A Potent Dream: “My Brother, the Artist”

This feels like a collective dream — like “my brother” represents much of humanity right now. Immediately after writing down the dream, I logged onto my blog and wrote the March 2, 2022 ~ New Moon in Pisces post. Since the dream feels related to today’s New Moon, I’ll share it here on the actual New Moon day. I’ve left this unedited, so please excuse the transcribed dream dialog, where I drop the f-bomb. The dream feels cinematic and potent. I didn’t want to diminish its power by altering the words. If this offends you, please feel free to skip this post. 🙂

2/27/2022

2:57 a.m.

“My Brother, the Artist”

Awoke from a dream that seems important enough to get up and write it down. I was one of several children — three or four — of a larger than life mother who seemed to work in the fashion industry.

We were all grown children, but maybe just in our 20’s and early 30’s. The mom was a little like Maye Musk (Elon Musk’s mom), but not quite her. She was pushy. There was some kind of convention going on in what seemed like a really high end department store — maybe Neiman Marcus, or maybe it was an actual convention. There’s more to this part that I don’t quite recall.

The woman/mom had a lot of authority and perks. She gave each of us a credit card sized card — some kind of pass, and we could use this to leave the convention. We needed to hold it up high enough that the guards could see it as we walked out. They might still stop us, but if we dropped her name, it should be alright. Then they tightened security, so we actually needed her with us in order to leave.

One of my brothers looked like Chris Hemsworth (Thor) or his brother (who looks similar but not quite so beefy). The mom kept handing us different things to carry in flamboyant ways. One was a bouquet of hot pink feathers made to look like flowers. This is the only one I remember, but there were more.

The ceilings were really high, and there were glass escalators and wide open space with glass walls looking outside. I went to a mall kind of like this and can’t recall where it was. I think it was in Chicago. Marshall Field Building? I don’t think it has stores anymore, but at one time it looked impressive.

In the dream, there was all this posh stuff, but it felt like a prison because of the guards and because we couldn’t leave without the cards and then, without our overbearing mother. My brother (Chris Hemsworth) started having a nervous breakdown. He said, “I can’t do this anymore” and tried to walk out. This made a scene because the guards wouldn’t let him leave. He didn’t even bother to flash the card. When they asked for it, he said, “I’m out of here” and had a determined, but unaware air about him.

Our mom realized this would cause a huge scene and create stigma for her, so she gathered all of us and said, “Get out your cards. We’re leaving.”

We got them out and lifted them up, but the guards wouldn’t let us leave without first talking to the mom. She convinced them to open the doors and let us out, and this brother ran to the middle of the parking lot, then home. I sensed he was one step away from being institutionalized, that I had one chance to save him from this fate.

When I got to his apartment, he was sitting on a large chair, kind of rocking in fetal position. He didn’t look up when I said his name, but we had had a close relationship all our lives. I knew he was really an artist and that’s why this fake world was so toxic to him.

I said in a very cheery voice, “You did it! You never need to go to that fucking place again. You’re probably banned for life. You did it! You’re free. Now you get to paint.”

He still didn’t respond, so I took one hand and arm and kind of wedged it between his armpit/arm curled around his legs. I shimmied one arm there and the other under his opposite knee, and I gave him a ridiculous hug. I started crying, empathing with him and trying to set a tone where he could have an emotional release. He was so checked out, just numb.

I hugged him tight and said again, “You did it. You never have to go to that fucking place again. You’re free.” That fucking place meant Northwestern University and academia. “They’ll never let you in again, and that’s a good thing. You can paint now.” I mentally sent him telepathic images of his artwork — past and future. He didn’t overtly respond, but I felt him engage a little when he saw the future paintings.

I continued to hug him and rocked with him as I said, “I’m proud of you. So proud of you because you did it. None of us wants to be in that prison. That fucking place is insane. You’re the sane one. You! You’re the sane one. Don’t ever let them tell you otherwise.”

I knew I needed to get him to paint again. If he was at work on a masterpiece when the people came to his place, instead of sitting in fetal position on a chair and rocking himself with vacant eyes — if he was engaged as an artist, I could keep the doctors at bay. If they saw him like this, in the chair, they would lock him up for the rest of his life. I wouldn’t be able to save him, and they would medicate him so far that he would never be able to find himself.

I knew all this but knew I couldn’t alarm him. The key was for him to realize he was an artist — that this was the reason he couldn’t play the game anymore. This was why he walked out — not because he was insane. An inspired artist has leeway. If he was hard at work when they got here, I could explain that he had had a sudden inspiration — “You know how artists are” — and that his abrupt leave taking was inspired, not crazy. Also that they needed to go, to stop interrupting him.

I wanted him to be painting like a mad artist when they arrived to take him away. Over and over I kept telling him from my heart, “I’m proud of you. So proud of you for walking away. You never need to go to that fucking place again. I love you. I’m so proud of you for leaving.”

As I said these things, I kept sending telepathic visions of his future paintings. At some point, he turned his head and looked at me. I said, “You have it all. The looks, the body. Oh, that probably sounds weird given that you’re my brother, but seriously, you’ve got it. Besides the talent — which you have in spades — you’ve got ‘it.’ You’re the real deal. You can do this.”

He looked at me again and asked, “Really?” He smiled through tears and looked a little dazed, but on the wonder side of dazed instead of the ashamed and overwhelmed side.

“Yes,” I said, “Yes.”

He hugged me back, and I knew that he would paint again. He was already a great artist, but now I knew that he would fulfill that calling. By the time the would-be institutionalizers arrived, he was hard at work on a giant mural. I shooed them away and said, “Get out of here. Leave. You can’t disrupt his genius. Can’t you see he’s painting?! Artists need to take their inspiration as it comes. Get out of here. Stop trying to interrupt his work.”

I knew my brother and I would live happily ever after because he would keep painting murals, and I could live with him away from our awful mother. She would never find us here. She didn’t even know where it was, and she couldn’t get here. We were free.

END of dream journal.

…

I shared this dream with a friend who commented on its cinematic qualities. I replied:

Yes, I also think it speaks to humanity in general. The people trying to foment world war are unable to create such things without a collective reality buy-in. Narrative is VERY powerful. Imagination is powerful. When enough people walk away from the crazy, reality will tip to something more beautiful and creative. I feel we are on the cusp of that. 

…

If you haven’t read the March 2 ~ New Moon in Pisces post, it flowed through me in one fast burst after I recorded this dream. You can read it here.