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Dream

I had a really weird dream last night and I want to write it down before I forget it. It’s a bit gross, so you might not want to read it while you’re eating. Nothing in it has any bearing on reality whatsoever.

I was walking up the staircase of a very large modern building. The building itself was a museum, perhaps a design museum, and was filled with a large number of people who were just wandering about. However, the building also housed a school of some sort and I was hurrying up the stairs, past the slow-moving museum visitors, because I had a project assigned. I didn’t know what the project was, but we were supposed to meet with the professor to find out. When I got to the room, it was an exhibition room, but there was a table obviously unrelated to the exhibition set up in the center. There were people in the room, but no one in the class and no professor. On the table were a variety of molds and little plastic cups filled with what appeared to be a modeling clay of sorts. At first, I thought perhaps I was early, but then it appeared to me that some little cups of the clay had already been used and I began to get anxiety that I was, in fact, late. But it was the right time, and some of the cups were still there. Nonetheless, I worried. I always seemed to be behind everyone at school, always late, always disorganized, always forgetting things. I picked up one of the cups and tried to press the “clay” into one of the molds. The clay crumbled in a funny way and it was obvious that it wasn’t supposed to be used in this manner.

I kept scanning the room for signs of the professor. Finally she appeared, a small, dark woman who was very neatly, severely, groomed. “No, no, no.” She said, seeing me fumble with the unknown substance. “You’re supposed to eat it. It is a newly developed green plastic. Instead of using an industrial process, it uses an organic one. Your body’s digestive process turns the raw materials into a usable plastic.”

“Eat it,” she commanded. So I did. “Come back when you’re ready to expel it,” she said and walked purposefully away leaving me a little stunned and puzzled and wanting to ask more questions.

“When I’m ready to expel it?” I thought to myself, “That could be a couple of hours.” I wondered how long the museum would be open and hoped the professor would still be around. What if she wasn’t? Why didn’t I ask that when I had a chance? Gosh, I was always messing everything up in school. I was certain that I’d manage to mess this up as well.

So I wandered around the museum. Finally, I felt as I was going to have a bowel movement, so I headed back to the table where the professor had set up the materials. The room was dark and there was no sign of the professor. I turned on the light and went back over to the table in the center. There was some information printed out on sheets of paper that I hadn’t noticed before. It described how a class of middle school students had made gallon water jugs out of the material. “Eew, gross,” I thought. Apparently, that was the point, to show that the material could be used for food purposes. At that moment, one of my classmates came in, a tall guy holding a teeny, pink, green and red martini glass on a tall stem. “Look what I made!” he said. He was always so enthusiastic but his work was so ugly.

“Have you seen Professor Manara?” I asked. (I don’t actually know anyone with this name. She is not a real person.)

“Not for a while, but she must be nearby somewhere,” he said and waltzed off with his martini glass.

I walked through the museum, past the tourists, and headed for the corridor where the professors had their offices. Professor Manara was not there, but there was another professor and I asked him if he had seen her. Indeed, she was in the cafe area. The students and the professors rarely went there and I couldn’t help thinking that she should have given us something like this and then gone someplace unexpected, but, as you know, students have no footing to complain about anything, and I headed quickly to the cafe area hoping I wasn’t going to have an emergency before finding Professor Manara.

I found the professor laughing convivially with a group of people I didn’t know. Finally, I managed to get her attention. “Why didn’t you say something! Come with me,” and with that she began walking back towards the exhibition hall. From beneath the table, she pulled out a plastic cup like the one doctors give you for samples and a small paper bag. “Here, go to a restroom and deposit it in this,” she said.

I was definitely beginning to feel a sense of urgency and was really hoping that there would be no line for the restroom. Luckily, there was none. Unfortunately the lock didn’t work. I guessed the paper bag was simply so we wouldn’t be walking around the museum carrying stool for everyone to see. Someone came in and startled me, and I missed catching the stool and it went into the toilet. I started crying because I’d already been kicked out of two design schools for incompetence and it all seemed so unfair.

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So I just woke up after having one of those vivid dreams I’ve been having for the past couple of weeks. It’s probably because I was writing about Luscious, and the East Village in the eighties always makes me think about rock-and-roll and comics.

I met this petite, dark-haired woman who brought up the subject of comics. She talked about comics and I was eager to get to know her. She was quite a bit younger and I’d been out of the loop regarding comics for sometime. She told me about a women’s comics collective to which she belonged. We went back to her place and she showed me her work. We were in a big, cavernous, vaguely industrial space with a concrete floor, like an empty warehouse. She had a large, long wooden table and she opened a large portfolio upon it. Sheets of paper spilled out all over the table. One slipped towards me. Picking it up, I saw that it was a full color print of a comics page. There was a fully shaded and colored drawing of a classical building and characters walking in it. I glanced over at some of the other pages on the table. Some of the others were in black and white, much simpler in style.

She talked about how she was torn between doing more lushly illustrated work and actually getting stuff out on a daily basis and  telling a story. The collective she was working with published regularly and that pushed her to work quickly. On the other hand, she missed being able to do detailed work like the one I was holding in my hand.

I nodded, my frustration with comics has always been how time-consuming it is.

While we were talking, one of her neighbors dropped in for a minute. He was an unkempt middle-aged fellow with messy dirty blond hair and a pot belly. He wore a yellow t-shirt, a pair of loose shorts and some flip-flops. He left after telling her something I don’t recall.

She suggested I come back later that evening when some of the women from the women’s comics collective were stopping by so I could meet them.

