Kitchen Sink

Therapy is happening with a group of artists I know. My therapist asks all of us to be honest with him, as honest as we can be. The office space feels like it's in NYC. I'm a little exhausted there, pressured by external timelines and obligations. I announce to the group of artists that I feel like my days wobble between feeling like a phony and feeling like my true self. Everyone nods. They too believe this about themselves, about their art and life practice. The room turns into an apartment that belongs to a married couple I know. They are both visibly blue, literally blue in the face, with sadness. The wife is in the kitchen sink, her head is submerged in dishwater. Her face is drawn and morose. The husband wears his coat and it seems like he's going somewhere. I offer to take their daughter for a few days. They say I can try but she may not like the idea of leaving. I walk upstairs to their daughter's bedroom and on the way pass a guru from Australia. She asks me what's on my mind. I tell her secrecy is on my mind. If I could speak freely about things, act freely about things, I'd feel like a better human being. She wants money from me, this is her secret. I can feel it and immediately lose my trust in her. I walk up the stairs to my friend's daughter's room. She plays with toys. I stand and watch her from the doorway.

Pixelated Neon

There's a place that blends churches and workplaces I've been to. Former coworkers are there. People from the portland art scene. The lights are off and there is neon everywhere. In the piping of people's clothes and strewn along the walls. I jut through time and spaces at this party. It becomes digital. The walls and textures. I float by coworkers and feel like I'm on the way to Asia. I'm chasing my friend, a gallery owner in town. He wears lots of makeup and leather jacket. He's a blend of himself and an art critic. His girlfriend is androgynous and from the side looks like David Bowie. I run after Michael and Beckett, in and out of rooms, time and space. I feel sadness about them running, but know I'll find them. There is a door. I walk inside maybe alone, maybe with Beckett and Michael and a few others from this dream. We lie on our backs and watch the dome above us, like an iMax movie, but pixelated like the original super Mario brothers. It's Homer Simpson.