Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

in my dreams.

Tossed and turned again but had an amazing dream last night. A dream date. I met a man--older, lean, dark-haired, sort of a David Strathairn type. He was a performance artist and he invited me to the back of his shop to see his latest piece: a tiny bathroom whose floor had been stacked with rubber flowers, to about knee-level. I asked him if he used the bathroom and he said no, it was just for viewing. This seemed to contradict the meaning of "performance art," but I'm not sure I said that.

It was late at night, after midnight, but we went for a walk; we were in the city where I grew up, Virginia Beach, strolling the boardwalk through an elaborate architectural chain of markets and open-air restaurants and cafes, and houses that had been thrown open for parties, surrounded on all sides by looming, garish carnival rides--roller coasters, ferris wheels, giant balloons, the Eiffel Tower--and enormous trees looped in fairy lights.

Nothing special happened. I just remember this amazing feeling of being with someone who was attracted to me, in the flesh, even though in the flesh I am blah.
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 2 comments