Opium. Dreams. Poppies.

It's just a dream, right? All made up but a willing participant. The plot of the dream made up so long ago we have forgotten what we all agreed to, and now fumble around trying to get back. Like when you run in your sleep but don't move. Wild horses off in the distance of the Great Plains thundering towards you, or is it a summer storm? I haven't decided yet. Both are plausible. Both sound good but each bring something different. It hasn't arrived yet, still time to decide. Still plenty of time to change my mind.
Like what is contained inside the envelope folds of a Poppy. Beautiful silk paper wrapping, smoother to the touch than anything. The hands of God giving you something pretty from the Winter cold, first signs of Spring. The thorny leaves of the Poppy should give signal to what She hides in her heart. Cold icy freeze. Bringing dreams and despair depending...The Opium Angel who reaches out to hold your heart in her icy grip. Numbing, removing, detached. "Hurdle jumper," she said to me. Reached out and taught me what She has to offer from a distance. Understood. I was a Chinese man selling Opium in San Francisco She told me. Part of the dream, part of what I'm here to work through. What I didn't leave behind. The smell of it burning in the night, taking me back. The idea being that She's here to remind you of where you came from so you could jump the hurdle too. Stay on your path, remembering what you came to do. It's so easy to forget though. Then body breaks down trying to remind you of where you sidestepped, helping you to reboot and continue on.
"I fell off the wagon for you," Arden said to Myrna, and their Life began, living his dream. Doing what he came to do and then moving on. Marcia told me she dreamed of a man smoking a pipe and I knew Arden had passed, my best friends Father. Reminds me of when my own Father died nearly 19 years ago? Is that correct? Nineteen? Nineteen years ago I left the fashion industry behind, and decided to work on Broadway. Dressing the actors for their show...pointing the way for them to flow into the spotlight. The illusion of attention. The illusion of being left behind. The illusion of time standing still as they perform their magic for you to hide in too, while you watch. I'm done watching. I'm done pointing the way. Making pictures that no one wants but me. Well, that's okay. I still make them, still do what I can to bring them into the world. Who knows? With the internet so many more see my work than could have years ago, not having a white gallery wall today to hang them on. But I'm not complaining, just wondering when I will get my walls. Once I declared I wanted to work in the theatre. Well, now I'm done, and my work needs a gallery.
I want it to be Wild Horses. I have had a Summer Storm. I know what that is, what it brings. I want the Horses.
Poppies. I'm dreaming of Poppies. Poppies to take me there...remembering what I came to do.

Poppy (1)

Digital Photograph

Print Size Variable

2005