A Dream

I really love this painting.
There is a man/woman in a trench coat,
Wearing a watch, with his/her hand in his/her pocket behind the door.

She could be a call girl with her pimp in the background,
Or just a beautifully wrought woman contemplating her power or burdens,
Someone separated, perhaps, from her effect on the world co-mingled
With the fact of just being.

This image speaks to me of what a woman must do in a world of men,
Selling her wares, submitting herself to the desire to be lithe and luxuriously at peace.

What is she thinking?

My mother was once this beautiful,
She always seemed to be oblivious.
She thought not of men, but of designs
On paper, oil paint, and how the world worked,
Wanting to change, in her later years, junk
Into things of beauty.

She would contemplate,
Smoke her cigarettes and look out from her balcony
Out and at the hillside, which grew from under her
And then up almost to a point
You could not see the sky unless you bent down
When you were sitting.

She said she was raped by an uncle.
Was forced to live with foster parents
Because in the 30’s with her father dead
When she was two and with two brothers,
Her mother could not afford to take care of her.

When her mother died, my mother said that
She was hours away and her mother died alone.
She never wanted that to happen to her,
So she kept us close.

When she got her first commercial art job,
She walked in with a bandbox look.
They hired her out of all the prospects.
Just out of art school at CAL,
She presented a few pieces.

Then one of her bosses raped her.
My aunt said that she took off a couple of times
And my father, a doctor, had to take care of us.

All, I am sure she did was go to a place where she could think.
How do I know this?
I am like her.

We dream a lot.
We have our drinks, but non-alcoholic,
We don’t like to dull the powers of our minds.

I too have stared into the distance
Traveled through memories
And met loved ones.
Mainly, lovers and their sleek lines,
How they made me feel and
When we will meet again
Is all I think,
In the meantime,
I make beautiful things
Like peacock feathers
To entrance them.


  1. Mario, this was exqusite the way you went from a painting that does not exist into your mother’s life and then into your own. The movement was like a short piece of chamber music the violin taking the lead then the viola coming in and finally joined by the cello whose solo notes finished it off in a long draw of the bow across a single string. >KB

    • Thank you Mr. Brace. I think we reference things when we are looking at beauty. It allows us cocoon into ourselves and think of the most important things. I loved that you mentioned the movements of music and the transitions. As a writer, I am very conscious of the emotions and how words can play them. Thank you so much for spending time responding. I did not see this until now, sadly.

  2. Thank you my dear friend. You are always so insightful to the point that unless you tell me I have no idea. The painting does exist. I had re-blogged it only to find that the coding really screwed up my text, making it all caps, for example, and then adding a “quote” image that covered the text. Now, I have a link to the painting in the comment section in case people are interested in it.

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