Monthly Archive for January, 2009

The image of an animal totem representing a Native American medicine man comes to me on “Dream Radio.” His name is mentioned, and I hear him described as “3rd most powerful,” in other words, not the biggest medicine. I make a papier maché figure of his totem, and show it to some people, saying I could do my art like this; listening to the “Radio” and making images. The image is a big black dog, like a black Labrador Retriever with a worn red collar, carrying a black crow in its mouth. The crow is hanging from a hook which the dog holds in its mouth.

I woke up from this dream, and began making my morning tea. A big black crow was walking in my front yard, and flew up in front of my window. It was a magical feeling. Some interpretation follows the image:

Original Entry for Hanging Crow

This was my first month in the Glen Ellen cabin. It was in this house that I descended into the full depth of my depression, before I moved to Lagunitas, and my father died. In this context, the black Lab could be seen as the functional part of me, carrying the black crow hanging from the hook – the depressed self. The illustration shows that, after I made tea, and began writing, as was my custom, I failed to remember the medicine man’s name, even though it is pretty obviously Hanging Crow. But there is much more here: The helpful presence of the spirit world is striking, and a way to approach my art-making is suggested.

Attending school abroad, I arrive home, entering a grubby and featureless street-level rental in a dismal, hectic town. My room mate, a thoroughly uninteresting guy I met only recently, and know little about, approaches me and wants to talk. He jumps right in, “It’s not that I don’t like you, but I’m moving out.” I don’t say much, but am thinking we just got settled, and it will be difficult to find a replacement to rent his ugly little room. Furthermore, I can’t afford to keep the place by myself, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.

The scene changes, and, back in the USA, I come home to a modest little house in brighter, more open surroundings. Walking up to the house, I see my room mate, an interesting and likable oriental guy with a sunny quickness about him. Normally, I would walk right by him, pursuing my thoughts, abstracted, but a glimmer of awareness tells me to honor his presence, and I greet him warmly. His response is gratifying, and I feel a sense of connection, almost unexpectedly, as if I’d forgotten how good it is to feel this way.

He is framed in the opened garage door, and his domain begins around the corner to the right. I realize I have never even been in his room, and enter, feeling curious and welcome. Inside, I am immediately drawn to an enormous slanted window to my right, like the classic Paris rooftop artist’s studio. After my 2 right turns, the window faces the direction I just came from, but looks out on a wholly different view. Although the house is set in a gentle green countryside, with a few low houses and scattered trees, the view from this window is of a tall, dense & somber city, curiously silent. The window’s sill is about chest high, while the top might be 16 feet in the air. It is perhaps 25 feet wide. It is divided into a grid of old-fashioned panes, a real artist’s window; seemingly looking out on another dimension, because it certainly wasn’t visible as I approached the house.

Directly facing the window, about a block away, is a tall, old, and very beautiful building, whose curving elegance speaks of of a bygone era, the 18th century perhaps, but it is dark, and all its windows are broken. I get the feeling that this room has a lot of privacy, even with all these windows looking down on it. Certainly, there is nobody in the dark building, and the other buildings in sight turn mostly blank faces, or are placed so that it is highly unlikely that anyone is looking in on us. It is a unique sensation, being able to see so much without being observed. I reflect that, had I not followed the urge to greet my room mate, I would not have seen any of this. I love this window, and its strange view.