I am in a white house, I mean completely white. White rooms lead to white hallways which lead to more white rooms. White at every turn and no way to exit.
No, not an existentialist play, one of the many dreams that I’ve been having nightly since we started thinking about moving.
In one dream I am hand-laying the tile in our new house and it takes me one day to lay each tile.
In another dream I am making homemade tortillas (really my husband’s dream!) and I have trays of masa balls that I have to carry from one end of the house to another. And the house is big and it takes me hours to carry one tray. And when I ask my husband to help carry these trays he says, “no.”
So I started writing them down, these dreams that are capturing my every neurosis about moving — and I realized, I’ve got an artists’ book in the making. I figure I won’t be able to actually make the book until the dreams stop. The working title? The American Dream.
Have your dreams ever suggested the content for an artists’ book? What was it about? Was it a generalized dream book? A specific set of dreams or nightmares?
Feel free to post links to photos of your book in the comments.
~Ginger
Midnight Musings 