 Some of my collages are often inspired by dreams. This piece is how I visually interpreted the following spoken-word-only dream, as if the black curtain was lifted. Total blackness. Just spoken words. He said with a voice as clear as day, "Are you sure you want to be contacting me? Are you ready for the inception?" In his words there were traces of hesitation and fear, but with limitless warmth. "Yes," I said, "I am sure. I've never been more certain." "Prelude" Denise M. Roguz Digital collage
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 I'm at a Catholic parish rectory that seems as if it was abandoned decades ago. I'm not sure why I am there, but I meander through the dimly lit rooms and reach an area that could have been a recreation room at one time. I think to myself, "Well, ok. This is weird, but I guess priests need recreation, too." I walk in.
Everything is covered with dust and cobwebs. There's a ping-pong table, reclining seats and vintage movie posters adorning the walls -- some peeling away and curling at the edges. I'm intrigued by the posters and admire each one as I walk by. Suddenly, I feel a wallop to the back of my head. The force knocks me to my knees and I fall forward inhaling a pile of dust. Something steps on my back and then kicks me in the ribs. I manage to turn to my side and look up, but there's nothing there. The kicking starts up again. I realize that I'm getting beaten by something that is invisible. The blows are intense and continuous. I struggle to breathe and I'm losing consciousness. In the haze of weakness and delirium, I can feel my life force slipping. The kicking finally ceases. I can tell I'm beaten to a pulp, so I just lie there. It's silent. The room is spinning now and my blurred vision begins to make out a silhouette of a figure at the doorway of the rectory hallway. His presence is reassuring. I feel as if I know this person, but I can't quite see him. I reach out and struggle to communicate, but I'm fading quickly and feel paralyzed from the blows of the attack. I realize that it's him, the figure from the other dream. I open my mouth to speak, but only the sound of gurgling air escapes. I try once more and this time I'm able to whisper, "I've... heard you. I... believe you." I roll my head with exhaustion in the opposite direction toward the window and notice my long-passed grandmother peering in. She's wearing a babushka and winks at me. "Now at the Hour" Denise M. Roguz Digital collage and pencil, ink, conte crayon on paper The following is a series of textural watercolor and digital collage portraits. Now accepting volunteers.
 Sometimes what comes out in art, is later revealed in dreams, too: Pinned by the weight of its formidable presence, I kick and make repeated blows to the dark creature's groin area to no avail. It neither flinches nor wanes. Instead, the alien beast tightens its grip and presses down with more weight, breathing a stench so foul into my face. The creature must have a shielding defense mechanism and with every knee-bent blow, it appears to get stronger. I manage to free an arm and reach for the nightstand. My fingertips frantically search for anything that can be used as a weapon. The lamp crashes with my flailing attempts, but alas, I grip the sharpened pencil on the table. With a raging swipe, I plunge the implement deep into its eye, penetrating its protective membrane. A viscous fluid spurts from the pressure maintained under the layer of film and the beast reels, letting out a blood-curdling screech. The spewing excretion lands on my face, covering it with gelatinous goo. It burns. The substance is toxic and corrosive. The weight of the being is nothing compared to the layers of skin being burned from my face. Again, I stab the creature for a second and third time, and with each puncture, more corrosive material surges onto my face. I know that I must endure the pain of its dying defenses to release its grip. Denise M. Roguz
"Borrelia Astricta" Digital collage |
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