A Familiar Setting
In another dream, I was checking into a hotel. My friend was leaving town, and he was helping me out. He took care of the paperwork before heading out on a flight to his home. I had brought some of my most important things, getting cozy in this new space with all the prospects with what I was about to do.
A town leaning up into the higher sides of a mountain comes back to me dream after dream. I seem to visit this place once every few years. It looks a little different every time, but it always feels like a resort of some kind, someplace to go to after taking a long journey.
Last night, I was checked in, as if it were a continuation of that other dream from one or more weeks ago. But instead of sleeping there, I was going to a friend’s party that was not too far away. The backyard was like a park, and the darkness of the early night hid what I felt were precipices that might have been behind everything or perhaps in another direction. We were standing around, holding our drinks. I was conscious of not straying too far into the darkness for fear of falling. I was already barefoot, since they had invited me to stay there for the night. An art installation was the centerpiece to this get-together. It was a space that you walked into. I was told to check it out, so I did. The small building was a square. It was the size of a modest dining room. Where the table would be was the main piece of art. It was like a column coming out of the floor that stopped short of chest high and then acted more like a pedestal for a bell that floated above it. That made the space into an angular donut that you had to walk around instead of through. I walked around it and took a look at the ground to find circles at regular intervals. It was glass, and I was stepping on it. I felt the need to exit, but there was still all of the other art that ran like a passage left of the room installation I was now walking around. But someone noticed the blood on my feet, and they insisted I walked out. That room I was just experiencing was the work of a famous artist. He was not just any artist but someone important to me. That is to say, I was not necessarily his biggest fan, but I knew of him in the circles of art that interested me, and I respected him. I think in our world, he was Anders Nilsen, but he could have easily been Dash Shaw. I slept in the room that my friends gave me, and when I woke up, it was still night time. This was another art space I was inhabiting, and it made me think of the square space with the broken glass. I don’t know what else I did. It was something interesting enough for me to note that this was a dream and that I had to hurry up and write this down. And by the time I did, this last part and whatever else went with it, was no longer making tracks in my thoughts.