I was very eager to meet them, but I felt that I shouldn’t turn up empty-handed, so I picked up a six-pack and some food from Empire Szechuan. I used to live in the neighborhood and remembered that place. Her place was not an apartment, but a studio space in a building belonging to an art school. It was located in Chelsea and it should have been either Parson’s or SVA, both places where I’ve studied, but it was called The Guggenheim School and it resembled Breuer’s Whitney building if it had been reinterpreted by Rem Koolhaas. I’d give the address I knew in the dream, but it’s not a real building, so it doesn’t really matter. I ascended in a large elevator which resembled a stylish freight elevator. There were several people in there with me. The elevator was made of metal materials with an industrial feel. Cut out reveals allowed one to view the floors as they passed by.

The young woman’s space was not far off from the elevator itself. I was aware of white hallway off to the side, but I turned right, into the woman’s space. The group was much larger than I expected, and about a dozen women sat around the long table on which was laid out a large amount of Chinese take out. The  women seemed much trendier than I had expected, or rather I should say that I hadn’t given it much thought before arriving. I suddenly felt old and dumpy. I was wearing the same thing I was wearing earlier that day, which was worse than my usual low standards. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I looked down at my chest vaguely hoping it was the Hernandez Brothers t-shirt Luscious had given me. No, it was a black t-shirt emblazoned with the name of a rock and roll band I didn’t even know in white and red letters. I was suddenly unsure how I had acquired the t-shirt and hoped no one would ask about it. At least, I thought, the Chinese take-out was the right choice. Suddenly, as if she could read my thoughts, one of the other women said, “We used to order from Empire Szechuan all the time, but we don’t anymore because they’re not as good as they used to be.” I put the container of food on the table and the women ate it anyway. Someone pulled out a magazine sized sheet of glossy paper and passed it around. On it there was a drawing of what looked like a Roman bath with nude and scantily clad people in the water and lolling about on the perimeter. During the conversation, it became evident that one of the group had been commissioned to do a drawing of a night club that had a large bath in the center. I had never heard of such a nightclub, but everyone else apparently had. I was aware of being very out-of-it and kept to myself during the conversation so as not to reveal what a dork I really was.

This being a dream, at some point I lost my clothes, which no one noticed.

I had to find the restroom, and I wandered off down the long, white hallway. The hallway was not straight. The walls were angled. Some were only a partial height, while others didn’t come all the way to the floor. So rather than the hallway being formed by two, solid parallel walls, it was suggested by a series of angled panels. The hallway was bright, but the source of the light was not visible. Instead, the light seemed all over and diffuse. It was disorienting, but not in an unpleasant way.

Momentarily, I was aware of being naked, but then I figured it was an art school and maybe people would just assume I was a model. The hallway was long, but since it wasn’t straight, I couldn’t see to the end. It seemed to go on and on. I walked by a series of studios, reminding me of when I went to go visit an acquaintance doing an MFA at Hunter. Either side of the hallway was lined with studios. There were no doorways and glimpses of the interiors of the studios could be seen as I walked by. Beyond the white screens I saw more nude people. At first I assumed they were models, but after a while it occurred to me that most of the artists were nude as well.

Finally, I came to the end of the hall. A bearded man with an odd accent asked, “Can I help you?” with the rising note at the end that indicates it’s really a polite way of asking “What are you doing here?”

I explained that I was looking for the restroom. He sniffed. “It’s back near the lift.”

So I walked back down the long white hallway. There were two young women sitting on chairs in the hallway who weren’t there before. In front of them they had laid out on the floor a large number of glossy 3 by 5 photos arranged in a grid. They were talking and pointing and it was obvious that they were comparing and discussing them. It appeared that the one woman was working on a project of which some of the photos would be a part and the second woman was giving her opinion. As I approached, I was unsure how I would get past. The photos extended from the feet of the women to the wall on the other side and they were collectively far too wide to jump over. “Oh, go ahead. Just walk by,” the one woman said, waving me past. I hesitated. “Really, it’s okay.”

I tip-toed over the pictures and they stuck to my feet a little. Somehow, I made it across with minimal disturbance to the photos.

“We just use the bathroom that’s up through there,” the other young woman said helpfully, pointing at a space I hadn’t noticed before. It was narrow and dark like a hallway or an emergency stairwell, but there weren’t stairs. Instead there was an angled piece of wood painted yellow. I walked up the piece of wood worrying that I might get stuck. I emerged onto the roof of the building which was covered with a large field extending to the horizon. The pot-bellied neighbor I met earlier was sunning himself on the roof along with his wife. They were both sitting in those low slung tubular aluminum beach chairs set side by side. I walked up to him and asked where the bathroom was. He answered that it was indeed nearby, but if I hadn’t been there before it would just be easier if I took the other staircase back and used the restroom near the elevator. His wife gave a friendly wave as I walked across the field to the other staircase.

The steps of this staircase were marble and I emerged on the first floor of a neoclassical townhouse. The formal office furniture gave me to understand that I was now in the administrative building of the school. An imperious woman at a desk gave me a look that made me realize that I was no longer in a part of the building where it was okay to be naked.

“You are looking for the studio building, I suppose,” she said.

I nodded and she pointed to a doorway. The doorway lead to a hallway with a wooden floor and the elaborate woodwork of a nineteenth century building. First I passed a door that lead to some classrooms, then I passed a wide staircase that led up to the dormitory. Finally, I came to another small, undistinguished door. I went through there and I was back in the Breuer/Koolhaas building, near the elevator.

End of dream.