Patchwork Faces of the Moon

Dream: Roots of the Sorrow Tree

2010-11-13T14:03:00.007-09:30

January 23, 2010
Please ignore text links in Story -- I didn't put them there.

Puffs of dust explode around my feet as I run. Sandy roads meander through the village of sand-colored homes. Arid and Monochrome.

She runs ahead of me, the girl pushing a shopping cart. We turn onto the main road, where all dirt roads end, onto this colorless cement that forms a central street to the church. A few pounding steps more and the girl flies apart—slowly—brilliantly. She shimmers into fragments of rainbow mist. I pass through it. Beautiful. Soft colors settle on my skin in cool tingles. This stark land is enlivened with a quenching taste of transformation.

***

It's my wedding day. I'll be marrying the whole family, I'm told. I already live in their large adobe home with high ceilings and winding stairs. They think I am pure, although I've told no lies. Their approval will evaporate if they find out the truth. I no longer have the same face, but he has been with me before.

Will he even love me still if he realizes all the past sins of my flesh? My emotions awaken once more and go to battle. Love, passion, fear, anger and resentment.

He is beautiful, dressed in his white linen pants and gauzy cotton shirt. Smooth skin—blushes autumn-leaf-brown. Dark hair—in orderly disarray—stands out in soft spikes, pointing to everything around him. Large eyes—adoring me, touch my flesh before his arms capture my doubt.

I watch his eyes skim the surface of my own young, brown body. His strained voice croons, "I want you so bad," and I feel a Beatle's song, from another time, pushing at his limits of sanity. "It's driving me mad."

His desire is mine own.

I don't care at this moment if he or his family will discover the truth. All that matters is his smell, the drumbeat of his heart as our chests crush against each other. My body and my heart cry out to be joined with my husband. My husband! We are married… again.

Will he recognize me? Surely when he finally obtains the pure object of his desire, he will know. He will remember. Not so long ago he said, "I'll always love you," to another me. A me who knows his every pleasure and tender spots of ecstasy. Experienced in the art of loving him, satisfying him. Has my physical body changed so much? Have I come back to him so completely different?

Is there something of the old me—the one he promised to love always—that he sees in her—this new self? Maybe that is why he forgets the me, of before, so easily, to be replaced with this version—young and pure. I hate him for this. I love him for it.

I'm embarrassed and afraid. Wonder if all his family will be listening for our act of consummation. The room wavers between large shadows; beige walls and arched window frames reflect soft candlelight in places where shadows are kept separate. Light rolls like waves on the ocean over my white satin dress, clings to breathing motions of my breasts and curves of my pelvis and hips. I know my face looks frightened but not for reason he suspects.

Pulling away, I extinguish the candles and walk to the moonlit doorway of the high veranda. "I'm embarrassed for you to see me." My words sound strange and halting to my own ear. Fearful and Resistant.

"You are beautiful, my wife," he says with a question in his eyes. "Do you not know how exquisite you are? … I'll always see you as you look this moment in the moonlight, my bride." I wish him a bitter taste in his mouth, using the word "wife" as if it were my name. I love him for this. I hate him for it.

I taste the bitterness.

Can he really see me? No, he tells me lies again. But… he will see me… truly see me… soon… very soon.

Large gentle hands. He turns my face up, brushes my cheek and sweeps me into his arms. Strong arms. He places me gently on the bed, removes my silky clothes, and touches my bare skin with fingertips and lips, following all the places where, just moments ago, moon shimmered on my bridal gown. Tingles replace the moon's caress. I've missed his touch, and my anticipation of sensations to come, are glorious foreplay in my mind—where all joy begins. All grief.

My new husband will recognize me any moment. Will he be ashamed to know I watched him fall in love with another woman, another me… this me? Will he be angry that he was fooled, that I deceived him into believing I am now pure? I feel his longing to be inside me. I ache to have him part of me, joined as one ameba-like being once again.

I lose my fears and resistance to passion and draw him into the mysteries of this body, this woman.

His masculine figure is not hulking, but chiseled in ropes of muscle covered with caramel flesh, sweet and hard to the tongue. Dare I lick his hairless chest, bite his tensing neck, whisper in his unknowing ears, taste his sweet kisses. He does not remember me, even now, but I remember… all times before. At last he's returned to me, and I love him even more this time. Time is suspended as I retrace lovemaking from a time long ago, and he explores a woman anew whom he has known for eternity.

We sleep.

