Dreams of A Secret Agent

[part 4 in a series of art pieces inspired by my dreams]

Dreams of A Secret Agent
spanning the last five years


7" x 5" paper, thread, acrylic and glitter on canvas

This piece is about a theme that has wafted through my dreams for years. Well, a person, really. A Secret Agent. No matter where on this planet he is or I am, the connection remains and it is particularly strong in dreams. One of my very favorite dreams featuring him is called Good to See You.

When I think about this connection that spans distance and time, I am reminded of a song on Concrete Blonde's Walking in London album, called Les Coeurs Jumeaux (the twin hearts). There's this somewhat silly interlude in the song when Johnette speaks in french. Though I often roll my eyes at her unnecessary pronunciation of the letter s in several of the words, the line that sticks out when I think of the Secret Agent is "on rêve le même rêve". We dream the same dream.

Don't get it twisted though- the woman in this piece is not in Muslim dress- she has just wrapped her black scarf around her head to keep her hair dry because it is raining. Or maybe she's about to take a ride in her father's amazing vintage red convertible.

Read/see the other dreams in this series, The Mona Lisa, The Angel Singers Visit Me and The Feather and the Butterflies.

Why He is Dear to My Heart

Because he brought me a gift of a home-made terrarium to house the dead butterfly I found a week before. I found it on the ground outside his apartment when I was leaving to go to work; I have always wanted a real butterfly and this one was in perfect condition. He looked at me like I was a crazy person when I asked him to keep it for me until I could figure out what to do with it, but then he showed up at my house with it preserved in a glass votive, legs held still by drops of wax, sealed from the world with plastic wrap.



Because when I was sad, he wrote me a bedtime story about the basil plant he rescued from the trash and is nursing back to life.



Because when happily and proudly flashing a victory sign after winning Scrabble, he looks like a grown up Palestinian boy (which of course he is), grinning at a reporter's camera. How I will miss those moments when his youthful spirit shines through and mischief glints in his eye.

Tomatoes, Cheese, Love from Afar

I'm sitting on my bed eating breakfast, thinking of my favorite friend. I'm working at home because I have a lot of writing to do and have a hard time focusing at my office.

But the important part is that I'm eating a mix of feta cheese, tomatoes, olive oil, and mint that he makes for me for breakfast. One of the many delicious wonderful magical things he has brought into my life. I scoop the mixture up with fresh-baked wheat pita bread that he brought me the other day from the Arabic bakery in the suburbs.

And when I think of him, my darling friend, going through a very real personal hell right now, my heart swells and my eyes start flowing and I try to send love far far east to the home in which he just landed and is likely arriving and being greeted by his loved ones, minus one very important loved one.

And I want to do something to help to make it better to take the pain away but there are no more plush toys or shampoo or strollers left to buy, no hands or shoulders to squeeze, no bodies to spoon into.

You are far away surrounded by loved ones who can do these things for you now and you will return that love.

Secret Agent Snow

For the second time this week, snow is falling from the gray Atlanta sky. This time, I get to watch it from the 3rd floor on the Secret Agent's balcony.

Cold November Rain

Lovely it is to wake in the arms of my lover. Outside the cold November rain rolls; inside we are warm in matching white tank tops under the weight of the down quilt. I can smell coriander, apricots and lavender on our skin.

Friends in Cemeteries

At the risk of sounding old school goth, one of my litmus tests for new people in my life is seeing how they do on a walk, a drive, a picnic at some lovely old cemetery. I'm lucky enough to have Oakland Cemetery so close by for that purpose. Oakland was built at a time when there wasn't green space specifically dedicated to the purpose of public gatherings like parks. Cemeteries were designed in a way that would entice people to visit them and stay for awhile.

I think the ones closest to me will always be people who enter that space and feel peace and love and revel in the beauty of the contrast between the stone and sky. They will smile with anticipation when I suggest finding a pretty spot to settle in and open up the bottle of cheap champagne and munch on the chocolate I've smuggled inside in my bag.

Secret Agent Man wrote to me this morning from Syria. He visited the grave of his best friend, god bless his soul. He was killed in December, 2002 - the same month that the Agent and I met. He spoke of how cemeteries stand still while the rest of the world is upside down. In my head I could see him standing by Khaled's grave. In my head I felt my energy fly there and gently press my palms and forehead on his back.

I think that we become more able to feel the serenity of the cemetery when we have had someone so dear ripped from our lives, our hearts. Once the funeral is over and a week or so has passed, there are very few opportunities where mourning is welcomed. As a culture we push thoughts of death aside and become more and more messed up about it- both our own death and that of the ones we love.

I've found that I need this sort of permanent place with physical definitions that holds the specific purpose to provide a setting to love and honor those we have passed on through our worlds. Even if my loved one isn't there specifically, the energy of the cemetery gives me a safe, sometimes sad, always peaceful place to remember-- and then wander and pick rosemary.

Weetzie

I can't help it- even though internet quizzes are silly, just knowing a quiz about Francesca Lia Block's books exists makes me feel all warm and drunky inside. If you haven't read the Weetzie Bat books yet you're missing out. They are the books I wish that I had when I was a kid- beautiful but dark, like shadows or sunshine through thunder clouds. Smells like bourgainvilla and tastes like sushi, unapologeticly deals with drugs, sexuality, death, angst, hope and the potential of magic- and without trite morality lessons.

Check out the Dangerous Angels anthology first; its the compliation of all the early books that introduce you to the wonderful cast of characters: Weetzie Bat, Dirk, My Secret Agent Lover Man, Cherokee Bat, Juan Angel and the lovely Witch Baby. Then a few months later read Necklace of Kisses- all about Weetzie as a grown up who runs away to the pink hotel, struggling with all she has been and learing to honor and trust her love and all that is yet to come.

Which Weetzie Bat character are you?

Take the quiz here.

The Travels of Secret Agent Man

After a couple weeks of silence, I heard from Secret Agent Man. I knew the silence was due to his travels in and out of precarious places- this time, in and out of Jerusalem. Though he was born in Jerusalem, Secret Agent Man does not have the right papers and permits to travel freely in and out of his birth town. He whispered about sneaking around from town to town throughout Palestine, all undercover in true Secret Agent nature.

When I spoke to him previously, it was a few days after he had entered Jerusalem. It took him three days of trying before he got in. He told me how dangerous it was and how his mother had collapsed crying she was so worried about him. He stayed in the Old City above a market in a house bearing a sign that declared it was built in 1079. He contemplated that this may be the last time he will ever see the city. The apartheid wall is ninety-percent done now and once it’s complete there will be no way for him to enter the city of his birth.

Today, Secret Agent Man told me that he had seen more of Palestine than he had ever seen before in his life, and places that his family who lives there never ventured to find. Because he didn’t have the right papers to be there, his family took huge risks just by walking next to him in certain parts of the country. His family all thought that he was crazy, reckless to travel like this. They’re right- just today at the Hebron gate – he was there a week ago – Israeli soldiers open-fired on a group of Palestinians, killing 2 people.

He spoke of the beauty of the northern part of the country. He was excited, elated. He said there was so much to remember; he didn’t know how he would. I told him I’d help him write it down. And here we are.