Having a quick nap before going out tonight. Just woke up from this dream. Someone please explain this shit to me. It seemed very urgent:
I am at Patti’s house. She’s late for work. I offer to drive her. Can’t find the car. I’m sure it has been towed. No wait, there it is. Oh yah, I remember parking it there. The window is down and the door unlocked. I have left my computer, camera and a number of other expensive items on the front seat. “Wow. That was dumb. Lucky this shit wasn’t stolen. Hey Patti, who’s the dumbest boy? Huh? Who’s the dumbest?”
I’m in the bar/nightclub with Melusine. The owner’s name is Renée and I have somehow known her for years. The manager of the bar is also named Marquis though we look nothing alike. He hands me a pint of beer and lets go too quickly before I have a grasp on it. It crashes to the ground. “We’ll let you get away with this one,” he said, clucking his tongue. I feel bad, and slighty angry since the man didn’t let me grasp the damn thing before he let go.
Melusine is with me. She laughs at this mishap and says she’s going to dance. Away she goes.
There’s another woman working the bar who has the hots for me. I am all at once wanting to avoid her, wanting to chat her up, and feeling very shy. She tells me in a crisp London accent that someone has left me a message. It’s at the other end of the bar. I walk down this mammonth club to the other side and see a styrofoam head with a wig. Underneath the wig is taped a note: “Dear Marquis. I have been reading your diary for quite a while now and find it very fascinating…” blah blah blah. Sweet note. The kind that always make me go, “Awww, someone’s getting it.” The note ends with: “…Continued on next head.”
The next head is a very life-like severed head of a blonde woman. The neck is jaggy and red. The note underneath it continues: “I have had to move my own diary to Diaryland :-(. I was wondering if you’re in the habit of letting your readers…” — it continues on the next head. There isn’t another in any obvious place. I brush the hair back from the severed woman’s eyes. It is affixed as real hair and somewhat musty as if it had been in a basement too long. I want to hold it up to the light to look at the facial features, but I know that the woman who sent this note looks exactly like this, and I don’t want her to see me “checking her out.”
I go searching the bar for another head. There is a long line of sleeping Dobermans down one stretch. Some men carrying large heavy panes of glass are stumbling their way towards me. I want to hop over the dogs to be out of their way, but think they might all wake up and go nuts if I do. Instead, I squeeze by. The last man drops his pane of glass. I spin around and attempt to catch it. I do. It does not break. The man smiles and I regonise him as the other Marquis. I hold the glass long enough for him to take it. When he does, I let go. When I let go, so does he. The glass falls and breaks.
Other Marquis: “That’s three times now you’ve let me down.” I’m feeling very bad, but more outraged. That’s two times that you have dropped the damn glass mutherfucker. I light into him: “Well if you would wait before letting go of shit like this,” I pick up the broken glass and let it drop, scowling, walking away.
(I can glean the meaning of this part at least. I have, due to my own carelessness and general misfortune, broken two very precious pieces of glass artwork in the last month.)
I order a drink from the Londoner. Pint of Abita, please. She pours a half pint and charges $5. I know I’m broke so I bring this up. She is mortified, having been trying to impress me, and fills another half pint and offers me a shot of something, being very charming.
Renée rushes towards me. She tells me urgently, breathlessly, that I have to come see something. That something terrible has happened. She pulls me towards the bar’s entrance. (I’m thinking, “Wait! I left my leathuh! Sumboady goan pinch muh leathuh!”) Suddenly I realise with clarity that Renée has been played by Julianne Moore this whole time, the way you realise, when watching “Being John Malkovich” that, oh my god, that was Cameron Diaz?
Now we’re in a scene from Boogie Nights. Melusine is commenting on how nurturing Julianne Moore’s character is as she offeres coke to her adopted “daughter”, Rollergirl.
I wake up in a cold sweat. I haven’t pulled that little cliché in I-Don’t-Know-How-Long. It is 10:29. Melusine suggested we wake up and start getting ready to go out at 10:30.
Hey, sorry, I know reading about dreams is dull, but there’s something in this one. I’ve gotta get it down in text before it’s gone. And on rare occasions, it’s a nice glimpse into someone’s psyche.
Which is why y’all are reading this tripe in the first place, right?
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