My love of music often works its way into my dreams, occasionally in rather unusual ways. I’ve talked about this type of thing previously in my old blog, and since this blog deals exclusively with music, I’m going to bring this idea over here. If you’ll indulge me, here’s another mess my brain cobbled together.
This is one of those dreams where I am in some building that’s a hybrid of other types of buildings I have visited. I’ve had similar dreams to this, including one where I discovered a hidden room in my grandparent’s house that led us on a Scooby Doo mystery to solve some vandalism case. The graffiti in question was of Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) peeing on the wall, with a speech bubble saying “All Girls Are Lesbians” above him. That image baffles me to this day, but the very idea I thought it up may help explain why I’m single.
Anyway, this dream began either at a high school or college/university I was attending, and my twin brother and I were walking the hallways. It was a massive campus, we were a bit lost, but we had plenty of time to kill between classes. I tell him, “Wait right here. I’ve gotta use the washroom” since we were right in front of the washroom signs. That’s the last time I see my brother in this dream. He probably stormed off due to a lack of patience, but I never even thought once to look for him.
As I walked through the passageway leading to the washroom, I noticed it more closely resembled the locker room of a public swimming pool. It was like a big, communal shower, with water like an emergency sprinkler system raining down constantly from the ceiling. I was in clothes, unlike those around me who were in swimwear or other states of near nudity. Adding further oddity to the open room layout, there was a white line drawn down the middle of the room. The men were to stay on one side of the line and ladies on the other like a hackneyed sitcom plot device. Of course, I stayed on the men’s side of the showers because it wasn’t that kind of dream.
After a long period of searching, I finally found the entrance to where the men’s toilets were. The problem is that it was surrounded by four men in yellow raincoats, who were apparently security of some kind. I walk up to them, assuming they’d step aside to grant me entrance, but they wouldn’t budge. I can’t remember exactly what they said to me, but they didn’t let me in. I go on to explain the absurdity of this entire situation. Why am I dripping wet? Was I supposed to check my clothes at the door before entering? Couldn’t they at least loan out umbrellas at the door? They shrug off my concerns with a “Yeah, but what can ya do?”
Luckily, there’s an unguarded doorway to the left, which I proceed to enter. Of course, I’m still not where I want to be. I’m now in an apartment building. But good news for you faithful readers, this is where the music theme finally rears it’s head.
I’m fed up at this point, my anger must have already taken the piss out of me as I don’t even care about the washroom I once searched for. I’m soaked through to my underwear from the sprinklers, so if I went already I could hardly tell the difference. All I wanted was a way out.
I stop at one of the first apartment doors, and I knock in hopes of getting directions. Who else but Lemmy of Motorhead answers the door! AND he’s delighted to see me like I’m an old friend! All this time, I thought Lemmy lived in apartment near The Rainbow Bar and Grill in Hollywood, but no, he apparently lived in a monstrosity MC Escher wouldn’t dare to draw.
I asked Lemmy, “What’s the deal with this place?”
“I dunno, mate. Security are always assholes.”
That’s the only thing about his place of residence that seemed to bother him. We chat for a bit, and he points me to the way out, which happens to be the same direction I just came from. “Hopefully they don’t kick you out!” he says as I walk away. Ironically, they’d be doing me a huge favour by doing this, but nonetheless I give Lemmy a thankful nod as I walk away.
Things change again. That shower area had been partly converted to a department store in the five minutes since I last saw it. This doesn’t phase me at all anymore. In fact, I even took a quick look through one of the shirt racks. I quickly see a red exit sign with natural light illuminating the doorway, so I’m good to go.
As I’m walking home, obviously forgetting the class I was allegedly supposed to get to, I keep talking to Lemmy. He’s still in his apartment, but we are still communicating. This is where real life facts enters the dream world because I realize that Lemmy is dead. This made his Obi-Wan Kenobiing me with parting words of guidance make a slight bit of sense.
I get about 10-15 minutes away from the building, and he says to me “Oh, shit! I forgot to give you this.”
I ask “What is it?”
“A brick.”
I think he meant a literal brick, not slang for drugs as one may suspect from a hard-living rock icon. I’m slightly annoyed, but it seemed important to him. If Lemmy has a gift for me, who am I to turn up my nose at it? I turned around and headed back towards the building, but I woke up before arriving. The last thing I remember is walking past the McDonald’s that was down the street from my high school, so at least there was some real-world consistency albeit a minor one.
Since most blogs seem a bit bland if you don’t include at least one photo, here is a crude artistic rendering of my encounter with Lemmy. I won’t apologize for my lack of drawing skills, but I will apologize for how bland the décor of his apartment is. I checked the RIAA web site, and unfortunately Motorhead did not have any certified platinum or gold records I could stick on his wall. However, Lemmy was a collector of Nazi memorabilia. I could have made an effort to illustrate this, but my amateur scribblings of swastikas on his wall would do nothing but confuse many of you.
Armchair Maestro 