Morning brings a knock at the door below our window. I recognize the voice. A woman bringing a book which was forgotten some time ago.

My mother! She will know me. All is lost. What his eyes did not see and his touch did not remember, she will tell. A howling screech twists out of my heart.

***

I will explain. They will understand.

Do I walk inside her bones, with children hanging on my skirt and a baby on my hip? Yes, I see through her eyes, think her thoughts, touch my sisters and brothers. I am the woman who gave me life, standing in front of the door of my in-laws… my front door. Awareness of walking in her bones dissolves in morning sunshine.

The heavy door opens and I'm greeted by a puzzled face. My three children hold tighter, and look at strange surroundings with sleepy eyes. We have walked and slept on the road for days to get to this house. "Do you remember me? I live in the village north of here… where the monthly auctions are held. My husband is manager there, and I pack the things after bidding is done and label the groups of purchase."

A scream cuts the morning air above me. My little ones hide their faces in my skirts. The greeter looks toward the veranda above us. My eyes follow the direction her gaze leads. As a visitor, I say nothing, waiting for a response from the household. Trying to be polite I hold out the book and proceed as if I didn't hear that guttural scream. "I forgot to put this with the other things which were purchased by the master of this household last month. I am sorry it has taken me so long to get it here, but traveling is difficult with children. Please take it. It belongs to this house now."

Dreading the long trip, I had put it off, but I knew this book had to be delivered to its rightful owner. It is done. I've only my journey home to manage now. The book is heavy as I hold it out in compensation.

The woman who had opened the door stands blank-faced, yet seems a bit shocked. Is it seeing a visitor with three children offering her this precious book, or is it the scream from the upper floor of this house? I can not see through her eyes… but almost. We stand, staring at one another—unmoving—quiet. I know she's confused, as am I, but whereas I feel relief, I sense responsibility weighing on her now.

***

All is lost! A scream escapes my throat, before I realize my mother's voice is not a dream, and its sound shakes me to clear consciousness. I have to get away.

Grabbing my bridal gown from the bedpost, I jump up, slide into its concealing whiteness, and run to the window. The voice is still there. Her voice. Why is my mother here? How did she find me? I have to get away. Now!

I pace back and forth across our honeymoon suite. Frantic, I can't think straight. I glance at tangled sheets of last night shared with my new husband. At least I had that. Where did he go? Has he opened the door for my mother? I can not reason it out; I can not endure his rejection. I burst through the bedroom door and run down the stairs, the staircase surface cold with morning chill. My chill runs deeper. I put my head down and cover my face with my arm, so that maybe my mother won't recognize me. Even with a new face, she will know who I am. I lurch past two women at the entrance door to the house and run down the street in my wedding gown—simple like me. Elegant and beautiful—unlike me.

They will search. My mother doesn't want me back; she only means to expose me. I run and run, sobbing and out of breath. Somewhere to hide. Everything glares shades of white and sandstone; buildings, streets clothes hung out to dry on lines. Colorless like my life will be, now, without my love. Muscles ache and the urgency to move has lessened. Searching for someplace to hide, I remember a church at the end of the road, but I've gone in the opposite direction. There is something unusual at this end, something I've never noticed until this moment. In spite of my turmoil, I examine a splendid and lush tree in the park straight ahead. Its fecund green strikes brightly against all the neutral shades of hot dry sand.

There are low heavy branches that droop almost touching ground. If the tree was on a flat surface limbs would, indeed, touch; but it grows on a small hill, appearing to me as if its roots were long ago cradled in loving hands and planted high on this mound—created for its planting—so it could be revered and looked up to, even in its beginning. Vines have entwined the tree and they do touch earth all around the hill. There… will be a place for me to hide beneath bowing limbs with vines grasping the ground. There… between this wall of vines and the trunk of the tree—space for breathing—for crying.

Only a few small places offer a crawl space to get beneath the tree. On my hands and knees, I writhe through an openings to reach the bubble which encircles the trunk of this mammoth tree. Tears still glaze my vision, and cool shade is a stark contrast from the sun reflected sand; dark green, blunt forms are what I see. There are old cement park tables and benches closer to the tree; they produce dark shadows below them. Damp moss or lichen grows like carpet on this ground beneath the tree, even here at the edge of the enclosure. I dig my fingernails, freshly manicured for my wedding day, into this carpet, and I wail my grief into the hillside.

