LONG DREAM
This dream was so long, I might even get bored of writing about it halfway through. Or maybe not.
I was hanging with these Benildians, and we had figured out a way to transport ourselves to London. We had to climb this huge ladder at the Basilica, and somehow, by climbing this high, we transcended the laws of nature, and there was a warp, which took us to London. Kevin Ryan was helping me climb, and he was goodlooking. My legs were shaky from climbing, just because the ladder was slippery, and I was fearful of sliding all the way down and being left behind. I was hoping to room with Kevin once we got to London, because we'd be spending the night. We got to this stonehenge looking place, and there were these Indians (red-dot kind) there, who dressed up and made fools of themselves for the tourists for money. I thought it was heartbreaking and degrading, as did a few of the people in my company, but they took pictures anyway; even tourist Indians took pictures.
Then I think I woke up, because there was a jump. See, when I wake up, I hardly ever go back to my dream. But I did this morning, which makes it seem much longer than it probably was.
We're back at the Basilica, in a chapel behind it. But instead of going to London, we decide to party inside the church. It's dark, has lots of room for dancing, no one's using it at night, it's perfect for a party, right? Even I was excited for the sacriledge. We start partying, shouting, being very racocous. Then Chris Labounty ssshhhes us really loudly; we go quite. Upstairs, some priests are saying mass. We run out of the chapel. Some people want to continue on into the big Basilica, thinking that the priests won't follow us there. I argue by now that there's no way the priests don't know we're there, so they're going to call the police. Then Paul takes up the golden plate of hosts, and in mock reverence, holds them up before throwing them on dusty floorboards outside the old chapel. I pick them all up and eat them, as you're supposed to do when a host touches the ground. This is when it gets fuzzy. I think people ran into the Basilica anyways, but a fire broke out, so we ran away.
Another break.
I woke up from sleeping (in the dream I was sleeping, and in the dream I woke up from it), and I felt so groggy. It turns out that the fire in the Basilica hit a part that was very important to BSM's history (which in real life, BSM has no history at the Basilica), and it destroyed all these writings and journals and documents and recordings of choirs. I feel horrible. Fr. Kermit was saying a mass in the destroyed, burnt rubble, and I got there, crying my eyes out. I went right up to Jill and Cathy and gave the latter a huge hug. I felt so bad about what we had done. The worst part of it all was that everyone knew that it was our fault, including my friends, including the priests, but no one pointed a finger, no one admitted to the guilt, no one pointed out the guilty. Fr. Kermit said a difference version of the Nicene Creed. A choir comprised of old alumni (including a bearded Mike Mahler) sang. Even afterwards, I cried for a good long time, because I felt so bad about losing all that history. Cathy was in a fight with some girl, and for a bit the fight distracted me from my guilt. Mr. Jay told us that one of the first people to respond to the cleanup call last night was Mark Rose (didn't go to Benilde). Then nearby the cooks from Buffalo Wild Wings were in a fight, and they were all blaming the one female cook; she couldn't speak English very well, so she tried to speak through her 2 year old son, who just couldn't speak very well. He was playing in the sauces on the ground with a stick.
Then I woke up (for real) and was very, very groggy. Not a restful dream, it turns out.
I was hanging with these Benildians, and we had figured out a way to transport ourselves to London. We had to climb this huge ladder at the Basilica, and somehow, by climbing this high, we transcended the laws of nature, and there was a warp, which took us to London. Kevin Ryan was helping me climb, and he was goodlooking. My legs were shaky from climbing, just because the ladder was slippery, and I was fearful of sliding all the way down and being left behind. I was hoping to room with Kevin once we got to London, because we'd be spending the night. We got to this stonehenge looking place, and there were these Indians (red-dot kind) there, who dressed up and made fools of themselves for the tourists for money. I thought it was heartbreaking and degrading, as did a few of the people in my company, but they took pictures anyway; even tourist Indians took pictures.
Then I think I woke up, because there was a jump. See, when I wake up, I hardly ever go back to my dream. But I did this morning, which makes it seem much longer than it probably was.
We're back at the Basilica, in a chapel behind it. But instead of going to London, we decide to party inside the church. It's dark, has lots of room for dancing, no one's using it at night, it's perfect for a party, right? Even I was excited for the sacriledge. We start partying, shouting, being very racocous. Then Chris Labounty ssshhhes us really loudly; we go quite. Upstairs, some priests are saying mass. We run out of the chapel. Some people want to continue on into the big Basilica, thinking that the priests won't follow us there. I argue by now that there's no way the priests don't know we're there, so they're going to call the police. Then Paul takes up the golden plate of hosts, and in mock reverence, holds them up before throwing them on dusty floorboards outside the old chapel. I pick them all up and eat them, as you're supposed to do when a host touches the ground. This is when it gets fuzzy. I think people ran into the Basilica anyways, but a fire broke out, so we ran away.
Another break.
I woke up from sleeping (in the dream I was sleeping, and in the dream I woke up from it), and I felt so groggy. It turns out that the fire in the Basilica hit a part that was very important to BSM's history (which in real life, BSM has no history at the Basilica), and it destroyed all these writings and journals and documents and recordings of choirs. I feel horrible. Fr. Kermit was saying a mass in the destroyed, burnt rubble, and I got there, crying my eyes out. I went right up to Jill and Cathy and gave the latter a huge hug. I felt so bad about what we had done. The worst part of it all was that everyone knew that it was our fault, including my friends, including the priests, but no one pointed a finger, no one admitted to the guilt, no one pointed out the guilty. Fr. Kermit said a difference version of the Nicene Creed. A choir comprised of old alumni (including a bearded Mike Mahler) sang. Even afterwards, I cried for a good long time, because I felt so bad about losing all that history. Cathy was in a fight with some girl, and for a bit the fight distracted me from my guilt. Mr. Jay told us that one of the first people to respond to the cleanup call last night was Mark Rose (didn't go to Benilde). Then nearby the cooks from Buffalo Wild Wings were in a fight, and they were all blaming the one female cook; she couldn't speak English very well, so she tried to speak through her 2 year old son, who just couldn't speak very well. He was playing in the sauces on the ground with a stick.
Then I woke up (for real) and was very, very groggy. Not a restful dream, it turns out.