INTO THE BEYOND

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Richard Bigotti, August 12, 1944 – May 5, 2013 >~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Had I the heavens’embroidered cloths
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams.
I have spread my dreams under your feet.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

William Butler Yeats

Oil Painting, The Bridge

Robert Watson

THE STRANGE POWER OF DREAMS

We all dream, whether we remember them or not. Most are pleasant, others sometimes not so pleasant. Some dreams remain with us for years, still with the power to please or to frighten. But what triggers dreams?

A true nightmare sometimes causes us to cry aloud, and prevent resuming a quiet night’s rest. A sexual dream can be disappointing if, upon awakening, the dream prince or princess is not a reality.
But what triggers a dream? There have been numerous studies made of our nightime experiences, but it’s still a mystery.

I can still remember a dream I had when I was 11 years old, which encouraged me to jump off the roof with the expectation of flight. Flight dreams are really pretty common, and given our prehistoric beginnings when we either fought or fled, are understandable, but disturbing in a child for obvious reasons.

A long-standing dream of mine which I file under the title “Dog Dreams” in my memory file, was one where I had been kidnapped, and actually turned into a dog who bit my kidnapper, complete with snarling et al. I had this same dream repeatedly for several years. I’m not proud of it, but that’s the way it is.

In a too-vivid dream I had when my youngest daughter was a toddler, she climbed up onto the railing of a bridge in Ireland, and tumbled off before I could catch and save her. At that time, we had never been to Ireland, with no expectation of ever going there. When we eventually did go, I found myself on the very same bridge I had dreamed. It was a terrifying deja vu moment, though my daughter at that time was grown and married.

Another vivid dream which turned out to be delusory, involved two paintings of mine which I hung on someone’s wall, I don’t know whose. I felt they were some of my best work. I actually searched for those two paintings for days before I was convinced that they had merely been a colorful dream. I sometimes think I may find them again.

Are our dreams just the result of a vivid imagination? I doubt that the mystery will ever be solved, but in the meantime, “pleasant dreams”.

SLEEPING BEAUTIES

Sleep has never been the one long block of dreamland that we think it ought to be. Historian Roger Ekirch began doing research for a history of the night, perhaps hoping he would actually spot a ghost. He kept seeing strange references to sleep. In the Canterbury Tales, for instance, one of the characters in “The Squire’s Tale, wakes up in the early morning following her “first sleep” and then goes back to bed. A fifteenth century medical book advised readers to spend their “first sleep” on the right side and after that to lie on their left. And a scholar in England wrote that the time between these two separate types of sleep came one after another, until Ekirch could no longer brush them aside as a curiosity.

Historically, people fell asleep not long after the sun went down and stayed that way until sometime after midnight. This was the first sleep referred to in the old tales. Once a person woke up, he or she would stay that way for an hour or so before going back to sleep until morning—the so-called second sleep. The time in between sleeps was an expected and natural part of the night, and was spent praying, reading, contemplatig your dreams, or having sex. The last one was perhaps the most popular. (i’m not saying which I do, but bear in mind that “Sleepig Beauty” stayed asleep until wakened with a kiss by her Prince Charming.)

Pschiatrist Thomas Wehr, working for the National Institute For Mental Health in Bethesda, Maryland, was struck by the idea that perhaps the artificial light we are subjected to each day could have some effect on our sleep patterns.

On a whim, he deprived subjects in his study of any artificial light to try to recreate conditions such as were common to early humans. At first, all they did was sleep, making up for all the lost sleep they had accumulated. After a few weeks, they were better rested than at any other time in their lives. However, the experiment soon took a strange turn. Soon, the subjects began to stir a little after midnight, lie awake in bed for an hour or so, and then fall back asleep again. The experiment revealed the innate wiring in the brain, unearthed only after the body was sheltered from modern life.

Numerous other studies have proven that splitting sleep into two roughly equal halves is something that our bodies will do if we give them a chance. Yet two decades after Wehr’s study was published in a medical journal, many sleep researchers–not to mention your average physician, have never heard of it. When patients complain about waking up at roughly the same time every night, many physicians will reach for a pen and write a prescription for a sleeping pill, not realizing they are medicating a condition that was considered normal for thousands of years.

My advice is to take a lesson from those early ancestors and get up, read a book, contemplate your dreams, study, have sex, or maybe even write a blog.

HOW THE NAVAJOS GOT THEIR BLANKET

“How the Navajos Got Their Blanket” watercolor by kayti sweetland rasmussen

Most of the stuff I say is true because I saw it in a dream and I don’t have the presence of mind to make up lies when I’m asleep.

HOW DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN TWENTY YEARS?

While patiently waiting to deliver some of my precious blood at the hospital lab, I noticed a youngish woman watching me for a sign of recognition.  She soon came and sat beside me and asked if I were me, to which I replied that I thought I was.  She had been a student of mine about twenty years ago, so we caught up on the intervening years.

I remembered her as an eager 19 year old who had great dreams of becoming a sculptor.  She had willingly taken on all the dirty jobs in the studio, and frequently stayed behind to work on her project.

She said she rememered my asking the class “How do you see yourself in twenty years?” and had thought without a doubt that her dreams would be a reality by then.  I remembered the question , and the various interesting answers it  produced, including my own answer.  For one thing, it gave an indication of just how serious the student might be.  Were they simply taking the art class for a credit, were they fortunate housewives taking an art course between their early morning tennis game and lunch, or was this the year there were some people who actually wanted this to be their life work?

Would they be willing to tackle the business side of art?  Did they expect to make a lot of money at this job?  Because art is a job just like anything else.  You may make nothing, and will obviously have to have another source of income.  At least enough to put food on the table.  The romantic fallacy is being able to live in solitary splendor just being creative.  You have to be a salesman and convince a gallery that they need what you have to offer.  You have to be willing to take on two or more jobs at the same time.

Seeing her there with two small boys sitting quietly beside her, I asked “So are you still doing your art?”  She shook her head and smiled at her two sons.  “No, I’ve not had the time yet.  Maybe someday.”

It definitely can be done and still have a family,  but it takes real dedication, and a sense of humor to make up for the time you absolutely do not have the time.  A wise woman told me after I said I couldn’t find the time for something: “You will never find time.  You have to take it.”

Seeing my cane and my sling, I was definitely not at my best that day, and she inevitably asked “What about you?”

Well,  I never became famous, I never made a ton of money, and sculpture destroyed my shoulder, jogging destroyed my leg, and I’m twenty years older.  But you know, it’s was a great trade-off.  I have a wonderful husband and family, I can no longer handle 50# of clay at a time, but I plan to finish all the half-finished canvases and begin new paintings, and I still have a sense of humor.