Where Everything Was Exactly As It Seemed
Apr. 1st, 2006 10:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jakebe
Last night I had the strangest dream...
I was hanging over at someone else's house, but it wasn't like any house I'd been to (or dreamed about) before. The living room and bedrooms and bathrooms were all upstairs, and the only thing that was downstairs were the entrance hall and kitchen. The stairs connecting the two floors were very narrow, and so were the rooms downstairs; everything was cramped and you were constantly bumping into furniture and knocking stacks of letters off the kitchen table. Somehow, this was very cozy and appealing.
Anyway, a few friends come up to the lawn screaming bloody murder, and I start freaking out on them. Milla Jovovich, they say, is in our car and she's ODed on something. And from there we start re-enacting that scene from Pulp Fiction almost verbatim until I break it off and promise to get get help, or at least look for a nearby hospital.
Suddenly, I'm wandering the streets of suburbia at dawn, looking around for a hospital I was sure was there, somewhere. Eventually I make my way to this busy street (that reminds me of Baltimore for some reason) and I walk into this urban church where, lo and behold, Barbara Walters is giving a sermon. (I'm pretty sure this is an Episcopal church.)
I ask her to help my friend Milla Jovovich (this name is so fun to say :D), who's ODed a few blocks down and needs serious medical attention. She says no and goes back to the sermon. I interrupt her again and ask if she knows where the nearest hospital might be. She excuses herself, takes me to a side room and asks me when I would stop bothering her. It's at this point that I start crying, because my very good friend Milla Jovovich is all alone in a car on the side of the road, probably breathing her last even as we speak. I say, "When I know that my friend is going to be OK, she's dying!" And then Barbara Walters dries my tears and agrees to help me.
So now we're driving through a city in the early morning, watching people deliver newspapers and drink coffee while waiting for the bus. We're talking about the way the city has changed from her childhood and mine, and how the plight of people like my very best friend Milla Jovovich is tragically common.
And just like that, I'm awake, with sunlight streaming through my blinds. To this minute, I'm trying to think what I might have eaten to give such a vivid, random dream. The best I can think of is the combination of broccoli, chicken, fetuccine alfredo and breakfast coffee taken at 11 p.m.
I was hanging over at someone else's house, but it wasn't like any house I'd been to (or dreamed about) before. The living room and bedrooms and bathrooms were all upstairs, and the only thing that was downstairs were the entrance hall and kitchen. The stairs connecting the two floors were very narrow, and so were the rooms downstairs; everything was cramped and you were constantly bumping into furniture and knocking stacks of letters off the kitchen table. Somehow, this was very cozy and appealing.
Anyway, a few friends come up to the lawn screaming bloody murder, and I start freaking out on them. Milla Jovovich, they say, is in our car and she's ODed on something. And from there we start re-enacting that scene from Pulp Fiction almost verbatim until I break it off and promise to get get help, or at least look for a nearby hospital.
Suddenly, I'm wandering the streets of suburbia at dawn, looking around for a hospital I was sure was there, somewhere. Eventually I make my way to this busy street (that reminds me of Baltimore for some reason) and I walk into this urban church where, lo and behold, Barbara Walters is giving a sermon. (I'm pretty sure this is an Episcopal church.)
I ask her to help my friend Milla Jovovich (this name is so fun to say :D), who's ODed a few blocks down and needs serious medical attention. She says no and goes back to the sermon. I interrupt her again and ask if she knows where the nearest hospital might be. She excuses herself, takes me to a side room and asks me when I would stop bothering her. It's at this point that I start crying, because my very good friend Milla Jovovich is all alone in a car on the side of the road, probably breathing her last even as we speak. I say, "When I know that my friend is going to be OK, she's dying!" And then Barbara Walters dries my tears and agrees to help me.
So now we're driving through a city in the early morning, watching people deliver newspapers and drink coffee while waiting for the bus. We're talking about the way the city has changed from her childhood and mine, and how the plight of people like my very best friend Milla Jovovich is tragically common.
And just like that, I'm awake, with sunlight streaming through my blinds. To this minute, I'm trying to think what I might have eaten to give such a vivid, random dream. The best I can think of is the combination of broccoli, chicken, fetuccine alfredo and breakfast coffee taken at 11 p.m.
