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The Art Gallery

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Ok. Last night. I had yet another in a series of weird dreams.

But first – the night before last I hardly slept at all. It was raining out, the tent was getting smashed by the relentless storm that lasted all throughout the evening, so by the time I woke up the next morning with perhaps 3 hours – maximum of sleep (not horrible but not great) – I had about a quart of water in the corners of my tent.

I’d managed to stay dry and keep my belongings dry. But still.

So last night. Fortunately, it didn’t rain.

But it was damned cold. around 35 to 40 degrees, and despite having a blanket under me in the tent with the thin covering separating me and a tarp, plastic bags, a somewhat wet comforter under all that and a mattress – because the mattress and comforter were still fairly wet, the bed was cold and I just didn’t sleep as well as I could or should have.

So I tossed and turned.

So last night’s dream. Which felt more like someone or something had projected it to me was weird.

I was in an art gallery setting.

The colors. Were off – as has been typical with many of my dreams (the caveman one was not), and were dull in shades of a noisy grey scale.

But in this art gallery, I was having a discussion with some people in a group as we were standing there and our model hadn’t showed up – so we were ideating about who to have pose for us.

Now what I knew in this ‘presence’ – I couldn’t see myself, but I knew I was a photographer and I worked with nudes, and didn’t particularly enjoy my job. So to me – this exhibition I could feel was just something I wasn’t into.

And with the model not showing up. It was yet another in a string of occurrences that I’d becoming increasingly nonchalantly uncaring about. For me in this situation, I got paid no matter what, and if the agency’s model didn’t show, I just didn’t care.

I also knew this was a proud moment for this gallery – which had expected a large number of people to turn out for this exhibit.  So to some degree I felt the performance was less about the model and gallery than it was about me and what I did.

Oddly, I didn’t know who I was. I knew I had a beard in this dream. But as I know me in ‘the real world’, I was decidedly not one and the same person I was in this dream.

The crowd’s gathering. And the staff is arguing amongst themselves. They are mostly guys, with a heavyset girl, as one mentioned using the heavyset girl as the nude model to which she vehemently refused.

About that time. An attractive woman wanders through the gallery. She’s one of the few in this dream who has some color to her – she’s wearing a red scarf, a beige long woolen overcoat,  and is in high heels – and while she looks somewhat sophisticated, she’s not a typical model type.

She overhears the conversation about the lack of model, and promptly says

“I’ll do it”.

Without being asked.

Something glitched. I mean, in the dream there was a noticeable glitch. And next, there’s a LARGE crowd of people – about 40, with several children in the crowd – which I thought to be odd.

And she’s on her hands and knees, on top of a black squarish table that’s about 3 foot in height.

With the exception of her black high heels, she’s completely nude.

Smallish breasts, real small in fact, bright red lipstick – especially weird in such a greyish scene.

Her back is arched and she’s trying to assume some position, but on occasion the rotund girl who was part of the crew is sticking her hand in the woman’s crotch from behind her, as if she’s spreading some body paint around her vagina lips.

The woman  has a tear running down her cheek as if there’s a part of her that’s regretting this.

But she maintains.

I roll over in front of her. And look at her, and again as the rotund girl sticks her hand in her crotch, she flinches, whatever she’s doing ‘down there’ is suddenly a mystery, as I see no paint and it suddenly seems as though she’s just stroking her pussy.

The nude woman’s back arches in reaction to the touch. And I see her landing strip.

But the woman avoids eye contact.

Everyone’s taking pictures. Several ‘boys’ around have their camera phones out, and i have the distinct feeling this woman who nonchalantly agreed to this didn’t know quite what she was signing up for.

I can feel I am beginning to hate my job even more as I roll over to the table.

Now I know I’m a photographer for this.

I extend the lens out on the table.

Placing it towards her.

She smiles at me for the first time. As if to say “Thank God”.

But I look down.

I look at her.

I look around the room and see all the children – even the staff – barely containing themselves as they’re all taking pictures of what I consider a barely attractive woman, ogling her – idolizing her – because she’s naked and that’s it.

I hate my job.

And then I woke up.

Sometimes I wonder.

Are these dreams?

Or are these the memories of the infinite lives I’ve led?


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