Sufficiently hidden, I stay low resting on my hip. The fabric of my dress absorbs the coolness of nature's carpet and caresses me with its silky touch. Earth cradles my form and gives me some comfort, but her sympathy spurs a new heave of tears. My chest hurts, but a salty stream continues from my face to green moss.

A voice, deep and soothing, calls to me. Glimpses of a figure through vines and leaves passes in sunlight. He can not see me, but I see patches of him clearly enough to piece together his appearance. He wears white and looks like Morgan Freeman when he played God in the movie Bruce Almighty. "Victoria?" the Morgan Freeman god-voice calls. I try to respond, but my sobs blockade my answer.

Another voice, muffled and inside protective Eden with me, speaks. It comes from beneath a cracked and mold-covered park table. I see no one, but the voice is answering for me. "I am Victoria." Her voice is as soft as shadow from which it comes. She lies there, a being in the darkness beneath the table, her head propped up by a tired hand, a vague form trying to be.

Sobbing, I am a panorama colored movie clip which has very little color. Moaning, she is layers of grey in a silent black and white film which has one colored object as a special effect. How long has she been here?

***

I am the shadow answering the call, "Victoria?" It takes much effort to speak through a body now forming in dappled rich mists of memories and desire. "I'm here," my voice is hoarse and crooning. "I've been here all along. I'm safe and comfortable, but sad and weak. Please let me rest." The crying makes it hard for me to be clear—in thought or language. Who's wailing clouds my mind?

***

I am colored in my aging skin now, and tears run freely down my face still, soaked up like a sponge by the hillside. They quench the thirst of this magnificent tree. Feed roots in this dry and barren landscape. I now understand why this tree is so green. It is a sorrow tree and offers strength for our gift of tears. I give my offering freely, and think the tree will surely grow large enough to shade the whole village—the whole world. Tears feed this glorious tree which gives comfort to those who seek this place to rest or find it by chance on life's sojourn. I feel delight being in its presence and knowing some of its secrets. Still I cry. Tears of joy. Not in vain. They bring life… and comfort… and refuge… and protection.

As the morning sun rises and sends rays of light through the tree's green canopy, I can see more clearly the creature… person… answering the call of my name, Victoria. She's still shades of grey in this lusterless color movie, but her shadow materializes into three dimensions as the mist takes form. She reflects a rainbow of prisms against stormy, dark vapors, so promising in its potential for change.

The Morgan Freeman god, dressed in wedding white, watches through the barrier of green leaves, and I can see his smile.

End of Dream

Witchy Woman

2009-11-22T13:57:00.004-09:30

This group of prose and images will take up a few blog pages, but since I've only been posting every-other-month that shouldn't bother my visitors. Read to the last entry dated on this day--the poem Beautiful Branches--and the story will be told. I will say that the images are a part of a new art series named "Witchy Women," except for this first one. It has actually been used several times beginning this summer in real ads on eBay.

Faintly Relaxing

2009-11-22T13:54:00.001-09:30

Chant

2009-11-22T13:51:00.001-09:30

Hurricane Ike Wand Chant

Mighty wind through branches broken
left behind a precious token.

A creation from the hurricane
will shield me from the wind and rain.

When life brings another storm
I’ll chant a prayer to lock out harm.

Stroke the wand, dispel my fear.
Let no danger come near here.

© VCW
2009

MiddleAge Pointing

2009-11-22T13:48:00.000-09:30

Magic Wand For Sale

2009-11-22T13:46:00.002-09:30

eBay Add: Handmade Nature-Shaped Storm-Wood Magic Wand Seeks Owner

The tree called out to me for about nine months before I responded-- both the live Crepe Myrtle and the dead branches that were ripped off.

Long after the drama and trauma of Hurricane Ike, I kept thinking how beautiful the branches were of the flowering tree that chased me off my porch during the storm. I was trying to get my 'outside' dog to come inside and I sat on the porch cajoling him. The storm was about at its peak, and I had to sit in the chair to keep it from flying away. Soon branches of this large beautiful tree were spinning toward us and across the open porch. When that happened... my dog decided to follow me inside. Quickly and without much encouragement.

Months later, while searching the Internet for Val Kilmer movies, I came across an image of the fairy wand used in the film “Willow.” I admired the lovely contours of the little branch, and somewhere in the back of my mind it reminded me of some of the shapes in the broken crepe myrtle limbs. For months these limbs were piled in stacks around my house, in the country, and on occasion they were put on bonfires, but I felt a pull to do something with them. I kept trimming and sorting and thinking. Then during one cleansing fire, it hit me. All those piles of branches were piles of wands and staffs calling out to be given new life even though the flow of sap had been quelled. Their energy was still strong and their wood seasoned.

