Ink and watercolor in 5.5″ square sketchbook (larger)
Last night I dreamt first that I was shopping in Macy’s and a snooty salesman looked me up and down and made fun of what I was wearing. He offered to help me dress better and recommended $100 flip-flops with made of thin green nylon (like they make sleeping bags from) with criss-crossed shoelaces that held the flimsy things on your feet.
“The latest thing,” he told me. I wasn’t going for it.
Carrying on the poorly-dressed theme, the next dream was that I was wandering around Los Angeles, looking for a bus to Santa Monica (a suburb of LA where my mother lives) wearing only a large (but not large enough) shirt.
I wasn’t terribly embarrassed by this partial nudity, having gotten used to it from all the time I’ve spent in previous dreams completely naked in public.
In real life, I don’t go out naked, though I did spend a summer nude in the early ’70s when I was 22, camping with 6 friends at a beautiful spot in the Siskiyou National Forest, 10 miles down a dirt road from the town of Happy Camp. The temperature in the afternoons reached 117 so nudity seemed pretty reasonable.
Running by our campsite was the perfectly named Clear Creek which fed into a wonderful swimming hole surrounded by huge boulders, perfect for lying on and diving off of.
We were the only ones there during the weekdays but on the weekends the occasional truckload of Native Americans from the nearby reservation would come out to swim or a family might camp for the weekend. The guys in our group would put on bathing suits when we had visitors but us hippie girls stayed au naturel for the duration and nobody seemed to mind.