(11/12/200 - I had this dream exactly a month ago, back before I started noding, but it still haunts me so I needed to write it up.)

Diego Rivera is planning to paint a mural at the friend-I'm-staying-at's apartment. The apartment is located in the lower East side of Manhattan so it is necessarily tiny, and the idea of a mural there seems slightly ridiculous. Rivera is willing to cope with that by making the mural similarly tiny.

Rivera keeps going on and on about how this mural must be perfect. Absolutely perfect. He then explains that since he is painting this mural for the appreciation of an artist such as myself he has to worry about its quality. Nothing but perfect will do.

I woke up and had to stop myself from crying because I didn't want to wake up my friend who was sleeping beside me. No one's ever called me an artist. Ever. Never my parents. They still hope it's a phase. Not really my friends. With them I'm a physicist who happens to paint. Not even me.

Maybe I have faith in me after all.