Well, it’s another one of those times…
Besides something about a vinyl recording of Hunchback of Notre Dame, the first thing I remember was– well, slightly lude– but it was about a girl who looked an awful lot like Isabella Rossellini from Blue Velvet (which, by the way, is a film that I couldn’t stomach, but it’s worked itself into the annals of my mind. So… good job, Lynch. Good job.)– but in my dream, she was in a large family of folk singers (that looked an awful lot like some of those apparently found in the 60s/70s in Israeli culture) that travelled the globe, and she was, like, the Michael Jackson of the group, in that she was the… well, the youngest GIRL, and she was constantly disturbed by her sisters bringing back groupies every night.
Also, I was seeing everything from her perspective for a while. But– yes– she was very alone and very confused by everything her sisters were doing. (I just remember running around a dark parking lot (darking lot?) late at night and seeing all her/my sisters macking in cars lit up on the inside. … six different cars all just lined up, and all of them looked the same.) But– apparently, her story ended up all right when her and her sisters got put on a reality show similar to the Bachelorette, and she was the only one who won out and had a successful relationship from it! With a… guy named… Brenden or Shaun or some nice pleasant name like that.
But anyway, then I became me, and I was trying to look up when their wedding was at some fancy library in some fancy school I apparently had walked onto. (It was really just a morphing of the location I was at while I was thinking about Bachelorette– but let’s not tell anybody that.) Anyway, I kept running back and forth into the library excitedly, putting on, like, different voices, for some reason, as I attempted to ask people if they knew when… Davne… Kavye… Chavke… she had some name like that– and Shaun-Brenden got married. Someone remember it was, like, 2009, but I really wanted to know the MONTH and the DAY. No one seemed to understand exactly why this was important to me. But, like, hey, when two cool people have a cool life together, chances are they picked a pretty cool time of the year to get married. And I don’t really know how to pick those days. At least, as far as nature goes. Like, you can pick an IMPORTANT day… or you can pick a day that LOOKS really nice in a specific PLACE– that, like, lines up with some part of the LUNAR cycle or… okay, this is supposed to be me talking about the dream. Moving on.
Anyway, I was the only one in the library, for some reason. I was on the top floor, and there was this long… bridge-like portion that led from one end of the floor to the other, which was guarded by this… male secretary, I guess. He was kind of gaunt and tired– and a little fed up with my antics and my asking. But in the end, he just let me pass– and I saw that there was this bearded teacher walking around with me. He appeared to be putting back some books he’d been looking at. And then as I headed back– failed finding a tabloid about the marriage, by the way– I turned back and noticed that there was this other kid in the library, and the teacher was calling him. The kid laid the book he had with him on a tiny bench nearby. I just sort of stopped for a moment and watched the conversation. The man was telling him that he needed to start filling his school notebooks as much as he filled his personal notebook — pointing to the rather stuffed-with-stray-papers, leather-binded book on the bench right over there — or else he was going to flunk his class. He told him what a bright boy he was, though, and that he still had a chance, and he didn’t want to do it to him at all. He called him Quentin, by the way. Which is one of the strongest names that’s every come out in my dreams. I’ve only known one Quentin in my life. One of the characters I draw all the time is actually that Quentin. I don’t know if that’s how I chose my name, though. Also, I don’t know exactly how it came up in the conversation I was watching, but there was something about how Quentin is a comic comedian. Like, he uses comics that he draws as part of some new-age stand-up comedy act. (I dunno, I could see it work out. Also, I don’t know how I knew that in the economical language of dreams. But then again, how couldn’t I?)
Quentin just sort of shrugged off his advice– for someone with a comedy act, he didn’t seem like a man invigorated to speak at all. He was very monosyllabic and gave off this attitude like he didn’t care in the slightest about this little educational intervention. He just tried to get the teacher to end it. But somehow, I knew everything about Quentin without ever being told. Somehow, I knew he was very much like me, except he was hiding it, in order to be like everyone else. He started to make his way out of the library, walking past the tiny bench he put his notebook on. I grabbed it and ran to catch up with him. For someone who seemed to be trudging, he really was walking quick. He took it with as cold and ungrateful a grimace as possible. I kept walking with him, and was communicating about– something. I think I was trying to introduce myself. I told him my name was Skye, and that I knew what it felt like to be torn between being a good student and doing the things in the arts that compel you. He sort of mumbled back and remarked that he honestly didn’t care about any of it– or anything, for that matter. I asked him about the notebook, but he acted like it didn’t exist. Apparently, he was embarrassed about it– or didn’t want anybody to know that he actually strove for anything at this school. As we walked through the hallways, we ended up parting ways for a little bit, and finding ourselves picking pathways that led up to each other, walking out the next pathway at the exact same time, at the exact same pace. He looked up and looked unnerved to see me still there, and he made some remark about how stupid it was– how stupid I was. I’d picked up a pencil just as we’d parted ways, and I remember it had two names on it– his name, Quentin E. Taylor, and someone else’s, sort of scribbled off. I handed him his pencil back, which he took with an even more ferocious grimace, then I said, “I pick up pencils all the time, too. You can never have too many of them, for sure. And I hate to lose mine, even though I do all the time– that’s– that’s the only reason I’m giving it back to you. Don’t look at me like I just ruined your life… again or something.”
Then we talked for a little while longer– and it almost seemed, for some shining moment, that he was opening up to me. But then we ended up in a similar fork as before, and he took another pathway that he hoped wouldn’t lead back to me, as he said out loud. He said something like, “Oh… looks like there’s no possible way you can keep following me this time. I’m sure we’re not going to see each other again. And I violently hope we don’t. Goodbye, person-I’ve-already-forgotten-the-name-of-even-though-you’ve-totally-mentioned-your-name-at-least-once-during-this-conversation. Have an awful life.” … No, seriously, that last part is, like, word-for-word from my dream.
I just sort of paused for a moment right there, as he walked away. I waved to him, he looked back for a moment, a little stunned by my reaction. (I could see him trying to ignore it.) In the midst of the smothering sound of car engines (we were near some parking lot), I said, “Bye, Quentin! I hope the comedy act goes okay!” And a little louder, just so I knew he’d hear before he disappeared, “Quentin, I hope the comedy act goes okay!”
And then I turned around, hoping I’d made some difference. Then, as I walked in the opposite direction, this dude came up, with this bent metal knife where the sharp part was stretched out and bent over itself. And he started making this… stupid joke about it like it was funny or something (I think it was something about how bending it half made it look like some blimp or an airship. And then he waved it in the air making messy spit-covered plane noises. … mm.), and shaking it around my face. I stepped back, and said, “Whoa, dude. Stop it, the rust on that thing makes it look like it belongs in some cutlery museum.”
And then he just looked at me for a moment with this puzzled, irritated look on his face. Then he said, “What?”
Then I said, “It looks like it belongs it some cutlery mu…”
And then he cut me off there (pun intended), and he began to grate the end of the curved knife against my cheek, still making plane noises.
And then I woke up.
And the moral of the story is, whenever I dream about school, I dream about people acting stupid while also acting really evil underneath.
… No seriously, this is the third time I’ve written about dreams that have ended like this.
And this is Example #3. Now, good night. Hope you sleep better than me.