Had a dream last night for the first time, I think, since the last time I updated.
We took a school bus to the Paris Opera House, which was in a setting I’d seen before in my dreams, more than once, and which I think is actually London, but my subconscious said it was supposed to be Paris. And once inside, I was wandering around with a small group, and then all of a sudden I wasn’t, I was alone, in a bathroom, washing my hands, when, in the mirror, I suddenly noticed somebody standing behind me. (Obviously, we already know I’m afraid of mirrors, so I guess it’s not surprising that this happened in a dream.)
I jumped and turned around, and it was Moaning Myrtle, sobbing softly as she stared at me. And then, sure enough, I noticed that the scenery looked very much like that bathroom we see in Chamber of Secrets (but I don’t think I was aware of it in my dream; that’s just what I realized when I woke up), and Moaning Myrtle was upset at the moment because she was in love with someone, and although she followed him all over the opera (he lived there, you see) he never seemed to want to pay any attention to her, because he was only interested in me. I didn’t really know what she was talking about.
Myrtle, however, said, “You know Erik…couldn’t you tell him about me?…I know he’d love me, too, if he’d only notice me…we would have lots in common…he even calls himself the ‘Opera Ghost’”.
I’m not exactly sure what it amounted to, but I refused, because of course he is my Erik, he doesn’t belong to some annoying ghost, so I said no (probably quite rudely, I’m ashamed to say, but it was my dream) and she flew off, crying harder than ever.
So then I went and sat in the theatre, which was dark, and I’m not sure whether any other people were around, but I think the audience must have been full, because I had come with a group, whoever they were, and then I heard what sounded like a muted trumpet, and it was–some guy up onstage was playing it. And he was dressed like a mime.
Then, to the right side, I heard something else, and there was a spotlight all of a sudden on a man playing a tenor sax—and it was John Cleese. (John Cleese, so far as I know, does not play tenor sax, but in my dream, he was surprisingly good—really good.) He was just wearing black and white, and then, from Stage Left, another spotlight came up on a guy with another tenor sax, and he’s shouting at John, “You’re not supposed to wear the tux; I am! That’s my trademark! Yours is this!” So he holds up this clown suit. It looks sort of like Roberto Benigni’s Pinnochio costume. (At any rate, it would have given Cortney nightmares, let’s put it that way.)
John plays calmly, and finally says, “My trademark is whatever I want it to be,” and this little guy (little compared to John, at least!) appeared with another coat hanger, holding a black jacket to go with the rest of his ensemble. He puts it on casually and then just keeps playing, so the other guy storms off.
So then I’m at the café. It looks nothing like the café, though…I think it’s actually another part of the supposed Paris Opera House, and we’re cleaning stuff up, but it’s not normal sort of cleaning we’re doing; we’re cleaning grass, and we’re taking huge pieces of machinery and things out to various people’s pickup trucks, because suddenly everybody I work with is driving one.
And I’m headed out one of the back doors, and somebody’s holding the door for me, and it’s Terry Jones, so, wanting to appear that I already know him (I don’t know, something like that), I said, “Oh, thank you, Jonesy” very casually.
He turned back for a second, startled, and looked at me, trying to figure out who I was, then seemed to assume that I was just a stranger who was obsessed with all things Python, and he sort of glowered and said, “I don’t like being called Jonesy.”
I said, “But everybody calls you Jonesy!” (This really isn’t true; I’ve only heard a few. But it seems natural to call him such.)
He said, “I wish they wouldn’t. It’s only a nickname. I don’t like it.”
So I said, “Well, I’m sorry, but what else can I call you? Terry? Well then you’re hardly distinguishable from Terry Gilliam, are you? I mean, how’s anyone supposed to know which of you I’m talking about?”
Well, of course, by now, I’ve got him in conversation—argument, at least—so he’s not keen to leave my side now, and we head out to some pickup truck, and there’s somebody in the back of it, just standing there, very still, in that Pinnochio costume, with lots of makeup, and I know it’s a Python, but I can’t figure out which, and I’m just staring at him, until finally I determine that it’s Terry Gilliam. So I exclaim, “Little Gilliam!”
…‘Little Gilliam’!? I have never referred to him this way in my life, but that’s what came out of my mouth. And I insisted that I always called him this. (I’ll just add here that they were all in costume, but I can’t now remember what the others were.)
So then, inside (and I had to get something from inside the theatre to take outside), I ran into Michael, who was most friendly from the start, and whose hand I kept trying to hold, but he kept refusing because, “I’m married! I have a wife!” he’d say. (Damn it! So typical—every time they appear in my dreams, he’s always resisting my advances because he’s married. I mean, sure, that’s admirable, and I would expect nothing less if I actually were to meet him—but it’s a dream, damn it all! I mean…come on…please? Just once? Okay, fine, be that way. …I love you, anyway!)
And I can’t really remember…it seems like Eric (with the c, not the k) and John were moving stuff around in the theatre, like set or something, and were helping to carry it out to random pickups, too. I don’t know. It’s all so muddled, and since when did I work in the Paris Opera House, anyway? …Damn it, if that dream had gone on much longer, Erik would have probably killed the entirety of Monty Python right there in front of me. I just thought of that. And Moaning Myrtle would have laughed….