Years ago in my mid-thirties, I spent every Tuesday afternoon on a Jungian analyst's couch. I would offer up my compulsively recorded dreams and we would dive in. Eyes shut, intuition and hunch on warp speed. Certain elements would get amplified. Conversations happened with dream characters.
This morning I pulled over and laid, what felt like my dream, out on the sidewalk. It was certainly a dreamscape – early morning, the city still drowsy, the sky, a soft veil of light that hadn't turned yellow yet. In that moment when I let the paper float out of my hand I understood what active imagination meant. Imagination as a living breathing part of a life. For an artist, maybe the most important part – the realest part.
I didn't put my collage on the street for someone to find. I didn't know that until I did it. Until I looked at the photo I took of it lying there. Until I felt the volume knob of my creative imagination being cranked up. If a bus rolled over it two minutes after I left, or if it really did blow into the Big Mama Donut Shop parking lot, or if it drifted down into a storm drain it doesn't matter. In my mind it's still sailing off across the city to parts unknown. Amplifying my creative self as it meanders along.
After school I headed north on Hill into Chinatown.
Late summer in Los Angeles. A hot dry breeze was blowing. The air felt good on skin that spent the day in an air conditioned classroom. No one was around. This lovely worn courtyard empty except for a few shufflers or shopkeepers.
A firetruck could have gone by and I wouldn't have noticed. The heat and all the dangling lanterns had me in a trance.
Blissed out on shadows and lanterns.