So this dream I had a few years ago, a big southern dream with big southern houses. Loads of Mississippi kudzu and lush green workplaces with design firms magazines fashion and journalism, and all the time, the Mom and Son are a little too close in proximity and familiarity, its as if in a way he provides all the companionship from the loss of the father, the kids doesn’t really remember, or at least half of him does, but chooses not to on a regular basis. So all is well, all is idyllic until a man comes along, and then the boy, who is incredibly prudish and naïve then has to figure out the ways of the world, all through his mother, the source of goodness and kindness so far in this life.
In the dream it’s so real and has everything I miss about the South, in it. Like the one time I shared a downstairs of a house I shared with a friend, a big old creaking thing, with pillars at the front on frat boy row in Columbia, SC. The room I slept in was an old porch, and every morning that summer, the sun up shining through the kudzu, the reptillian shades of green, light and dark and hot, and its those connections between dreams and reality that keep us going creatively, a constant connection between the past, present and imagined.