I'm somewhat psychic and believe in magic, although I am not a witch. Not unless it is a birth right and not a choice. It is my understanding that it is a religion that is chosen, not a condition one is born with, although I've often felt very witchy. It seems to be in my blood, a sensitivity to the earth and all her blessings.

I have, now, smoothed, sanded and oiled many wands. Answering their call to be reborn into the realm of directing magic, I gave them a kind of baptism, letting their magic free, instead of remaining bound up inside deadwood. I have helped anchor them to the core of this planet and crown them in the infinite universe. They are waiting to be found and the process continued-- to find the person meant for them.

Celtic lore is infused with tree mythology. I only recently began to look into the rich history of ancient beliefs relating to curing the sick, increasing fertility, cleansing the spirit, divination, enhancing psychic powers. Different parts of the tree being used in all manner of medicine and ritual. My intuition about these wands is they are protectors and want to encourage action toward well being and balance. I believe that each wand will find its owner, but I have been chosen to help.

No harm will come. No harm will be done.

© Vera Charline Wareham

WhiteHair ThirdEye Crossing

2009-11-22T13:36:00.004-09:30

I need to choose between these two images for the series. On the one hand I like the vivid colors because the images become clearer and sharper as the woman ages. But... on the other hand, I like the more subdued and fading image of one crossing into another world. The softer colors seem to "go better" with the other images also, but that is not the main thing. I need some help. Leave me a comment.

Beautiful Branches

2009-11-22T13:33:00.000-09:30

Beautiful
Branches

within
the storm
a gift
was born
a broken limb
a twitch
a hitch
a blessing
coming
to me,
the witch
who didn't know
she was one

growing from
fertile soil
in my front yard
a spirit tree
touched my soul
as if to be
chosen

for my protector

baptizing
its own
with embers of
smoking
dying
drying
branches
soaked in the rain
of hurricane
cracking firewood
sang out to me
to be
a majick wand

© VCW
June 14, 2009

The Paul McCartney Dream Trip

2009-09-29T19:47:00.001-09:30

I had written several chapters in my book with a thread running through them about Beatle music, it having been an important part of my life in my younger years. I found --through submitting chapters to Internet Writers Workshop (IWW)-- those lyrics could cause big copyright problems, so I must rewrite those chapters. I can use a few song titles because titles can't be copy righted. I will have to do some more research. I gained a lot of fodder to help tie up and end my book from this recent trip. I will explain a little as I add a few images from my August 19th 2009 dream-come-true trip to see Paul McCartney.

Front of the Program

2009-09-29T19:46:00.002-09:30

I have used pictures I took of the program to substitute for pictures which I was not allowed to take in the concert and to introduce and end this photo essay. Here, I will plug the Beatles Rock Band game that is similar to Guitar Hero so maybe I won't be forced to take these images down. It just wasn't complete without some Paul pictures when the whole adventure centered on him.

Fab Four-Sgt. Peper Girl Overboard

2009-09-29T19:31:00.001-09:30

The Golden Legged Girls

2009-09-29T19:27:00.001-09:30

August 19, 1965 and 2009

2009-09-29T19:23:00.001-09:30

As youths we four girls went to see the "Beatles" on another August 19th in 1965. We have remained friends although not as close as we would like. God winked at us, and we were placed in a position to re-live this adventure to see "the" Beatle. Forty-four years later, on August 18th, we met and had a senior slumber party, and we kind of went wild and returned to our teen selves. We talked about old times, acted silly, went for a swim and then crashed.

Fab Four Together-Posing for Rare Photos

2009-09-29T19:17:00.002-09:30

The next morning we got ready for our fast and flashy trip to Dallas from Houston. We had four limousine rides and two plane trips within 36 hours... not to mention we saw Paul freakin McCartney! None of us are rich; like I said, God winked at us. It was a gift

Stretching in Front of the Stretch

2009-09-29T19:12:00.001-09:30

Lowering to Land in Dallas

2009-09-29T19:09:00.001-09:30

Ready to see Paul- Where is that Limo?

