Dreamed 1972/8/10 (age 17) by Wayan
Saw the film A Clockwork Orange. Alex the Beethoven-loving murderer gets brainwashed--both Beethoven and violence sicken him. That doesn't work out well.
Then read Galactic Pot-Healer by Philip K. Dick. Creativity is all very cool, but what about honest repairmen? Surely mending the broken keeps civilization running too. Trust Dick to point out how snobs devalue the working class. Less flashy than Clockwork Orange, but subtler too. The Pot-Healer finally tries making his own art. It stinks. Of course it does. At first. Patience!
Read The Rescuers and Miss Bianca, kids' books by Margery Sharp. Not great stories, but great ink drawings by Garth Williams of a brave, clever, sexy mouse courtesan I'd like to marry... if only I were the right size.
Then study Pogo by Walt Kelly. Full of animal characters--vivid motion and emotion. What a cartoonist! This time it's Mademoiselle Hepzibah the skunk I fall for.
At my cartooning class at College of San Mateo, I try drawing Pogo, Albert the excitable 'gator, and Hepzibah. I struggle just to get the basic look of the characters. Can't capture Walt Kelly's dynamism or Garth Williams's expressiveness. Not by a long shot. Sigh!
Not yet. But I'm sure it took them time to master their art too. Patience!
I scrawl a Pogo comic on a shed wall, as I'm told
of Good (and Bad) immortals; then, atop a cliff, an old
Italian friend & I meet a Pogo Demon, who gives
my friend a strange boon since he's the longest-lived
mortal on Earth: turns us both to cloudmaned levitating
horses! Fun. Though our herd stampedes--chasing, hating
that Ranger who always confiscates our clover.
I contemplate A Clockwork Orange as we skim over
Benicia Ridge; slaloming through tree tops
holding our horse-altitude as the scree drops.
Downslope, wind-sheltered, eucalypti rise. So tall
their crowns barely ebb--a mere six yards below us air
horses on our fog divans. But to the ball
courts where tennisers pause to stare
up at floating palominos in the air...
a forty-odd-yard fall.
Exhale, drift down, land wary. Ready to bound
through a fence-gap back to ether when
a scary Silversuit descends. Inside, an
ancient Inuit. Dead of course. Unlike fog-horse,
when these aerial Suiters die,
They drift on wind like snow, till dwindled, dry,
their mummies randomly touch down.
There the Groundsman takes them. Where we go
even angel horses don't yet know. Meantime, around
our regatta herd, silver death-reminders dot the sky.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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