. . . dreamed of art

I didn't move very far from the couch yesterday. . . my cold is in full swing. I produced no art, except when I was in a stupor from the Tylenol Multi-Symptom medication I was taking. I didn't notice until early afternoon that it was for nighttime use, but that's okay, because I slept on and off all day, between coughing and sneezing fits.


Time after time, in my stupor, half awake and half asleep, I saw paintings. . . paintings that I should paint. . . they just kept appearing in my mind, like a You-Tube video, one after another. On a wall in a gallery, beautifully framed. I remember being terribly impressed with them, and thinking dimly that I should get up and scratch some of these on paper, but that wasn't happening. So of course, all I remember is the impression that I saw amazing art; I can't remember a single piece.


I must have tapped into a subconscious stream of creativity lurking in my brain. I'm sure there's a way to tap into that stream on demand, but I don't know what it is. . . some Zen or hypnotic state . . . or perhaps that is why so many artists took advantage of hallucinogenic drugs.