2009-09-29T19:05:00.001-09:30

Paul was Fantastic-We Danced the Night Away

2009-09-29T18:59:00.001-09:30

Another Quick Trip-Home From Oz

2009-09-29T18:54:00.002-09:30

Our Last Toast to Oz in the Limo

2009-09-29T18:49:00.002-09:30

The End of our Trip Trip Over the Rainbow

2009-09-29T18:35:00.001-09:30

I have many more photos and much more story on Facebook if you are interested and you are a friend. If I know you, just ask, I'll be your friend. The captions on the images there, in my Paul McCartney album, tell almost the whole adventure, and I am sure most of it will be in my book.

Waves of Independence

2009-07-22T06:30:00.002-09:30

I Will Speak

2009-07-22T06:19:00.002-09:30

"You are free to disagree
because our boys fight for that right!"
You have all but spat this at me.
Are you saying only those who agree should speak ...
that being against the war dishonors our soldiers?

The prisoner in a four foot square cage
rambles where his mind takes him ...
places ...
he doesn't want to go,
as a buddy falls in slow motion,
he feels the gun barrel
jammed into his own sweaty neck ...
places ...
he thinks he may never be again,
with steaming turkey and silverware chimes,
cool starlit nights and Christmas Eve wine.

He remembers ... where he came from ...
the mightiest nation on earth ... yet not perfect.
He thinks about honor ... courage
freedom of choice and speech,
wonders what he did to be trapped.
Free only in thought,
he keeps quiet, and dreams of running.

To give our thoughts voice,
disagree with our government,
is the gift our soldiers give to us.
Would you have everyone--not of like mind
throw this liberty away,
leave us all in a cage unable to change?
I will speak,
try to undo what injustice I see,
use the freedom bought at such a high price
to honor them ... our men ... our women ... our soldiers
otherwise their sacrifice means nothing.

-VCW
Charline

May Flowers

2009-05-28T09:10:00.003-09:30

bone turns to soil
earth feeds the flower
beautiful cycles

APRIL FOOL

2009-04-25T08:08:00.007-09:30

This photo is me as the fool a few years back. Actually... in my balloon delivery business... I called this character Jessie the Jester. Of course a jester is a fool, and the number 0 is my favorite card in the Tarot. It suits me don't you think, "The Fool"? The image was manipulated with Photoshop filters to make it look more like a painting. Many old friends have seen this photo before and it resides on my web site Through My Window with a slightly different version of the poem. I could use some help on this verse. If anyone has any suggestions, I am open to critiques. I like the internal rhyme, but something doesn't seem quite right with it as a whole. Could be the tense... could be just a word or two that still need changed.

Say Cheese

Seeing a being needing some freeing
From a saddened thought that was never sought

I borrow a frown from a bluish clown
Try hard to coerce the lips to reverse

Mark it the target to take a good hit
Contagious, I send the grand healing grin

Learning to turn a face scowled with concern
Into a sequence of wrinkles that beam

Beguile for a while with a painted smile
Planning that after, will bloom true laughter

-VCW

Eye to Eye with Jack

2009-03-26T14:18:00.006-09:30

I just can't seem to get into a groove with my book. I have spent a great deal of time lately on my older art... formatting it for the "Art Message Cards" that I am creating for my site on YouPublish. Of course "Patchwork Faces of the Moon" is always in the back of my mind mulling around and picking up inspiration from some of my more psychic dreams. They have picked up again.

As does much of my other art, this "Solar Animal Series" has a very other-worldly or dream-world look to it. I decided to post some larger animal images at YouPublish which folks can print themselves. Most of the cards are only $2.00 a download. Some are free. I also have some free photographic art images for this "Solar Animal Series." I noted my favorite online service with each image.

This photo was taken at an exotic animal reserve near Kampwood Texas. The subject's name is Jack, and his girlfriend's name is Jill. I think he was trying to make her jealous, because he was really flirting with me that day. He kept dipping his head down so that I could touch him. A giraffe's head is ... really ... big. Anyway... This file can be purchased and downloaded from my new site at YouPublish.

I am enjoying working again with my art, but feel a grinding expectation in my heart to get back into the progression of my book. I'm just trying to make a little money and art as I go. I will probably add the "Redbird Series" to the cards soon and maybe even make some cards from the "Solar Animals" too. Right now, they are just offered in the more expensive downloads.

