June 15, 2024
I dream of my father creating this canvas—my blank slate of mind where his Main Man thinks, contemplates, and visualizes.
I dream of my father creating this blank writing mural—where my words are written from the ink of virtual reality and read by those who understand the grief of never having said what now, will never be heard.
My father created the seasons of my childhood in ways no configuration of words can paint. But my father also left during one holiday season, leaving me a blank canvas to help describe the artist he never met.
Since my father’s passing in December of 2016, he’s appeared in many of my dreams—more than I can count—roughly once a week. I don’t remember most of them, but I often reflect on a few.
Like when I went back in time and visited him at his bachelor pad before he met my mom. All his furniture was made of wood, and I didn’t like his couch. But it was the sixties or maybe seventies. And that’s what those jive turkeys were painting…
I once dreamt we were in church and felt his arms wrapping around my shoulders. I felt his soda-pop belly pressing against my chest because he wasn’t in shape the last time we hugged while standing as his prickling cheek hairs scratched against my forehead. I also smelled the Avon cologne he wore, which he had bought from my mom when they first met in Northeast Portland. It was there where he painted for me—himself—driving down 33rd Avenue in his Buick Skylark for the last time as a bachelor of a city he left behind in a garage can paint of Willamette Black.
I also must mention the dreams where I stood up for myself, and we argued like brothers. I woke up feeling weird after those dreams because he was a master at hiding his feelings.
The oddest dream he appeared in was last year when I lucidly dreamt a conscience discussion with him. It started with me wrapped in a Tilikum Red blanket, sleeping in a parking lot beside his Flavel Green truck. I’m awakened by him grabbing me toward his door as I drop the blanket, leaving it spread across the concrete. We get in his truck, and he drives out of the parking lot, passing a crowd—until, for some reason, he speeds directly through ThePeople. However, no one is hurt because we’re driving through everyone as if they’re ghosts.
Once we passed the people, I asked him, “Why are you in my dreams?”
He responded, “Because there’s a lot of space.”
He then speeds up, buffering the awkwardness between us. But a red brick wall stands ahead, and he continues to accelerate. And just as he drove through the people, he speeds through the red brick wall. So, I looked back, asking him, “What’s my purpose in life?”
My dad reaches for the glove box and pulls out a blank canvas that he spreads across his dashboard. He then opens the center console and hands me a tube of Dekum’s Blue paint. He checks his back pockets and jacket like he’s looking for his wallet until finally grabbing two paintbrushes from the visor to hand me one.
After my first brush stroke across the canvas, he begins counting from his pinky but stops at four.
.
.
.
Dream over—you jive chickens…
-Budd
This Is Where BuddWrites 