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September 5th, 2011

the floor of the dead

the librarian in the building told me that i was banned and that i could not check out books again unless i took one of two classes or checked out some 1000 or so books.  when i said that the last rule did not make any sense, the librarian — a thin elderly black woman with short, graying hair — kindly looked at me and said that she understood, it was a stupid rule.  she reiterated the classes option and both classes  seemed interesting, but i don’t remember what the classes were about.  i think one of them may have involved dancing.  i pulled out my sketchbook to show her something.  i turned to the index to find a specific drawing, only to find blank pages, because duh, why would a sketchbook have an index unless you were totally anal.

later i was on some dark street, associating with unsavory characters for a reason i do not remember.  after our meeting ended, i walked down the street to meet up with my mom, who in the dream was played by gillian anderson, aka scully from the x-files.  but, she was not gillian anderson,  she was actually an impostor and i knew it.  this impostor was really a monster who looked like gillian anderson, except her arms could extend hundreds of feet and pierce flesh like two javelins.  so i ran from the monster gillian anderson.  each time the arms extended to kill me, the flesh and bones in the arms would be torn apart from the stretching and blood would be everywhere.  but it was okay for the monster because she could heal herself like wolverine from x-men — it just took some time — a long time.  that means monster gillian anderson was a really ineffective monster and i got away from her easily.  i wish i could describe the arms better because they were crazy-looking.

i escaped to a parking garage where i had parked my car.  patrons paid for their parking in the reception area on the top floor.  the reception area was like the waiting area of a car wash, complete with air fresheners, accessory mirrors, car cleaning products, etc.  the receptionist was seated in a booth in a corner of the room, with pink and blue neon-lined windows.  she was a goth receptionist, and everyone in line in front of me was goth or tattooed or somehow “alt”.  i paid the receptionist and took my stamped ticket down many flights of stairs to the bottom floor where i could pick up my car.  i approached several attendants, but none of them would take my ticket — they all just gave me weird looks and quietly avoided me.  then i realized, oh! this is the floor for the spirits of dead people who want to stay forever, why would they bring me my car if i wanted to stay here forever?

by Patrick | Posted in dreams | No Comments » |

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