If only Mondays pass as quickly as the weekends seem to

Actually, I take that back — I had the Best. Day. Ever. And what’s weird was that it wasn’t a specific event or achievement or conversation that made it that way (although, those did factor in pretty heavily).

I’m pretty sure, though, that it was the fact that I stepped into an old costume today, that being of the *Dawn* I used to be. It needs a few alterations, of course, but it feels fuzzy and warm and has such a familiar, lightly perfumed scent that I’d forgotten that I’d left behind.

Yes, today was “Sassy Dawn” Day.

God, I’ve missed her.

In my head, I’ve been strutting like John Travolta in “Staying Alive.” Now, to just pick MY theme music!


I give Ted full credit for beating my spirit back into me (literally — LOL) this weekend. I have spent the last year (and probably a hell of a lot longer) as a mere apparition of my true self, and so few people were able to either remember the fearless chick I used to be or see past the facade-of-the-day that I put up to disguise myself … to the point that I barely remembered what I was hiding, as I seemed to be in hiding all the damned time.

I give props to Ted (and some others — you know who you are) in my life for not taking me at face value — for letting me stop talking if that’s what I want to do, yet for not allowing me to stay silent or to let my random utterings go unqualified. And for just listening, damn it — for letting me bleed the wounds so they can just heal already.

It’s not that I’ve written off my thoughts as unimportant — for the past year (and yes, maybe more), I’ve written myself off as unimportant.

That shit? Stops NOW.

I had one of those weekends and one of those days today in which I simply let go and had fun. I wasn’t on guard, wondering who was judging what I had to say and who was watching my reactions to everything. I said exactly everything at the moment it occurred to me, and I did it unfiltered.

I felt do damned liberated that I’d’a burned my bra, had I actually been wearing one. 😉

In any event. …


We went to the Hirschhorn and to the Freer and Sackler Galleries. My favorite place in the entire world (that’s indoors) is the Hirschhorn, which is filled with contemporary paintings and sculpture.

I am not an art junkie, admittedly. My scope of beauty stems from whether the work pleases me aesthetically — that is what makes it art, in my view. It needs to be living, breathing and inciting me to want to run out and create something of my very own.

There are two kinds of art I love — impressionism and postmodernism. My passion in contemporary works is for paintings and graphics and sculptures that look like they could have been created rather easily today, but then you look at the little sign next to them and see that they’re 80 years old and you say, “Damn.” That’s all — just damn. That’s visionary.

One of my (myriad) quirks is that I MUST stop and read the sign next to every piece of art. I need to know who did it, what they called it, what they made it from, and any other extraneous detail that the curator chose to share.

I do this because I can see the love and effort that went into crafting each piece, and even if it doesn’t aesthetically please me, I want to get some sort of insight into it.

That’s why I wish we would be able to touch the works. I know, the oils from our hands (and the destructiveness of some people) would damage these irreplaceable treasures. But I almost wonder if I could somehow channel the muse that inspired each work — or, maybe, I could get inside the artists’ heads, by touching the same materials that they molded so wonderfully.

I was at the Carnegie art museum in Pittsburgh a million years ago, bumming around and killing time, when I stumbled upon the Impressionist wing. And I felt electrified.

It was very strange — I walked up to each and every work and knew who had done it without even looking at the signs. I was somehow possessed, or at least in some otherworldly dimension, as I breathed such names as Degas, Renoir, Rodin, Cezanne and Matisse.

Now sure, anyone with half an IQ point knows a Monet. But the rest? Where the hell did that COME from?

If you believe in past lives, I sort of came into my own at that moment and realized I may very well have lived during that era. I speak French pretty well (I learned it for five years, duh) and have always had a passion for that region — I don’t feel like this life will be complete if I don’t get my happy ass to France to see if that electrifying feeling that I experienced in the hallowed halls of the Carnegie weren’t just an indicator that I have some connection to that time.

I promise, I don’t just want to go so I can stalk Johnny Depp. Although if I happen to turn up in one of his trash cans, don’t be surprised.

Until then. …


There were three pieces at the Hirshhorn that struck me. One, I can’t locate in the online collection, but the other two are Diana and Patty.

Patty is just fucking disturbing, yet I spent a good half-hour with her, including the time I was looking over my shoulder as we moved away from that sculpture. It’s a naked, pregnant girl on a bed with a tiny headboard yet a bigger footboard. There is a photo of a baby on the wall and a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand.

Patty has a shaped, plaster body, but her head is a glass portrait of someone’s profile. She was literally staring into a brightly lit headlight. If you go around the wall with the headlight (the wall has trunk handles. Bizarre), you see five fists, each of which is holding a cross of some sort. Ted and I pondered that one for a long time, and the proximity sensors kept sounding off as I kept trying to step into the scene to uncover more details. Morbid, grotesque and goddamned magnificent, all told.

Diana (not safe for work, kids) spoke to me — the real me. She’s naked and crossing her arms, her hands on her shoulders. I’d thought it was a photograph, the lines were so crisp from across the room. But, alas, she is a portrait, and a beautifully done one at that, down to her not-so-attractive feet and yet to the curve of her biceps and, well, to the exquisite detail of her girly bits.

I fell in love with her expression, her stance, her guardedness. Naked from the waist down yet crossing her arms over her heart. She reminded me of someone I used to be many moons ago — her aura emanated, “You can fuck me but I won’t let you love me.”


It’s amazing how I can feel so damned alive looking at works by artists who may have passed, of subjects who may no longer exist — if ever they even did. And so, I may not be able to touch the works, but I feel them.

And it kind of kicked me in the ass that my existence is not a still life. Nor was it ever meant to be. Nor, then, shall it continue to be.

Damn it. 😉

One thing that those of you who are not fortunate enough to know Ted would adore about him is not just how smart he is, but how he is committed to setting an example. He teaches me to expect a certain level of regard from others. I am simply not allowed to merely accept anything less than what I would (right now) consider a royal treatment but what I *should* consider as business as usual.

From opening doors to every other possible courtesy, he let me know that he will break my arm if I try to do for myself what someone else should be doing for me. 😉

And when a girl’s never had somebody treat her so well, it’s an eye-opener that it’s not wrong to want to be worshipped. 😉 As a dear friend, he’s setting a supremely high standard for people who may come into my life.

For me, it also shows me that I unfairly and oftentimes unnecessarily beat myself up — I need to command respect from myself just as much as from others. The old Dawn used to be that way — the old Dawn knew how to illuminate the world, true to her name.

The old Dawn has re-awakened. It’s time for the season of darkness to go away and for the season of light to start burning again.

Thank you — to all of you — for having faith that this day would, in fact, arrive. Again.

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