"In dreams, emotions are overwhelming."
Last night I dreamed.
I was at an art museum that had many floors, all of which were unnervingly open -- i.e. they had no walls. Someone told me to go to the fifth floor, and I remember the elevator was an open rectangular platform that had a pole at each of the corners. The floor was a cushion that sloped frighteningly away from the center. I was wearing high heels, for some bizarre reason, and I kneeled on the platform for fear of falling off. I clung to the corner pole of the elevator as it took me up up up to the fifth floor. The wind whipped my hair around and as I stepped off of the platform I glanced down. The ground was very, very far away. I sat down at the edge of the floor of the museum, too frightened to even look at the art around me. My hair still caught the updraughts and flew around my face. Finally I got up, and met with a group of friends who told me they had taken the stairs up. I nearly cried.
We looked at strange art; small, roughly-hewn tables and chairs, clumsily-made quilts with awkward and uneven stitches. My attention waned until someone said, "Hey, you made this." I turned around and the person was gesturing at a low wooden table. It sloped slightly, and splinters stuck out of it in places where it hadn't been sanded enough. The legs were crooked and mismatched, and it had a plaque above it that said my name. I said, "Oh, yeah, I did -- why didn't anyone tell me my work was in this museum?" While I said this, though, I simultaneously thought I didn't make that, why is my name above it? I would never make something like that!
As we walked around the museum, people kept pointing out roughly-made wooden furniture, child-sized chairs and tables that they said I had made. I kept doing the same thing: saying I had made them, annoyed that no one had told me they were here, and thinking "That isn't mine!"
I don't remember if I took the stairs down or not. I can only assume that I did.
I was at an art museum that had many floors, all of which were unnervingly open -- i.e. they had no walls. Someone told me to go to the fifth floor, and I remember the elevator was an open rectangular platform that had a pole at each of the corners. The floor was a cushion that sloped frighteningly away from the center. I was wearing high heels, for some bizarre reason, and I kneeled on the platform for fear of falling off. I clung to the corner pole of the elevator as it took me up up up to the fifth floor. The wind whipped my hair around and as I stepped off of the platform I glanced down. The ground was very, very far away. I sat down at the edge of the floor of the museum, too frightened to even look at the art around me. My hair still caught the updraughts and flew around my face. Finally I got up, and met with a group of friends who told me they had taken the stairs up. I nearly cried.
We looked at strange art; small, roughly-hewn tables and chairs, clumsily-made quilts with awkward and uneven stitches. My attention waned until someone said, "Hey, you made this." I turned around and the person was gesturing at a low wooden table. It sloped slightly, and splinters stuck out of it in places where it hadn't been sanded enough. The legs were crooked and mismatched, and it had a plaque above it that said my name. I said, "Oh, yeah, I did -- why didn't anyone tell me my work was in this museum?" While I said this, though, I simultaneously thought I didn't make that, why is my name above it? I would never make something like that!
As we walked around the museum, people kept pointing out roughly-made wooden furniture, child-sized chairs and tables that they said I had made. I kept doing the same thing: saying I had made them, annoyed that no one had told me they were here, and thinking "That isn't mine!"
I don't remember if I took the stairs down or not. I can only assume that I did.