I am the Dreamer and the Killer of Dreams

I’m drawn to details. When I sit on the porch, I like to watch the insects emerge from the fallen leaves. When I dream and draw, I sketch small, intricate things. I love botanical drawings and Maurice Sendak etchings. I don’t really sew, but once I tried my hand at making a quilt. Each square was a different flower, small pieces of silk cut out, arranged by pins, and meticulously hand sewn, petal by petal, to make a poppy or a heavenly blue morning glory.

I remember song lyrics too, sometimes down to the preposition. My husband never gets them right. He’ll start singing:

“Everybody’s talkin’ about me …”

I mutter from the kitchen “at”.

“What?” he asks, “Did you say something?”

“At” I reply, “It’s ‘Everybody’s talkin’ at me”.

It drives me crazy, but he thinks it’s funny. Humor is the salve that can heal all wounds, but only if you’re laughing too. I need to lighten up sometimes.

Like today. I was the opposite of light—a heavy dark troll that wanted to kill Christmas and drink its blood in big sloppy troll slurps. Bah humbug a million times over. Thanks, sweet Scrooge! I don’t know what had gotten into me. I usually can’t wait for this time of year: the lights, the carols, making cards, seeing friends, decorating the tree. I LOVE decorating the Christmas tree. We have a hodgepodge of ornaments, some from childhood, some given as Christmas presents, glittery things that Harry made, pictures, colorful string—anything that is meaningful (and shiny) goes on the tree.

Today I couldn’t have cared less. When I passed the pathetic fake tree with its little squeaky lights in Welch this morning, I think I actually said “Jesus Christ!” out loud in disgust.

I’ve been impossible to live with. When my husband suggested we go see The Invincible Czars do “The Nutcracker”, I pulled out my long detailed list of things we had to do that day to get ready for the next week.

“Harry has to finish his home project by tomorrow we need to get groceries there’s no food in the house I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet and then there’s his birthday party next Saturday I hope it’s not too late to order the cake …”

Well, guess what? I ruined that afternoon!

I, the Dream Killer, was in this state of mind driving home from the University. But then I saw a dirty dusty car with this drawn on the back window:

It was so juvenile and enthusiastic, kind of sweet really. I laughed so hard, but I didn’t look at the driver. I wanted to preserve the picture in my mind of ebullient youth, reckless, happy, and free. If the driver turned out to be an unshaven old man, I would have been crushed.

So now, I’m kind of excited again about Christmas. Hopeful even. You never know what the Guardian of the Universe, whoever you are, is going to throw your way, but today I’m grateful for whatever works.

Color Hell

Hell isn’t the color of lava or fire. It’s Spice Delight PWL-81 from the Behr catalog or Dynasty Celadon PPL-80. It doesn’t really matter the hue. Milton said “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” Color can do that too.

“I’m not afraid of color.” That’s what I told Paul who was going to paint the inside of our house. I was so sure of myself, cocky even. My expectations soared! I had looked at remodeling magazines with pictures of warm family rooms, golden retriever asleep by fireplace. Color can create that. Ruddy walls with white trim? An artist lives here! Pale blue next to butter yellow? A woman at peace with herself. Now this, I thought, is going to be fun!

The workers had done such a beautiful job: the walls were so smooth you just wanted to eat them. No texture, just clean and white, a wedding cake. But beware the blank slate. It’s possible to over think things.

“What do you think of Scotland Road? It’s a pretty green.”

“Ooo, yeah, with a white trim. Very nice. Soothing.”

“But is it too dark?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. What do you think? Depends on where it is. Let’s get a tester.”

"What about cornmeal?"

"Nice! Too yellow, though?"

"Get a tester."

"Blue agave?"

"Tester!"

And so it went on and on until the swatches were slipping from our fingers and we needed to get a cart for the testers.

My son, Harry, didn’t have that problem. He walked straight to the Martha Stewart section, picked the color “Calabash”, and said “I want this one”. Done and done.

There is always something to learn from your children. Harry went from the gut. He didn’t hem and haw over how this color would make him feel, how it would go with other colors, whether it was introverted or extroverted, uninhibited or solemn. It pleased him, so he chose it. And it looked great.

We, on the other hand, painted little squares of testers on every wall of the house, labeling each with a light pencil, until the whole house looked like a quilt made from the loving hands of home. Our confusion began here and it only got worse. We brought in other people, looked at more books, thought about color, talked about it, painted more colors, and repainted over them. And our disappointment grew.

Describing color is like describing taste. You compare it to something else, an image or a feeling, like poetry. I’ve always loved that scene in Brideshead Revisited where Sebastian and Charles are tasting different wines and after having had a few begin to describe them in loftier terms:

“It is a little, shy wine like a gazelle”

“Like a leprechaun”

“Dappled, in a tapestry meadow”

“Like a flute by still water.”

“And this is a wise old wine”

“A prophet in a cave.”

“And this is a necklace of pearls on a white neck.”

“Like a swan”

“Like the last unicorn."

We wanted the last unicorn and, damn it, it wasn’t there!

In the end, my husband left town.

“I trust your sense of color. You pick them.”

I did. I can’t say it wasn’t some part of agony. I relearn my lessons over and over. But they look good. And really, what’s the problem? We have a house and walls. Isn’t that enough!

Fact and Fiction

I like the sound of words and combinations of them. Sometimes I’m not even sure what they mean. They just sound good. Worse than wonder is like that. It suggests something great and terrible. The other side of awe. I didn’t come up with it; my Uncle did. He was visiting from Germany, a mini reunion of sorts. We were in the hotel bar, getting drunk while waiting to join my mom. I think my sister was there too.

