I was taking the bus through dreamscape Brooklyn, and, staring out the window, saw Ian McKellen in costume from Waiting for Godot, standing outside the theater, which was somehow two blocks from my apartment. I was scrambling to get to the door of the bus before we pulled away from the bus stop, but couldn’t make it in time. I turned to find Patrick Stewart standing next to me, and told him how disappointed I was I couldn’t go say hi to Ian McKellen. He got the driver to stop and walked me back to the theater, where he took me to the green room, introduced me to Ian McKellen, and the three of us sat and shared a bottle of wine. We talked for an hour, and as curtain time approached, I asked if they’d take a selfie with me. They agreed, but we were having trouble getting all three of us in the picture, and suddenly they had to run because the show was about to start. I was left selfie-less.
The remainder of the dream was me wandering dream-Crown Heights, trying to figure out a way to find Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart again, thwarted at every turn, running into my boyfriend, my friends, old coworkers, my ex, and turning down half-recognized streets over and over.
I swear this is all true. My subconscious mind has reached the point of self-parody, evidently. Anyone have a dream dictionary for millennial social-media-manager Brooklynites?
In 20 days I will step off a plane in Hilo, Hawaii, and for the subsequent 7 days I will never not have in my hand either a) a drink with a little umbrella in it, b) a book, c) a snorkeling mask, or d) a tube of sunscreen. I will wear fabulous sunglasses and long flowy dresses and swim with dolphins and float by the swim-up bar.
New York, you need to get your head right while I’m gone and be fully into spring when I come back. I want daffodils and hyacinths and birds and sunny walks to brunch, or so help me we will have a problem.