If you’re here looking for my art portfolio (thanks!), I guess I didn’t plan very well, ’cause it’s not here yet. It’s still over there.
Here is a thing that cat people will understand:
When you want to sing along with a great song, but you’re not sure of the words (or if you do know the words, or even if it’s just a really good guitar solo and you want to make some kind of noise along with it), it is acceptable to meow enthusiastically and in-key until you catch up to the chorus.
Next I remember THE ORANGE LIGHT.
A female energy is carrying me up the stairs in Eastmanville.
She seems tired.
It’s very late at night. I’m wrapped in a thick blanket. The multi-colored square afghan, I think. The walls are a dark wooden paneling, and there’s an orange light burning about halfway up the stairs.
I can see this from a vantage point a couple of feet above the woman, like I’m floating ahead of her.
Who is she? My “mother”, I suppose.
She will do her best, but I will outlive her way too soon. I will always wonder if there was something else I could have done.
Orange is still a worrisome comfort.
The rest of the house was dark and brown.
My earliest memory is of a very very black space full of very very black shapes, shapes in very varying shades of black, against a blackity blackdrop of more shapes. A lightless cave full of lifely creatures.
They’re speaking, but their language is a currently indescribable sound. I understand them. I’m not exactly one of them, and I don’t really belong here, either, but we are here together in this nest, and I feel safe.
(It’s not like I had my eyes open and all I could “see” was blackness. There was nothing missing here, as far as sensory input goes. This was the normal way to perceive in that place: light simply didn’t exist; it was all different textures of blackness.)
Many of these beings strike me as bird-like. Chirp chirripe wheedle whistle chee.
I think they were advising me. Or maybe warning me.