Morning: My dream

There was a lot that happened before this, but here is where I will start:

I have to go and see this guy who has made this new cartoon that is now in the papers about two genius babies (though they don’t look like babies). The style looks Simpson-like. I see that in one of the cartoons the babies are in straight jackets.

Anyway, I’m gonna go see the creator of this comic strip with mom so that I can get started on some art stuff (sort of like a lesson since I have nothing else to do). Looking back, I realize that the artist guy was pretty awesome. I’ll have to use him in a story sometime. He was about mom’s age, black hair, kinda shy, sometimes wearing glasses ( I think).

He had just moved into this new apartment. It was a large space with a modern look. It was sparse and all the walls where white. There were some abstract paintings on the wall, mostly in red, blue and yellow (primary colors).

There was a large set of glass cabinets set into the wall separating the kitchen from another room. You could see through the cabinets into the other room. It was like a really big version of grandma and grandpa’s house in Michigan. You could see dishes stacked by color in the cabinets. All very organized, very cool.

For minute I am the artist and I try to get something down from the last cupboard. I break a large glass wine glass in the process. This happens a few more times and I say, “Oh, I know this apartment looks cool, but I keep breaking things, so I don’t think its gonna work out.”
What the artist guy is trying to do is get art supplies from the glass cabinets. Mom and I help him get it all down and look at all the cool stuff in these bags and containers. Billons of brand-new, unsharpened pencils, watercolor sets, and so on.

Then we go into the kitchen and sit down at a long, white table by a floor-to-ceiling window. He starts drawing and telling me about the various art supplies that mom and I are still curiously inspecting. He gets out his watercolors and starts painting and mom says, “Hey, Becca, look! These are Tracy Sands’ watercolors! She makes these!” (Tracy Sands is my sister’s cello teacher. As far as I know she has no talent or history in the watercolor business.)

“Really?” said the artist. “You know the person who makes these watercolors? I love them! Never use anything else.”

They were your average watercolors. About seven colors in a plastic case. I said, “I don’t like to paint my sketches. I never did until last summer. It was okay, I guess. I prefer a pencil sketch, though. I notice you have smudgers! I am addicted to them!”

He gave me a look that plainly said that he didn’t like smudgers.

[The dream went on but I never recorded it. I remember that there was something about Michael and a few other kids walking on Irving Middle School’s roof. I don’t usually comment on my journal entries but I must comment on this one. Turned out a couple years later that I, like my grandmother, have a knack for watercolor. It is my favorite medium to use and is where I exceed.]