Dreamed 2009/11/26 by Wayan
for all us misfit mutts
I'm working on a big dream-painting, Acorn and Pelt. Gotta redo much of it. Sand down and paint over most of the wording and the fight scene at top, then slowly re-letter...
During breaks, I read a lot of comics. Three disappoint me:
Two impress me:
I reject the charge Westerners messed up Thailand. After Miss Don't Touch Me, I see patriarchy as the Thai core problem too. Foreign money can heighten prior injustices, but don't tell me about these poor innocent Thai families broken up. To pay for their sons' colleges, they sell their daughters. For breeding. Like dogs.
I skulk at night around downtown buildings. Slip in. Not easy, but I'm a nocturnal creature--a fox, coyote, or midsize wild cat--not a man. Wriggle in a vent no human could.
I'm not hunting food but information. I find some but not all the evidence I need.
This tower has lights on in one suite on the ground floor. I saw traces of motion too, though I'm not sure a human would.
A female cop with a likable aura and cute body (skinny brunette, latina I think) comes to investigate the same things I did, though not for the same purpose. I trust her instinctively, but of course she won't trust me. And I'm the one she'll spot.
Well, maybe not. I use all my skill and delay her seeing me, hoping she'll flush the original intruder first, and... she does! Narrows it down to a counter made of open boxes.
No wonder I hadn't caught the "burglar"! So small. A tiny, starveling dog.
She croons to it.
So I start to sing too.
I sing that song from the Disney animated musical, you know the one, about Odysseus the dog and his big brother, the one groomed from birth to rule the kingdom.
Big Brother had the training, the confidence, the connections, and most of the pack. All Odysseus had was brains. Brains and a single family servant who stuck with him out of childhood friendship.
As I sing, I see us from outside my body--the starved little mutt sits in one box, I in another, and the cop in a third between us, like she's the beauty-contest judge between us--cop between dogs instead of Paris between gods.
But at the same time, inside the Disney plot, we're perched on shaly, unstable sea-cliffs.
Very unstable. We, or at least the images of us in the song, start sliding down the cliff. Tumble, fall. Ow!
Now THAT's weird. We fall at different rates! Big Brother lands first, with a jar, the rest of us much slower and softer. So much for Galileo! Aristotle was right. Heavy dogs DO fall faster.
Now all the dogs of Ithaka assemble, and take sides, forming two disparate packs. One is the royal court: gorgeously groomed showdogs draped in heraldic doggie blankets. The other: a rangy hound and his stubby, stubborn friend, a country cousin I think, carrying heavy panniers full of practical gear and kibble.
The court, following Big Brother, wades the lagoon to a verdant tropical islet, Purebred Isle; Odysseus and his sidekick dogpaddle across a slightly deeper channel to a smaller islet on the left--the Isle of Mutts.
So the Ithakan brothers set out on parallel journeys through the Mediterranean islands--the long years of strange trials that will prepare them for their roles in the Trojan War (okay, Disney took some small liberties with the true sequence of events: Doggysey first, Kibbliad later.)
We needn't follow their whole journeys. You know how the musical ends.
Even Disney, notorious for meddling with myths, can't change which brother wins Penelope--and the throne of Ithaka. After ten years of trials.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
All the next week, I prepped and hung that artshow for my friend's theater benefit. Huge, some 45-50 paintings & sculptures on two floors. As I prepped, one art piece jumped off my wall and broke, with no one near, after years of stability. Next day, a bigger one did the same. In transit, on deadline, a third fell. Glass shattered. Shards in my hands.
A poltergeist, or my own unconscious if you wish, hated the show--and was willing to smash my art and make me bleed to stop it.
Scared, angry, I kept on. Hung the show.
That ghost was right. The event was a bust. Their publicist was a well-meaning amateur; pulled in 20 people, not the hundreds promised. Days of wasted work for the cast, the caterers... and me.
That was my last big brick-and-mortar show. I (literally) bled to show my dream-art to a few indifferent theatergoers, when a little coding lets six million view it a year. With remarkably little bloodshed. After, of course, ten years of trials. But all artists face that.
The Web as it currently is has profound flaws--Isle of Mutts, no denying it!--but the art world, the corporate world, the snotty Isle of Purebreds? Even worse.
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