Born on a Thursday #17: Come Play with us Holly . . .

Water and Bicycles: Two important things in this town!
Water and Bicycles: Two important things in this town!

It’s been a dreamy week – and that’s how things are in Flagstaff in the summertime. Astrologers would say the recent eclipses, and then, planets changing signs this week could contribute to that feeling. Also, I’ve been spending less time on Facebook and more time actually talking, laughing, dancing, smiling, joking, eating, drinking, working, playing, living with people face-to-face.

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I finished reading Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut over Memorial Day Weekend. I reminisced (ironically, on FB) about the first time I read it, but what I wrote started a face-to-face discussion later that was really fun. This is what I wrote:

I was 20 years-old the first time I read Cat’s Cradle. The only thing I remember about my first reading was the boy who gave me a copy of the book. I was so in love with him! We met at a Deelite concert when they played at City Gardens and he asked me out. He was from Bucks County, PA, and was the most beautiful boy I had ever met in my life – tall and lean, with brown eyes and thick brown hair, he wore linen shirts, and had a way about him that was innocent and playful – I couldn’t believe people like him actually existed! We danced and hiked and biked and wrote fantastical letters to one another.

He had twin brothers, one was evil and the other was more evil. His parents were distraught over my “breeding” and did everything they could to keep us separated. (Of course, all this made me love him more). Then, in the fall, he was off to Bard College and it became obvious I wasn’t fitting in with his new crowd and our true love faded away.

What a magical summer!

By the end of our affair, I was a thorough Vonnegut fan!

In classic Vonnegut form, Cat’s Cradle is dark and satirical, and funny and scary, and timeless. Some of the quotes that struck me are:

Americans are searching for love in forms it never takes, in places it can never be. It must have something to do with the vanished frontier.

Perhaps, when we remember wars, we should take off our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs. That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.

Think of peace.
Think of brotherly love.
Think of plenty.
Think of what a paradise this world would be if men were kind and wise.

The hand that stocks the drug stores rules the world.

Let us start our Republic with a chain of drug stores, a chain of grocery stores, a chain of gas chambers, and a national game. After that, we can write our Constitution.

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I need to get my art supplies out of Phoenix.

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Last night I dreamed of art and the city and rubble and squatting and nightclubs and Amanda Palmer. Paul Kostabi’s paintings and my paintings were strewn throughout the dream.

I live in this very large building, it has columns and rooms and it is dim and partially falling down. One of the rooms is haunted by three young Polish men wearing very short reddish brown tunics tied at the waist with an off-white cord. They are dancing, making repetitive movements, almost like an old Scooby Doo episode when the meddling kids are running from a ghost, but really, it is the background that changes. I don’t know how I know they are Polish, but when anyone opens the doors to the haunted room, they start out at the far end of the room and float to the door, doing their dance. They are not scary, just surprising at first, and then, boring.

Amanda Palmer and I are sharing a pair of jeans. They are hot pink at the ankles, but fade up to the palest pink at the butt. Every time we wear them, we draw on them with a black marker. By the end of the dream, the jeans are almost completely black and blue. Amanda is also wearing blue suede sandals. We talk about art and music in cafes and clubs and while Matagi sits in a dark room, playing a black piano.

Someone is after me, but as long as I continue to repeat the mantra OM I am immune from his bad thoughts creeping into my head. I am at an assembly and I know I am going to be nominated for the presidency. I step outside of a red brick building that has lots of windows. I walk down a hill and get into a car. I call my friend Sascha and ask him what he thinks about the nomination. He hints that I should turn it down, because as the president, I would not be allowed to smoke weed in public. He says, “You are a very private person.” Just as I am waking up, I think, “No, take a position of power and legalize it.”

Earlier in the week, I dreamed of Amanda Palmer again. And, Olivia Newton-John.

I’ve been enjoying having Amanda visit me in my dreams. Today, I got an email blog post by Amanda Palmer. She got death threats over a poem she wrote a few weeks ago. But she keeps on going. This is a time for art! This is the time for sharing that impulse to connect the dots. The link to Amanda’s post.

Empathy is good.

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On my way home today I received this text from a dear friend:

Isn’t it really beautiful that you exist without thinking about it? I love you.

Isn’t it? So blessed!!

Thanks for reading.

Namaste.

Holly