(Entered in paper journal at 9:10 AM at Starbucks at 1st Street and 7th Avenue in Brooklyn.)
Dream 1
I and a group of people went into a very quiet restaurant/bar. The place had yellow, stucco-like walls and a Latin feel. A few of us walked up to the bar. The bartender, a woman, said she was surprised we had the place all to ourselves.
I turned to a friend (who looked like my coworker DE, except with long, black hair and skater clothes) and chuckled to him that what the bartender said was kind of quaint.
"DE" got indignant and said, "Well, it is surprising! A place as nice as this should be full by now. I mean, it's a bar!"
Dream 2
I was in a "barber shop," which was like a basement of some old, Latin-style, cathedral-like building, very plain, dank, etc. I sat in a barber's chair before a plain, arched entrance to a hallway full of arched hallways and stairways. The barber brushed out my hair and styled it in a feminine style. I stood and walked to a woman and hugged her.
Now it was like I watched myself standing (again) and walking to and embracing the woman. "I" was supposed to be a beautiful, skinny woman. But I didn't have a great body, and my face and hair were kind of dumpy. My hair was enormous, below my waist, frizzy, messy. "I" said something romantic to the other woman.
Now (seeing from "her/my" point of view again) I looked to my left, up to a TV on a stairwell wall, to watch the whole scene. Now I saw the woman ("I") standing where the TV had been. She was dressed in a rough robe like a prisoner or a resident in an old insane asylum.
I thought, Well, my hair didn't get cut at all. I have to get it cut.
I sat back down in the barber's chair. A guy stood behind me and began cutting my hair.
Showing posts with label barber shop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label barber shop. Show all posts
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Sunday, February 24, 2013
(8/3/07) what makes people want this job; catching boxes from the sky; hook, line, and walking papers
(Entered in paper journal at 6 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I sat at a desk on an office floor that looked like a living room. The "office" was dim. In an office room, my co-worker DE was on the phone. There may have been a small, fluorescent light on in DE's office.
DE was praising a few people for always staying late. I felt ashamed for not always staying late.
One of the people DE praised was a tall, fat woman with pale blonde hair. Her name may have been Diana. She sat in the office next to DE and was an Administrative Assistant. DE listed a number of things she did, the last of which was, as DE said, to, "Yell a professors I wish I could yell at."
DE said, "In short, she does everything that makes people want to do this job in the first place."
Dream #2
It was a sunny day. I stood out with a group of people at the top of a wide, lawny hill. There were some office-type objects on the lawn. The group had been performing a task, which I may have had a hand in devising. Now we ran to a different part of the hilltop to perform a different task. I may have been angry that we dropped my project, but I tried not to show my anger.
The leader of the group said, "If everybody doesn't like doing this one task, each person can choose his own task." Some of us went back to our original task, which had something to do with catching boxes from the sky. Others did other things.
I was afraid to go back to my original task: I didn't want my boss to think I was a spoiled sport. But then I felt like she was okay with me doing whatever I genuinely wanted to do, so I stood at "my position" to catch boxes from the sky.
But a woman called out to me, "Watch out if you're standing here that you don't let the boxes fall on me." I looked down to the ground. A blonde woman in cream-colored exercise pants and a backless, black leotard was in a stretching position in which her legs stretched out on either side of her at right angles. The woman had her back straight, parallel to the ground, and her face almost flat against the ground. Even though I couldn't see the woman's face, I could tell it was really pretty.
I was about to step away, but I think the woman said, "You don't have to move; just watch out for me."
I suddenly realized I was really turned on by the woman's healthy, sexy body and her stretching position.
Dream #3
I was in a dim bar, getting drunk with my co-worker CJ and some other people. CJ and I had gotten so drunk that we were now wandering the streets.
CJ had a rusty hanger, probably bent out of shape, into something more like a prong, with a sharp end. CJ would put one end of the hanger in his mouth and then swing the rest of the hanger around by wiggling his head. Then he would take the hanger out of his mouth and throw it down the street. I was worried, each time CJ threw the hanger, that the hanger would hit somebody.
The street was lovely, clean, clean-bricked, and softly lit, all under a dark black sky. We walked some more, then found ourselves in a circle in some suburban-looking area. The circle felt like a street for cars, but it was probably paved with tan-colored cobblestones that seemed to me to be more fit for a walking path.
It was now broad daylight. CJ had a straight, metal rod, rusty and thin, like the hanger had been. CJ was still sticking this rod in his mouth and throwing it around. He laughed, like this was a really liberating activity. I still kept worrying that the projectile would stab somebody.
Now CJ wanted me to throw the rod. I decided that this was the wrong place to be.
