Precognitive, After All

I mentioned in my attempt at that dream analysis yesterday that I was truly stumped. I know, now, that it was actually a precognitive dream, telling me in advance something that would play out.

Last night, David's friend Melissa was visiting, a young woman I enjoy enormously, and with whom I like sharing my art. I took in the journal I'm creating for the crew guy here at work. David and Kevin were both in the room, too, listening to Melissa & me discussing the pages, their content and my intent for their meaning.

Suddenly David blurts, "For a crew guy? You're doing a journal for a crew guy? What is THAT?!"

I said, "It's a commission."

He and Kevin said, in one breath, "I don't approve."

I gaped at them both, such heat in their voices! "It's a commission, that's how I start branching out, making money with my art."

David says, "Sure, art, that's why you're talking about a dream you have of this guy?"

Then I got pissed ... shite, such provincial, prehistoric, stereotypical, MACHO-ASS thinking! I have so little tolerance for that!

I said, "Yes, as I explained to Melissa, a dream about communication barriers, about language separating as much as joining. I'm not dreaming about screwing him, Son."

David cocked an eyebrow, "Yea, well, does Dad know about this?"

[What had my attention at this point was the idea David seems to have that I need to 'check in' with someone, anyone, else before proceeding with my art, my commissions, my creativity - and that Bobby forms my hierarchy.] "Yea, Baby, Dad knows."

David scoffed, so did Kevin. "Well, Melissa, you'd have a fit if I ever did something like that for another girl, you KNOW you would."

Melissa blinked. "This is different, this is art."

"Oh, please! Art. Whatever!" my kid responded.

Then he and Kevin said, again at exactly the same time, "I don't approve."

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Funny, they show no interest in anything I do in the studio, ever, of their own iniative, but feel empowered to assert their disapproval nonetheless. What a weird arrangement in my house, when I think about it. I'm married to a man who is dyslexic & consequently detests reading, and I'm a poet/journalist/now-blogger ... words words words. I birthed two sons with equal disdain for the written word, an overall blistering impatience with 'art' in pretty much all its forms except of the athletic genre. Small wonder I continue to work away, door closed, mouth closed, back turned, in my little world, and find my proponents wherever I can. It's just wrenching to me that those of my immediate family can't/don't/won't partake of this side of me, this process with/in me, this journey that I'm on. It's a very isolating sensation much of the time. If I could shoot hoops, I'd be 'in', like their Dad is. Doesn't matter how well I wield a pen (except when they need help with a school paper, eh?) or a paintbrush.

------ This could easily lead me down the muddy morose self-pity path, I can see it coming. Time to shut up, detour, reclaim my own garden and close them out mentally.

"I disapprove." Excuse me, but did I ask?