Tags
Brian Cox, Dream, Lagoon Nebula, Los Angeles, Perceval Press, Poetry, S.A. Griffin, Scott Wannberg
Image via Wikipedia
A night of tossing and turning had me up before dawn and the dogs were pleased. The three of us walked through the fog then came home for breakfast. I made the dogs their meals and myself a café au lait – which the puppy promptly drank behind my back. Needless to say she is now running throughout the house faster than the speed of light.
Which brings me back to Scott Wannberg, but first I have to thank Brian Cox for reminding me of my dreams from my sleepless night. If I sound befuddled I suppose it could be due to lack of sleep but I think once I am through this will make sense.
I decided to forego my coffee for a while and settled in to watch Wonders Of The Universe. Today Brian is talking about the sun and stars and how they are ancient history books of sorts telling us of our galaxies. He spoke about the Lagoon Nebula and it reminded me of Scott.
The day after Scott died I had a dream about him in which he was speaking of lagoons. (2 days later I dreamt he was living in a beautiful Italian palazzo with lots of cats running merrily around him. Turns out Scott was into cats in life so I feel somewhat validated.)
Anyway, I got to thinking that Scott was a star. A brilliant, enormous sun whose light touched people all over the planet, a lagoon nebula where other stars are born, larger and hotter than any other star in the galaxy. Scott was indeed a large man in every sense of the word. At his memorial a friend told me how Scott kept appearing in his life through other people like that theory of six degrees of separation; somehow everyone was connected through this poet. He encouraged strangers to sing without shame, he wrote lyrical notes of sympathy, love, anger and every human emotion he could identify with…which seemed like all. The unconditional love we are all seeking was at the tip of his pen always at the ready.
(By the way, the dog is now chewing the edge of the bed.)
Dreams are funny things sometimes. My dreams of last night were too random to even bother dissecting but there was one that sticks out. I kept dreaming of the word sanguine. Over and over the word rolled through my dreams, not attaching itself to any image, just arriving and moving on to the next like a spectator.
As an artist when I hear the word sanguine I think of the color red. A red the color of blood, deep, rich and thick. But sanguine can also mean hopeful, confident or optimistic. So perhaps sanguine is a color for me to work with, both in my work and in my heart.
Scott was sanguine.
Walter Kitty's Diary 