pink parachute

Sitting in my living room and I've been just a little low-- with the snow, and the dusk, and then night comes and I've neglected the iTunes, and the library is playing some weird Moog stuff that only a producer could love. I apologize to the dogs for letting it go on so long. They wag their tails as I get off the couch to change the music.

But then I make some tea and put on some Madeline Peyroux, and it's perfect, just enough somberness to sweep me somewhere else-- and it's not just the Madeline Peyroux, but the parachutes that we hung all over the living room for Jared's birthday that are still up-- and something about the layers of fabric and light are fabulously exciting.


I start daydreaming about building a treehouse, and a garden with banana trees, pink climbing roses, water lilies, and Polish Frizzles roosting on stone Buddha heads. I must build a chicken pagoda. And then I start daydreaming about quilts with raspberry bandannas and fringe, big pillows and lemon yellow chaise lounges, lemon trees and thistles; thinking about road trips to the desert and drinking pine needle tea, buying cowboy boots, and renting an apartment in Paris. The parachutes seem to represent possibility, and I feel surprised that anyone could sit under them feeling dreary. This is a middle of the night Chico kind of night (not the weather, but the feeling of infinite possibility.)


It's an unscheduled night tonight, I was cut early from work and am home by myself now with my journal and books. These moments... I think they only happen when you completely let go of the to-do list: riding your beach cruiser home in the dark in a t-shirt at 2 am and it's warm and moony out, walking with a new friend to find the flowers that bloom at night, starting out on a road trip at dawn with a mug of coffee and then the sunrise and the empty streets, writing at 4 am with the breeze coming in through the screens, just a little too brisk. This is why a person becomes nocturnal. I think this is one of my best selves: it's like the inner four-year-old comes waltzing out with her crayons and blanket forts and starts saying, "and then we could do this, and then this, and then this...!" And the world gets bigger. It's a different place of creation than the kind of creation where you're two hours into the story, and the pattern is rolling out in front of you and all you have to do is follow... there is structure in that kind of creativity. This creative place is totally unstructured and jumps around all over the place. Story ideas live here, quilts live here, gardens live here and shoes and trips.



I've been so good lately, so disciplined, and structuring my days so tightly. But it's not really all that good, actually. I think I've been spoiled forever by the night walks and maybe now the parachutes, too. Why is it better or more moral to spend my days sending timely email responses than dreaming up my next story or throw-pillow? I wonder what the ideal amount of time is for a person to hang out in this creative generation place is-- the only downside I see is that there are so many ideas and creative dreams floating around in this place that it requires more culling. But maybe that is just inspiration natural selection. The dreams you actually commit to will rise to the top. Looking back through my journals--where I tend to draw pictures of the creative daydreams--some have happened already, some I don't want anymore, and some are still creative dreams. Some are recurring creative dreams, which makes me think they are integrated into who I am-- like, for ten years I've been wanting cowboy boots. In the Second Life of my late night imagination, I take road trips all the time and sleep in my cowboy boots in the back of my pickup truck. Other things: paintings, quilts, recipes, stories, living in Los Angeles, living in San Francisco, going to CCA, camping in Moab by myself, having shows and classes at the Women's Art Center-- these are dreams that started as dreams but have happened already. Some dreams started out feeling outrageous or impossible-- going to Greece by myself when I was 23, losing 80 pounds and having clothes I love-- and now they are just part of who I am.

It is a kind of subtle self-violence, I'm thinking now, on those days while you're in email-checking mode, to look back at all the ideas that haven't happened and feel ashamed because you never make anything happen, you tell yourself, and suddenly the fact that you haven't published a novel yet or been to Bali yet seems like proof that you never will, and you'll probably never do anything, so get used to spending your days checking your email, sister, this is real life.

But really it's all a matter of choice. A healthy creative dream to creative reality differential is always going to have way more dreams than realities. And I don't think the dreams are wasted-- they help define and hone real life. The dreams that slide by are like the boulders under the water that give the river its shape. The dreams to give a hard look to are the ones you pine for but that feel too outrageous, impossible, or the ones that linger for years unexpressed. Like cowboy boots.