basement, is very large. It has white walls, black and white checkered floors, and an attached bathroom. Another is on the mezzanine level. I am angry at Keith for not telling me about these rooms.

When he comes home, I confront him (in the dream), and ask him why he never told me about these rooms. I am eager to make one into a studio, one into an office and one into a storage area and move all my boxes there. Keith laughs at me and asks me where these rooms are. This infuriates me. "One in the basement, one in the mezzanine." He starts laughing again, and I realize it was a dream (inside the dream.) I say, "It was a dream, so stop laughing." I am annoyed at him because he doesn't understand how important it is to find a solution to the problem. I tell him I think he doesn't care. I am very sad, and at the same time, still eager to move the boxes.

* * * *

I wake up feeling even sadder. It seems that no solution to the problems is forthcoming. I need to figure out a way to get the boxes out of the living room and other living spaces, get them unpacked, get my studio stuff into an appropriate space, and have sufficient work space.

• Buying a house seems like the best solution, in a way, because it would provide storage space, an office space, a studio space and guest rooms. But I don't want Keith spending all his spare time painting and working. I worry about theft and loss of wiring, pipes etc, I worry about taxes and the expense. Mowing the lawn, not having an air conditioner. I like the fact that in theory, at least, we could recoup the cost of the house in the end. Buying a camp would also be cool, because it would give us a place to go, but then I worry about travel, separation (if I spend time there working), and the safety of the camp and its contents when we're not there. There would also still be the issue of expense, taxes, and Keith's time spent working.
  
• Building an addition might work to some extent if we made the addition into a FAMILY room and I could have the current whole office area for myself. It would not provide storage space or guest rooms, however. I worry about putting a studio in the addition because it would be accessible to guests and guaranteed to always be messy. I would like to have the downstairs cleaned up!
• Raising the garage, or building a new bigger one would provide studio and guest room, but would be a struggle getting it passed by the city and might fail.
• buying a new bigger house for all of us, or a more efficiently planned house, would be the best solution is some ways, but it would be a huge hassle moving. The house would be more expensive, the taxes would be higher, but if we found the right house, it could provide all our needs.

The fact that I am dreaming about this means it is weighing heavily on me. Maybe I should do like Tom and start digging--dig a new underground basement for the boxes. If the living room could be made comfortable, maybe I could use the office. But that would only solve part of the problem.

September 13, 2008 The image is a fractal I created with help from Apophysis (not right out of the box, manipulated. Apophysis is a free download.) The image represents the feeling of joy I would have if I could solve the problems presented in this dream--if I had a nice studio space and the boxes were gone, etc.

The Extra Genital

Keith is naked and in a wheel chair. Steve and Sarah are there and upset and I finally see that there is a protrusion, a growth, in the center of his lower belly above his genitalia. I think at first it is his genitalia, before I look closely. A round ball of flesh with pointy protrusions tops a smooth column of flesh like a simple medieval mace (or a slightly overgrown fancy penis, thicker, rounder and pointier at the tip, but shorter than a normal penis). We are rushing Keith to the hospital, although it seems to me that this growth must have been there a long time, in spite of the fact I've never seen it before. It seems so smooth and perfect and well-developed and healthy. We reassure Keith as we rush him toward the hospital, and I am at once worried and calm because for some reason it doesn't seem like that big a deal (although when I wake up I feel a little upset).

Tuesday, July 17, 2007