I saw a crystal-white, almost fairy-like airplane high in the air. It was diving almost straight downward. It had crystalline contrails streaming back behind it. I thought the craft would crash.
I backed away from CJ. I stood in front of a small shop. I looked into the window. The shop looked like a barber shop. It looked very nice, like very rich people were inside, relaxing before a weekend morning haircut. I didn't want the people inside to think I was some bum, so I walked away from the window. I caught a glimpse, looking down to my right, of a quaint, tree-lined street.
I walked back to the circle. I heard CJ had been fired. I may have been in a dim room and standing behind a nice couch.
Dream #1
I sat at a desk on an office floor that looked like a living room. The "office" was dim. In an office room, my co-worker DE was on the phone. There may have been a small, fluorescent light on in DE's office.
DE was praising a few people for always staying late. I felt ashamed for not always staying late.
One of the people DE praised was a tall, fat woman with pale blonde hair. Her name may have been Diana. She sat in the office next to DE and was an Administrative Assistant. DE listed a number of things she did, the last of which was, as DE said, to, "Yell a professors I wish I could yell at."
DE said, "In short, she does everything that makes people want to do this job in the first place."
Dream #2
It was a sunny day. I stood out with a group of people at the top of a wide, lawny hill. There were some office-type objects on the lawn. The group had been performing a task, which I may have had a hand in devising. Now we ran to a different part of the hilltop to perform a different task. I may have been angry that we dropped my project, but I tried not to show my anger.
The leader of the group said, "If everybody doesn't like doing this one task, each person can choose his own task." Some of us went back to our original task, which had something to do with catching boxes from the sky. Others did other things.
I was afraid to go back to my original task: I didn't want my boss to think I was a spoiled sport. But then I felt like she was okay with me doing whatever I genuinely wanted to do, so I stood at "my position" to catch boxes from the sky.
But a woman called out to me, "Watch out if you're standing here that you don't let the boxes fall on me." I looked down to the ground. A blonde woman in cream-colored exercise pants and a backless, black leotard was in a stretching position in which her legs stretched out on either side of her at right angles. The woman had her back straight, parallel to the ground, and her face almost flat against the ground. Even though I couldn't see the woman's face, I could tell it was really pretty.
I was about to step away, but I think the woman said, "You don't have to move; just watch out for me."
I suddenly realized I was really turned on by the woman's healthy, sexy body and her stretching position.
Dream #3
I was in a dim bar, getting drunk with my co-worker CJ and some other people. CJ and I had gotten so drunk that we were now wandering the streets.
CJ had a rusty hanger, probably bent out of shape, into something more like a prong, with a sharp end. CJ would put one end of the hanger in his mouth and then swing the rest of the hanger around by wiggling his head. Then he would take the hanger out of his mouth and throw it down the street. I was worried, each time CJ threw the hanger, that the hanger would hit somebody.
The street was lovely, clean, clean-bricked, and softly lit, all under a dark black sky. We walked some more, then found ourselves in a circle in some suburban-looking area. The circle felt like a street for cars, but it was probably paved with tan-colored cobblestones that seemed to me to be more fit for a walking path.
It was now broad daylight. CJ had a straight, metal rod, rusty and thin, like the hanger had been. CJ was still sticking this rod in his mouth and throwing it around. He laughed, like this was a really liberating activity. I still kept worrying that the projectile would stab somebody.
Now CJ wanted me to throw the rod. I decided that this was the wrong place to be.
I saw a crystal-white, almost fairy-like airplane high in the air. It was diving almost straight downward. It had crystalline contrails streaming back behind it. I thought the craft would crash.
I backed away from CJ. I stood in front of a small shop. I looked into the window. The shop looked like a barber shop. It looked very nice, like very rich people were inside, relaxing before a weekend morning haircut. I didn't want the people inside to think I was some bum, so I walked away from the window. I caught a glimpse, looking down to my right, of a quaint, tree-lined street.
I walked back to the circle. I heard CJ had been fired. I may have been in a dim room and standing behind a nice couch.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
(11/29/08) escape from the barber
Dream #1
I was in a barber shop. I sat down at a chair and an older, fattish man with bronzed skin and darkish, blonde hair got me ready. He brought out a big tub of shaving cream. He used a large brush to spread some of the shaving cream across my face. I really didn't want to have a shave. But I thought that since the barber had already started, it was just as well.
The shaving cream was tan colored, with little flecks of green in it. It smelled like seaweed. The man began to shave me, but only cut the top part of my left sideburn. He might have sensed a bit of my hesitance. He got angry and stood me up. He said this wasn't the right room for cutting people's hair.
