An elderly Tasha Tudor is wearing a hobo suit and babushka (she sewed) and is riding an oversize red tricycle (she painted) with a potato basket (she wove) filled with flowers (she grew) tied on the handle bars (she’s not holding on to because she's reading a book she wrote and illustrated) with handlebar tassels (she dyed). At that moment, I want to be her.
She points out one of the tacky black velvet painting in the book,
Look how the black brings out the yellow.
Eager to impress her, I say,
Oh, no, See how the black strangles the yellow and drags it out?
She smiles and politely asking me to leave her dream.
Just because they are your personal hero doesn't mean you’d see eye to eye.
The favor is returned with another uncomfortable dream. I am lying on a rug and friends encircle, me taking turns with a talking stick. Passing the token each verbally digs at what they really think of me. Even in this dream state I knew their reason didn’t rest on bedrock. I still became emotionally stripped. I awoke thinking this dream was so bad it must satisfy one of the prerequisites of the twelve steps.