Born: December 10, 1830, Died: May 15, 1886 (aged 55)
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I’m something of a fan of serious poetry and an even bigger fan of those bawdy limericks I post so often. I guess I’m simply a fan of creative people who aren’t afraid to bare their souls to us. I’ve noticed over the years that creative types are a breed all their own. Many are looked upon as being a little strange or weird which has always seemed unfair. Being strange or weird for me is a badge of honor. Let me share the following with you.
Emily Dickinson, whose poetry thrills millions today, fantasized about the earth and sky and heaven itself, but left her home state, Massachusetts, exactly once, and that was to visit her father in Washington DC. She became such a recluse that she would not stay in the same room with her guests but would speak to them from an adjoining room.
Only seven of her poems were published in her lifetime. After her death in 1886, over 1,000 poems were discovered in a bureau. They were subsequently published, but often after word and punctuation changes were made by overzealous editors. A definitive edition of her works did not appear until the 1950’s.
As with all artists and other creative types, you never seem to get the recognition and fame you deserve until you’re dead.
I love to dream and I’m not sure exactly why. It started when I was kid of about eight laying in the grass in my backyard. It was a sunny day and my eyes were closed and I could almost see through my eyelids. I saw crazy swirls and colors that totally captivated me. A few weeks later I was trying to sketch a tree in the yard and I discovered that trees were really boring. I then decided to try and sketch some of those patterns and swirls I saw. It was exciting for a young kid to make that discovery and I actually completed a sketch of them. I tried on a number of occasions to explain what had happened but it was impossible. My mother, a part-time artist herself, politely listened, then just shook her head, and we never talked about it again. Lets jump ahead ten years.
Now I’m eighteen and enjoying my first year of college. It was a school known for it’s excellent art programs and I was finally in my element. All of my friends and acquaintances were artists of a sort and it was a atmosphere in which we were all beginning to thrive. As with any art program you have a certain amount of freedom but are somewhat restricted to what is acceptable for good grades. The wilder and crazier your creations made it more difficult it to get the grades needed to appease the teaching staff. When I tried to do paintings or drawings of bowls of fruit, I wanted to scream out loud. So effing boring. If I wanted a good representation of a bowl of fruit I’d take a picture. My best pieces where those that came to me during what I called my times of half-sleep. Half-sleep is those minutes between REM sleep cycles and the beginnings of wakefulness. It freed my mind and imagination and supplied me with a steady stream of ideas and offbeat perspectives. From that point on I consistently tried to remember and sketch those ideas as I received them each morning.
Jump ahead 50 years. My half-sleep time has now become an important resource which I still use today. Just before I awoke this morning I was half awake and dreaming about this subject and how to best write about it. I woke up and forgot to jot down my notes (always a mistake) and lost the idea immediately. Fortunately as I was relaxing later in the afternoon I began to recall what I’d been dreaming and here we are.
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