I had my recurring dream about being in art school again, somewhere abroad. Lots of me running around labyrinth-like buildings, scattered with lounging art school classmates, trying to get things done, trying to find where I’d left my laptop. The usual. At some point, I run into my friend Robyn, and we walk and talk. I explain about how I finally decided to come back to finish my degree, to complete my thesis project. It’s a visual art piece, but I’m running around looking for my laptop because I also have to finish working on this bilingual writing project, unrelated to the degree. We talk about how I chose not to do a sound or music project for my thesis because I feel too protective about music to subject it to art school crits and the like.
And then, all of a sudden, I realize that it’s strange that Robyn is here because she died of cancer a year ago. And I’m like, “Hey Robyn, how is it that you’re here?” And as she’s walking away, my alarm rings and I wake up.
Thank you, dear friend, for visiting. For listening and encouraging. For reminding me that I better get that “final thesis” art project done before I kick the can too. You never know when you’re gonna go, do you? How much time you really have. I’m turning 51 in exactly a week, so how is that going? The seconds on the clock may be ticking a little louder than before.
Some days I feel like I’ve really failed at life, that I’ve made poor choices because here I am, by societal standards, spectacularly unsuccessful. Broke, single, no assets to speak of, no insurance even. And yet, I feel like I’m in a good place. In between jobs and parenting, I’ve been steadily working on several art projects. My subconscious mind has committed to “going back and finishing art school.” And some of my friends, whether of this world or the next, agree that it’s a good idea.