Uncle Calvin was a great storyteller. He had, as they say, a way with words. He was telling us about his father, my grandfather, watching the moon landing on TV. Apparently it completely unmoored him and all he could do was shake his head and mutter, “It’s worse than wonder, worse than wonder.”

I’ve always been struck by that story and his father’s words. But it turns out, it’s not at all true. I never thought to examine the facts of it, but if you do, it couldn’t have happened. His father died of a heart attack ten years before the moon landing.

So what did happen? And who said it? I’m not sure that it matters.

My family has never really cared much for facts. Facts are facts—dull and dry—but a story is the dream world where anything can happen. Completely different, in their eyes, even for “true” stories. I said “their” instead of “our” because I fall somewhere in between. As a kid, I loved facts—they were the truth—and I couldn’t stand it if anybody messed with them. My brother, knowing this, loved to taunt me by saying outlandish, impossible things.

“I bet, right now, there are only two people talking on the phone at the same time,” He would casually say.

(I always took the bait.)

“That’s so stupid!” I would reply, “Of course, there are more than two people talking at the same time.”

“Nope, only two.”

“But, like, when you’re talking on the phone … don’t you think somebody else, like Ty or Mark or our neighbors, might also be talking to someone at the same time!”

“Just two.”

“How could you be so crazy and so DUMB!” I would shout, getting worked up now, “There’s probably thousands of people talking on the phone right now! Millions!”

And on and on, it would go, until I would stomp out of the room. I just didn’t get it.

We’re prone to exaggeration too. If anyone has a cold, they’re dying. If someone didn’t get a full night’s sleep, “I’ve been up for DAYS!” It made me skeptical. I’d just assume that something happened, but to the left of the scale, and I think it fostered in me a “wait and see” approach.

“Have you talked to your sister?”

“No. Why, what’s up?”

“Oh my God, they’ve had so much rain, the whole yard is flooded. It’s probably leaked into the house. I’m sure the floors are finished!”

Wait and see. With so many disasters afoot, you had to protect yourself somehow. In the end, I lost some faith in the facts of situations, sometimes in the meanings of words altogether. Just because she said it, doesn’t mean it’s true. Wait and see.

And, of course, sometimes bad things really did happen. Terrible things that made you suck in your breath. There were amazing things too, too beautiful to imagine. And I knew it by the tone, by the sound of the words. You couldn’t wait and see. It was there and it was worse than wonder.

War and Patience

Yesterday, my mom said I was the most patient person she knew in front of me, my 8-year-old son, and my 13-year-old niece. We were in the car looking for parking at the East Austin Studio tour.

“You don’t know how lucky you kids are. Shelly is most patient person I know.”

I was looking for a place to turn around so that we could see this bicycle sculpture my son had seen a few blocks back.

“I thought you were going to go back!” my son exclaimed.

“I am,” I said patiently, “I’m just looking for a good spot.”

It was so beautiful and serene. I was basking in the warming glow of my newfound patience. I’m patient! I’m patient! I WIN! So much wisdom and holiness right here in the driver’s seat! I felt light and solid at the same time. The halo lifted me, improved my posture. But my feet, in the way of all wise men, were firmly planted on the car floor.

“Why didn’t you turn?"

"Too much traffic, sweetie, I couldn't then.

Meanwhile my mom continued with her praise.

“Oh, she’s a lot more patient than me or your parents, Maria.”

The awesomeness of my patience was being truly recognized. I was being compared to my brother and sister-in-law! I win again!

“My parents are patient,” Maria protested.

“Oh no, they’re not. Not this patient.”

“Like how, how are they not patient?”

That’s right, Maria, I generously thought, children should defend their parents. Meanwhile traffic was still gnarly and it seemed impossible to turn around.

“Oh I’m not going to go there,” Mom firmly announced. “I don’t need to give examples. I just think Shelly’s more patient.”

“But how?” Maria was looking hurt. “I think they’re just as patient as SHE is!”

Things were not looking good, not good at all. The halo was beginning to fizzle like an old balloon. Maria wanted concrete examples and Mom was not going to give any. It was me against her parents and the mighty transformation from Mother Theresa to Mommy Dearest had begun.

“How, Gigi?” (That’s Maria’s pet name for me.)

“Hey, wait a minute, I don’t have a dog in this fight!”

(Mom actually supplied this conceit. I think I just stuttered sheepishly, “But wait, hold on, I didn’t start … I didn’t say anything!”)

It got worse from there. Maria insisted on examples of her own parents’ lack of patience, Mom wanted to end that conversation, I began to fume at all the morons on the road, and my son, who rarely even rides his BIKE, suddenly became an expert in backseat driving so we could get back to the bike sculpture. I thought of Bill Cosby with his very young daughter. She wants to watch Froofie the Dog on TV, but he’s watching Gunsmoke. He tells her she can’t because he’s already watching a program. She whines and begs and begs and whines until, finally, he says “You can’t watch Froofie the Dog, because he’s dead!”

And that’s how I felt.

We can’t go back to that bike sculpture because it’s gone. I saw a group of girl scouts taking it down. Did you notice it was pink and decorated with Barbies? It looked like they were going to take their bikes down the alley to play with dolls. I can’t go down the alley because cars are forbidden. Plus there was the sign,“No Boys Allowed”. So that’s it. We CAN’T do it!

Excuses and lies! I was on fire, proudly, even as the halo flopped to my forehead like a bad comb-over. Patience? Out the window! Serenity? Poof!

In the end, it was easier to do the right thing—go back—than fight. When we finally made it back to the “sculpture”, it turned out to be a bunch of junk in front of a crack house. The residents glared at us as we cruised by gawking and laughing, because it was funny.