Happy Valentine's Day

2009-02-13T07:49:00.007-09:30

I can't believe that it is the middle of February, and I didn't even make a post in January. I guess I remembered the New Years Haiga as being done in that month. I have been creating more Art Message Cards for my account at YouPublish. This is a more unusual one. I have a lot of sweet and funny cards that could be all occasion. Several are FREE. Check it out. I will add a link in the side bar, but here is the address. VCW's Original Art Message Cards- https://www.youpublish.com/people/3685

Haiga Christmas Card and New Year's Greeting

2008-12-29T16:39:00.010-09:30

New Year's Tanka

we turn to year's end
remember droplets of life
waves moving from pebbles tossed
time circles once again
seeking the center

-VCW
December 2008

Sleeping in Chinese Boxes

2008-11-28T11:02:00.008-09:30

This is a poem that tells in a few lines an experience that is told in more detail in my book Patchwork Faces of the Moon. The image above is one of the few paintings that I have done; it was destroyed in a fire when my cabin in Bastrop County burned down in 2001. This painting and poem can also be found on my website "Through My Window," although the poem here has been revised. I will get around to changing it on that site eventually.

Sleeping in Chinese Boxes

Darkness covers my eyes
A soft quilt covers my thighs
Sleep uncovers lucid dreams
Where nothing is quite what it seems

A kiss turns into a shout
The sound I feel sharp as pain
Moods alter ... Colors washout
Things change faces ... I can't explain

A place I know ... but not true
Somewhere I've been ... somehow new
I shrink, fly, sink, and then grow
In and out of the rabbit hole

I wake in a foggy maze
Tell my dream while still dreaming
Many times I wake up ... dazed ...
Explain this Chinese boxes theme

Growing longer each time told
New verse added to the old
I rant like a lunatic
About dream-ripples concentric

I lose solid thought and freak
Falling through scene after scene
Lost in the mirrors of sleep
My life chases shadows of dream

-VCW

My Art For IASD 2008

2008-10-30T11:33:00.002-09:30

I had a nice time visiting the International Association of the Study of Dreams in their cyber conference which ended the 5th of October. There was wonderful art and lots of great workshops and informative papers and lively conversation on the threads. I entered five pieces of art, each with a dream verse-- dreamku or series. I decided that I should display a couple of them here since they all have to do with dreaming and may subsequently be included in Patchwork Faces of the Moon or one of the sequels that I plan.

Piercing Eyes

2008-10-30T11:29:00.002-09:30

Piercing Eyes is a good example of how creating art can help you focus on your dreamwork. After I started manipulating photos of myself in Photoshop's Image/Adjust/Curves ... It didn't look much like me anymore. I thought ... I know that face though ... it looks Native American ... I have seen it in my dreams. It is the face of a man, and in my dreams he is dressed rather like anyone might be, so I don't know exactly how I know that he is American Indian. He does seem to be wearing long hair in a pony tail. He is never a main player in my dreams, but a reoccurring extra ... so to speak. I started remembering him only after I saw his face in my art. Then I recalled him lingering around in the peripheral of my dreamscape. I hardy ever notice him in my dreams ... but remember him on awakening. I think he is a good guy. Maybe an ancestor trying to get my attention and guide me. He does look a little like me ... in a strange-colored dream-altered kind of way.

piercing eyes
quiet mixed blood holds
proud Cherokee traits

I should mention that I am part Cherokee, albeit only about an eighth.

Tree Watcher

2008-10-30T11:19:00.005-09:30

Tree Watcher is a reflection of many dreams I experience where everything seems more real than reality. Things are clearer, poignant, alive -- rather like Alice in Wonderland meets Bilbo Baggins.

The message is a Dreamku series. Dreamku is a form of verse akin to Haiku. Most rules apply, but being dream-based verse, these phrases try to capture a moment in a dream. As a series, the verse may encapsulate several moments, but each separate three-line stanza should stand on it’s on. Many of you will remember Patricia Kelly from her workshop last year. I have worked with her all year by email and in her Yahoo group, Dreamjin, learning the art of Dreamku. It is an excellent tool for dream exploration an often cuts to the core of the dream when you are searching for that perfect word.

past and future
beneath your sentinel gaze
collisions abound

like heat waves
our lives mere shimmers
ancient eyes blink

human echoes trace
heat rising fast to heaven
you frozen between

Check out my VCW Original Art Message Cards at YouPublish.com

2008-09-08T15:49:00.006-09:30

Dreamku Haiga - Ink Blots #4

2008-08-09T07:48:00.015-09:30

This is the last 'Ink Blots' image variation that will be put up. If you are so inclined, please comment on which one you like the best. Remember ... I am working on enlarging the text size of the Dreamku in #1 and #2. My friend Patricia Kelly mentioned that the word 'beyond' kept replacing the word 'behind' as she read the dreamku. After rolling it around in my mind for a few minutes, I decided that it did have a more etheric sound in this verse, so I went with it.

