Dreams

Who are you?

Dreams 1993

We all have our ‘lost’ selves and our ‘found’ selves. Some days we know exactly who we are and where we’re going. Other days, not so much. We are a mosaic of family history, life experience, sorrow, elation, success, failure. Which facet of us shows up at the boardroom, the knitting group, the town hall, the grocery store, the classroom, the family reunion?

The Simple Song of the Honey Wagon Driver

The other day, I was playing tennis at the local playground when a truck with the logo YOU DUMP IT, WE PUMP IT, drove slowly over the basketball court.  I was serving 0-40, feeling a bit overwhelmed, but I couldn’t help notice that the porta-potty guy was singing to himself as he maneuvered his truck close, attached a large hose, and proceeded to suck out the contents of the outdoor toilet. 

I had been assigned to write and essay that would begin with “Every year I…”. I wondered what he would have written for this assignment.

Would he say that his job made him sing, that he enjoyed the steadiness of his work, the satisfaction of a singular job well done, the peace of it all?

Suddenly, my “Every year I” essay looked small and a bit on the whiney side; that every year I plan to get control of the chaos in the upstairs bedroom I use for a studio, that I will turn over a new fall leaf, organizing the art supplies, putting the charcoals and pastels in one place, the acrylics and oils in another.  I will set up the digital piano again, hook it up to the computer, hoping I can remember which cord attaches to which hole, so I will be able to write the music for videos and any string quartet that might stroll by.  And I will remove all the works on paper from the flat files, catalog them, then put them back in the file, organized by medium or by year. And then I will neaten up the writing journals and the smooth-as-silk pens on the writing table, which will have to be moved now to make room for the keyboard.  Then I will move the guitar into the corner nearer to the art cabinet, being careful not to make it impossible to get at the supplies.  

Which all leads me every year to wonder…am I the scholar? the loafer? the linguist? the guitarist? the piano-playing singing/schmoozing entertainer?  the one who never really learned how to practice and can’t play a classical piece without the same mistakes over and over? the mother? the marriage-leaver? the stage performer? the disappearer? the traveler? the poet? the cartoonist? the lover of Latin?  the one who went out on limbs many others would not have? the one who suffered for that? soared because of that? the defensive youngest of a large family? the more ignored and therefore more liberated member of a large family?  the high flying real estate investor? the utterly lost bankruptcy declarer? the composer of a piece played in Carnegie Hall by the Kremlin Chamber Orchestra? the one who played the musical saw in the NY subway? the one who can feel worthless in contrast to others? the winner of prizes? the loser of self-esteem? the flake? the steady-as-she-goes, disciplined creator of things, the one who is filled with quiet rage at being perceived as a flake? the author of children’s books? the painter of portraits? the one with money, the one without money, the one with compassion for having been there, the one who is judgemental, the life of the party, or the one who’d rather be alone? the one who now can tear up at the oddest times because of the vulnerability of us all? Or would it just be better to back the truck up to the porta-potty, attach the hose, pump out the shite and sing a simpler song?

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The first life I lived (or I suppose I should say the second, or maybe the third?) was blissfully buried in marriage and babies - a time of unfathomable joy. My creative life was channeled through the children, church choirs, strollers, little league, swimming, boating, picnicking, PTA, nursery school sing-alongs, runny noses, skinned knees.

When that chapter began to close, I jumped full-throttle into all the unknown territory buried inside. For ten years, I went berserk, performing, writing, painting, singing. I look back now in awe at the energy it took, thankful for every minute of it.

And Lord knows, I’m still at it, but my ‘hare’ has happily transformed into a ‘tortoise.’

•••••

And so, who are you? where have you been? where are you going? what have you learned along the way?

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I have been posting artwork slowly but steadily on a new website. Artwork can be seen and purchased at shop.sullyarts.com