The Sub-conscious Mind Is Remarkable
Here's a photo of my parents in Manhattan in 1955, on their way to their honeymoon. For context, please keep reading.
This morning, I woke up from a dream about Paul Newman, where I spent time only with his wife, who in the dream was Yoko Ono. We walked through the western part of Greenwich Village, not far from where my parents had their first apartment in the '50s.
We arrived at the home of Paul Newman and his wife, which was in a brownstone building with a wooden number seven on the door, though I didn't recall the street. We climbed a flight of steps once inside and walked into the most artful home I'd ever seen.
There were porcelain platters with Chinese landscapes in blue placed at, below and above eye-level all over the living room and gorgeous, generous furniture that really looked as though it lived there along with the couple, and modern, but not garish, art papering the walls.
I became tearful, looking at all of it. When I spoke to compliment Paul Newman's wife, I said, "I've never seen anything as artful as this home. I mean, I could never have put it together myself, but I *can* recognize and appreciate it."
She smiled.
And then in a hurt tone I added, "Well, it's my first time [i.e., visit] here." I was poking at her for not being a better relative and not being more involved with our family....Huh?
Yeah, my sub-conscious was thinking of Paul Newman as family because my mom always said that my dad, may his memory be blessed, looked like Paul Newman. It's true that my dad was handsome and had blue eyes, but personally, the comparison always seemed a bit remote.
Paul Newman's wife left me on my own in the living room for a moment -- perhaps to go to the bathroom -- and I walked to the window to look at the street. It seemed far below us, considering the single flight of stairs we had climbed.
And then I was on my own, walking back from the experience and thinking, I want to send her a thank-you note for her hospitality. I remember the "7" on the door, but not the street itself. I'll have to re-trace my steps. And then I was awake.
Some of Why I Had the Dream, Perhaps
Recently, Pat mentioned that Paul Newman had cancer. I hope he'll be OK. My father died of cancer. They would have been the same age if my dad had lived, if I remember correctly. I did a report on Paul Newman in elementary school and recall his being my parents' age, and having been born in Shaker Heights, Ohio.
Last night, prior to falling asleep, I read an article my mom gave me from "On Wisconsin," her alumni magazine, about 15 students and a couple of professors taking an LGBT history study-tour this past spring to learn about LGBT history first-hand, from some of the people, who made it. Graciously, a number of the luminaries told the students, you are making LGBT history yourselves, with what you're doing.
Their tour included a visit to the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village, which was relatively close to my parents' apartment, which was on 10th and Bleecker. I've written here before, I think, that my mom used to try to fix up a number of women in her building with men, until she finally understood that they were not interested in meeting men. This was in the '50s.
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