NOTE: If you do not have a g-blogger ID, please sign your comments, so that I will know some one stopped by besides anonymous.

Thanks -VCW

Dreamku Haiga - Ink Blots #3

2008-08-09T07:48:00.010-09:30

This is my favorite and closest to the dream vision from which the dreamku came.

Dreamku Haiga - Ink Blots #2

2008-07-21T12:01:00.010-09:30

This is the same image as below with color add from Photoshops image-mode-duotone. I chose a tritone.

Dreamku Haiga - Ink Blots #1

2008-06-14T07:12:00.006-09:30

Three ink blot doors
Each one closer to me
A man passes behind

I created this art to go with the dreamku that is with it. I didn't get the exact image that was my dream, but I gave it a try since it was something that I could reproduce with photography fairly easy. I may experiment more with these images and add a few variations. -VCW

Nobody saw vivid connections?

2008-05-15T06:20:00.006-09:30

In reference to the previous post Precognition and Dreamku?... It seems as if no one else saw all the connections that I did. I guess that I will have to write a story in more detail that shows all that happened and my feelings about it as it unfolded... through my character Cheyenne's eyes.

2008-05-02T11:00:00.003-09:30

May 2, 2008

I put this essay/journal entry, below, on this blog because it has to do with a little incident concerning some dreams, and it has some of the strange connections that I have written about in my book "Patchwork Faces of the Moon." I don't know if it would be considered precognition or if my déjà vu was in overdrive at the time. Either way it is likely to show up in the book in some form. Straight up or morphed a bit to fit.

-VCW

Precognition and Dreamku?

2008-05-02T10:31:00.018-09:30

May 1, 2008

Yesterday, I took my grandson, who just turned five on April first, to an after-school library program. The presentation was a couple of old projector reel movies. The first was called "Stanley and the Dinosaurs," the second reel was called "A Picture for Harold's Room." Both were very cute films, but while watching each, I kept getting those hair raising déjà vu feelings and remembering my dreamku from nights before.

"Stanley and the Dinosaurs" staring Corey Burton, Will Ryan and Directed by John Clark Matthews was one of the first, if not 'the' first clay character animations. In my mind it was well done--better than any recent attempts where digital components are added. It was funny and the messages were clear. To me. Use your head, don't always go along with the crowd so that you are accepted, learn to have fun and last but not least--become a vegetarian. I am just being funny with that last message, but it did seem a real message--to me.

Stanley was always using his mind to improve things and make his life easier and more fun. He invented singing by copying the wolves, and later making he own tunes, and then finally adding words. He was eventually kicked out of the cave for being inventive just as he was going to suggest that they all move beyond the cave to somewhere less dark, damp and insect infested. He also shared his food with the dinosaurs instead of making them his food, much to the disgust of the other cavemen. Stanley eventually saved those cavemen because he had made the dinosaurs his friends.

My first jarring déjà vu came when the dinosaur, a T-Rex, that was telling the story began talking to one of his friend dinosaurs. It was a simple statement that was a prankish wish, but yet an omen of what the dinosaurs would evolve into--according to most modern scientist. He took a few heavy pounding steps, and then he said something like "I wish I knew what it was like to be small and light and even fly like a bird." I am not sure on this last mention of the word 'bird', but the connection was clear--again--to me.

When Ms. Elizabeth, the youth organizer for the library, introduced this film, she made it clear that it was not a true story. "People did not walk the earth the same time as dinosaurs," she had said. "Stanley discovers many things in a short time, and it probably didn't really happen like that. I don't believe that dinosaurs talked or told stories either, but this is just make-believe, as are most movies."

It would seem logical if this dream had come after I attended this program, and even now I would scratch it off as coincidence, but... there is the next movie and dreamku for me to consider.

Here is the dreamku that I had written about a dream several nights before.

