books

I was in a room, much like a meeting room, and through the glass windows I could see the night sky. The walls of the room were lined with shelves of books, and several tables housed stacks and piles more. I was excited for I'd had an idea and was here to explain it to a woman I took to be my mentor. I sorted through the books quickly, searching for a few particular editions to show her my source of inspiration. I found a black-covered book with old-fashioned type. It was an illustrated novel for older youth. The words were shaped into loosely formed paragraphs and arranged to frame, even merge with, the illustrations. The illustrations were black-line drawings, gorgeously rendered. One was of a grizzly bear - a fat and bristle-furred fellow; another, of a six-stringed guitar. I particularly noticed the lines and the space between them, and I felt thrilled by the design. I showed my mentor and explained my concept while sketching words and images in a notebook. She was approving and supportive, and I felt elated. A new project!

classroom, eagle & presentation

I visited a room where a woman - a friend and teacher - presided. The room was ominous and exciting both, for its shadows concealed rows of books, new and old, and a huge brown eagle, watchful as he lurked in the darkness. An impressive and imposing creature, he was nonetheless bedraggled, as though he had been through an ordeal. The feathers around his head and on his chest were thinning in places and a little skewwhiff. Time passed and I left the room, only to return at a later date in the bright daylight. Now it was a classroom, filling with students. The woman entered and I asked her where the eagle was. She replied that she had had to scrape him off the road. I was greatly saddened for him yet not surprised as he appeared to be close to his end, a little relieved that he wasn't hiding somewhere in the room. Another teacher arrived and on her way to her desk she asked me if I was ready for my presentation tomorrow. Apparently the entire class was to be assessed on an end-of-year talk that was built from an essay produced earlier in the year. The talks would be lengthy and so were scheduled over several weeks; I was first. I raced home (to the family home where I lived when I was a teenager) to do my best to prepare. I pored over my diary in case there was some mistake and I was not really first, but I found the reminder confirming that I was, indeed, to present my paper tomorrow morning at nine. I realised that I could not possibly do the research and writing required to build a well-rounded talk in just a few hours. I felt terribly anxious, but decided to resurrect the essay I had written earlier in the year and for which I had received excellent marks. I thought that if I harnessed all of my acting and speaking skills, that I may be able to present the information in a such a new way that the class would not recognise it from before. I studied and practised all night and, in the morning, readied myself to go to school to do my talk. My sister called out from her bedroom to ask me to wait for her so we could travel together. I was really quite panicked, but waited. Time ticked over and nine o'clock drew close, but my sister was not yet ready. I ran downstairs and asked my father to drive us to the school as it was now too late to catch the bus. I ran back upstairs and called to my sister who was still in bed. She had decided to stay at home. I ran back downstairs, papers in hand, and glanced at the time - five to nine. My father walked through the kitchen wearing a hot pink scarf, gliding, on his way to the car. I urgently texted my friend, S, to tell the teacher that I was just leaving home and that I would be there soon. When I looked back up at the clock, it was twenty past nine. So late. I threw down my papers and screamed for a moment, overwhelmed by the whole ordeal, then gathered myself and ran to the car. The dream skipped forward and I arrived in the classroom, one of the first to arrive. We waited for a long time and finally the teachers arrived. They laughed, saying that they had travelled to the Gold Coast in search of a particular book for one of the students after yesterday's class and had somehow missed the last ride back and had to stay the night. They were sorry, but the talks would have to be rescheduled to commence next week. I was both furious and immensely relieved as now I would have a week to prepare.

exhibition

I was at the state art gallery to view a new exhibition of illustrated books, wandering around the vast space, when I came upon a small exhibition wall dedicated to my book. The book was there, printed and bound, sitting upon a white plinth. Around the book, someone had created a display in hot pink and orange with lots of white space, using various items to make an eclectic installation, such as boxes of tea and fine fabric. I went over to a lounge and sat down, my breath taken away upon finding my book included in the exhibition. I watched as a woman picked up the book, turning the pages carefully. She came over and asked if I had seen the book, pointing to a specific illustration of a young woman's face surrounded by leaves and flowers arranged in an intricate pattern. I was not sure if I should tell her that I had written and illustrated it, but I did and she was appreciative. I then noticed one of my paintings hanging on the wall, again predominantly pink, orange and white, and I realised that the entire section was dedicated to displaying my work. I saw empty walls and wished that I had produced more work to fill them, that I had made more of the space.