Late entry today:
It occurs to me that even in the subconscious are we conscious.
There’s a memory of bonding with a model- ha- I remember now- it was last night. She said that most of her clothes are gifts- and that she trusts the taste of others over her own. This has broad implications. I related about my framing up a composition- I kind of hold onto my seat, and work with the picture as it develops. Sure, I have developed an eye, but I am a big proponent of not overthinking it. She said plus, that she preferred used clothes, and things. I relayed this memory too, about my preference of used things. It turns out, my parents must have picked up on it. Once, as a young adolescent, my dad picked me up from school with a gift of a football. He said that he’d found it in the ditch, while clearing weeds that day. It had some topical scratches, which I noted, saying so, and that I believed his story. I loved the gift. We threw the ball and it was a true joy, not separate from reality. Later on, by a few days, I found the box and the receipt for that very football. It would seem that he made the effort to rough it up, so that he could tell me the story of his ‘finding’ it. My model friend said that that was such a sweet story- and I had a flush of realization that it truly was. I thought later- wow- what is having a good dad relative to my social relationships? What about telling the good? Or seeking to tell the good, again, not separate from reality.
I have a pair of shorts that appeared to me in the same way. Upon a visit to my parents house, a pair of newish (but it looked that they were washed a handful of times) little shorts. They were suspiciously small- they could not fit either of my parents. My mother asked if I wanted them, and I said yes, They were exercise shorts and at the time, I was not taking good care of my body- I digress.
This morning, rather than waking very early and running (my calves are so tight, it would be a bad decision (and mostly very very painful) to do so, I slept in till 7:30, which felt not-good. I ate breakfast, then in class during critique, became very tired, and laid down and took a nap on the floor. Today was field trip day, and after critique we found our car-buddies, (mine was Aaron, who has a bachelor’s in Psychology and likes to talk heady art concepts), and went out to Bird Key Park. I’d thought ahead and brought swim trunks (procured on last Wednesdays field trip, after visiting the Ringling Museum). Aaron and I walked out to the cape of the park overlooking the bay, and I set my things down, and looking around, stripped and slipped into my swim trunks. I took a quick walk to survey the scene, checking entry and exit points, and I was asked what I was doing, and I said going for a swim I think, and some other students arrived too, just in time for me to make a great leaping dive from the apex of the cape, and out into the bay I swam. I’d mentioned to Aaron that it would be a good idea to swim across the bay and back, and he agreed. In the water, I turned to my classmates, who seemed in good spirits, and said “Call me Lieutenant Dan!” as I did a back-reclining breast-stroke, and out into the bay I swam. I turned over and breast-stroked most of it, with some freestyle mixed in, and some backstroke. the water was brisk, and the colors of the great sarasota bridge reflecting into the bay were marvelous. I’d seen dolphin in here two weeks ago. They tend to come through around sun set. I thought about sharks a fair amount, but also of their relatively small size. I was more worried about being worried, than regular worried, so I swam, because that was a thing to do to get through, or across respectively. Another concern was boats, and I kept an eye out for them periodically. One passed by- through the columns of the bridge. I estimated the trajectory, and understood that I did not need to slow down, or break pace, but we would be close. As they passed they turned around to look, and asked in a sheepish tone if I needed help. They half-understood that I did not want to be bothered, but for courtesy’s sake, they asked. I said no, without a thanks, for I was in mid-swim. Toward the far end of the bay, reaching the other bank there was a fair amount of sound in the water from propellers of boats. What havoc humans wreak with recreational boats. I approached a seawall, and wondered how I was going to get out of this water. I saw a Quaker family on the sidewalk by the seawall, and to my left by twenty feet, a couple big rocks jutting out of the water near the wall, so I swam toward those to climb out. Before getting to the rocks, the bottom came up, and I could stand and walk. My breathing had been regulated and my whole self vibrated at a new attunement. The eldest man of the quakers, with a big white beard met me as I waded up to where the concrete wall met the water, extending a hearty outstretched palm to me. What a poetic solution! I grabbed hold of his hand, and he hoisted me out of the water. I stood with the family. There were two little kids, in quaker head-wear, big sparkly eyes looking up at me, and two women, and a younger man. They gathered around me and asked if i’d swum all that way, and if I was scared of the boats, which I said yes and no, and then I saw Aaron! I said “gotta go, there’s my friend”, and went to Aaron, who’d told the painting class teacher that he had to ‘get something out of his truck’ then drove across the bridge to come pick me up. My whole self was ringing with serendipity and bliss, as I rode in the back of Aaron’s truck back to painting class, where I receive a good-humored welcome.