Prehistoric Flash
April 20, 2008

I shrink to bird size
lizards and fowls small as fleas
beneath cypress roots

dinosaurs were huge
compared to us now
we were larger then

now we are to birds
as then we were to dinosaurs
largest predators

calcium layers
lie as man's prehistoric bones
earth strata

our skeletons
mix with our banquet of prey
proof too big to see

*****

The second reel, "A Picture for Harold's Room," stars the famous Harold with the purple Crayola from Crockett Johnson's collection of youth books. I say famous, because by the way others acted, I should have remembered him. I didn't. It seems he has been around a long time. In this film, I was at first reminded of the dinosaur dream again when Harold began drawing the winding road on his wall and then he stepped into it. He was giant-- bigger than the village that he drew and taller than the mountains. Then my mind was flashing on the snow topped volcano in the other dream, the perspective all thrown off. I will insert my second dreamku series here, and draw a few inferences after.

April 29, 2008

sunset clouds
point to a dormant volcano
photographic art

a road winds through hills
I'm awed by colors on snow
joy catches my breath

I drive too near
to get a better photo
bending over backwards

I can't focus
too close for the big picture
mountain or sky

*****

Harold draws on and on, more hills, birds, snow caped mountain, an airplane, a boat and then he finds place in between mountains that looks like a good spot for a railroad track. He draws the train tracks closer and closer to the viewer with flowers and birds along side. It gets wider and the flowers get bigger until he is standing beneath a flower and a bird is towering over him. He realizes that he has gone from being very big to being very small. Harold decides he has to get things into perspective, so he draws his bedroom door which has a mirror on it. He draws his reflection smiling back at himself, and goes on to draw a small framed picture for his wall. It ends showing the crayon on the floor.

The dreams happening in advance of me seeing these short cartoons seem to be a message that I should pay attention to the movies. I have yet to figure out the reason or meaning. But... I am sure that it is so big and so 'in my face' that it is out of focus, and maybe it is going to be very hard to believe. Again my dreams and the intuition in my daily life have joined forces to get a message across to me. I guess I should be preparing myself for a big revelation, and I should also be prepared to draw my way out of it, putting my 'self' back into perspective.

-VCW

Additional Information and Photos:

I found the cartoon on u tube while I was trying to find an image of the Harold by the tracks as he drew the flower and bird that were taller than him. I couldn't manage to find that image except in the video form, and couldn't get the image that I wanted. No right clicking on a paused video. I finally took actual photos of my screen with my camera so that folks like me that are very visual could see how the images could really relate to my dreams.

Harold's many adventures with his purple Crayola, and "Stanley and the Dinosaurs" can be checked out from the library or purchased at book stores or online

Some pictures from the cartoon "A Picture for Harold's Room" can be viewed below.

To see the cartoon click on the link below.
A Picture for Harold's Room

A Picture for Harold's Room

2008-05-02T10:31:00.012-09:30

2008-05-02T10:31:00.011-09:30

Unmasked

2008-04-23T09:21:00.003-09:30

Moonlit Memories

2008-03-12T21:29:00.007-09:30

Study of a Red Bird Through My Window

2008-03-12T21:28:00.001-09:30

This series of photographic art with verse is an experiment. I know of someone who makes a living selling greeting cards that she designs. I just thought that I would try my hand, since I love making photographic art and writing poetry. I am new at these short verse styles, but I love them. I hope to get better before I even think of marketing some version of these cards. These are some of my new haiku, senryu and tanka.(Maybe I should say haiku-like, senryu-like and tanka-like.) Critiques welcome. Keep in mind that the verse was written for the image.

Mesmerized and Peeping Nervously

2008-03-12T18:52:00.003-09:30

Swooping In

2008-03-12T18:45:00.001-09:30

Seasons Fly

2008-03-12T18:20:00.001-09:30

Christen Your Wings

2008-03-12T17:47:00.001-09:30

Corner of an Old Photograph

2008-03-12T17:19:00.001-09:30

Twist of Fire and Feathers Flaming

2008-03-10T19:21:00.002-09:30

Flight into the Unknown

2008-03-10T19:07:00.002-09:30

UnMasked

2008-03-10T14:40:00.004-09:30

This art was my first posting. I added the dreamku below on April 23, 2008, turning it into a Haiga-like image that I put up for viewing once again.

asleep and unmasked
I fly through layers of dreams
shadows of the moon

I may use it in the Haiga form as my front page from time to time, because I like to greet my viewers with an image--not just a lot of text. The image is a composite that started from a photograph that I took of half a mask and the shadow of me holding that mask ... all one image. Then I added an old photo of myself highly morphed. It was fun and is very symbolic for me. It looks rather like a moonlit image and a bit patchy also, so I thought it fit right into this blog theme. It might make a good cover for a dreamku chapbook.

Thanks for taking a look.