We walked into another room. The previous room had been run-down, with concrete floors and green-painted, concrete walls, with only one barber chair and a dirty mirror in front of it. But this room was even worse. The walls were dark wood. The room was very small. There might have been a worn-out bed and a thin, worn-out, dark wood chair.
The man was grumbling violently to me about how bad I was for not letting him do his job. He mad some angry complaint about how people like me were all alike (rich people, people from a certain place or of a certain race, etc.), and how he hating having to do anything for them at all.
The man pulled me into a couple other rooms, which may possibly have been getting deeper into this building. Finally we stood in a small room. I may not have had shaving cream on my face anymore.
The old man pulled out his blade and said, "This blade isn't good at all for shaving people. It's good for killing them."
The man grabbed me, but I got loose. He chased me through the building and into an area like a courtyard garden.
Right at the doors into the garden the man was caught (by a middle-aged, Latin man and woman, a couple, who may have been dressed in blue or purple nurses' scrubs?). The captors held the man as he violently struggled with them and screamed and barked after me.
The courtyard was square. The garden was complex, like a medieval garden, but it looked worn down and neglected. There might even have been rusty junk, like old wheelbarrows, in the garden. The walls of the building may have been stucco. There was a wood-columned, patio-like, covered walkway along the walls. I ran through the garden and at a set of wide, old, greying wood doors (like for a horse stable).
I was now in a car, driving very slowly through a suburban street. I was with the Americorps crew with whom I had worked in New York City in 2005. We were in some neighborhood like far out in Queens, a very quiet, suburban neighborhood with houses and yards.
I knew we were coming to a house number that was the same as the number of the house I had last lived in with my family. I didn't really care -- it didn't seem too special -- there must have been tons of houses with that same number. But I new my crew mates would be interested. But I also didn't want to tell them my old house number. I felt uneasy about giving away even the slightest details about my family's past or present whereabouts. But it was like my crew already knew.
We parked at the curb of a dark-tan-bricked house, the yard of which had a slight upward slope. The house number was written out in big, black-iron, cursive characters to the left (my right) of the doorway. The door was open.
The crew had brought me here as a kind of surprise. They knew either that I had lived here or that the house number made this house very much like the house I had lived in. My crew had arranged for me to come in to get a glimpse of my "old days." Some other people were also slowly trickling into the house. There was a whole houseful of people inside, all relaxedly mingling with each other.
The house itself was huge on the inside. The interior decoration was very much like that of a house of the late 1960s or early 1970s. It was dark carpeted, with mostly dark-toned furniture. There seemed to be a layering of rooms -- the rooms were divided from each other not by walls but by successive flights and sometimes by small bars. Something about the bars or walls may have had a stony quality. The space was altogether expansive, though the dark colors made it feel somewhat closed in.
The people all looked like middle-aged people from the late 1960s or early 1970s. They were dressed semi-formally. I met up with some of the people and was walking down a flight, to the main buffet table.
Suddenly I remembered the incident with the barber. I started telling the story to the man to my left. The man was probably in his late thirties, white, tan, with a bowlish haircut, a thick, white, turtleneck sweater, and a black blazer. I told the man that the barber hadn't gotten very far along at all in cutting my hair. I then thought how disappointing that was. I knew how shaggy my hair was. And now my sideburns probably looked all lopsided, too.
I was in a barber shop. I sat down at a chair and an older, fattish man with bronzed skin and darkish, blonde hair got me ready. He brought out a big tub of shaving cream. He used a large brush to spread some of the shaving cream across my face. I really didn't want to have a shave. But I thought that since the barber had already started, it was just as well.
The shaving cream was tan colored, with little flecks of green in it. It smelled like seaweed. The man began to shave me, but only cut the top part of my left sideburn. He might have sensed a bit of my hesitance. He got angry and stood me up. He said this wasn't the right room for cutting people's hair.
We walked into another room. The previous room had been run-down, with concrete floors and green-painted, concrete walls, with only one barber chair and a dirty mirror in front of it. But this room was even worse. The walls were dark wood. The room was very small. There might have been a worn-out bed and a thin, worn-out, dark wood chair.
The man was grumbling violently to me about how bad I was for not letting him do his job. He mad some angry complaint about how people like me were all alike (rich people, people from a certain place or of a certain race, etc.), and how he hating having to do anything for them at all.
The man pulled me into a couple other rooms, which may possibly have been getting deeper into this building. Finally we stood in a small room. I may not have had shaving cream on my face anymore.
The old man pulled out his blade and said, "This blade isn't good at all for shaving people. It's good for killing them."
The man grabbed me, but I got loose. He chased me through the building and into an area like a courtyard garden.
Right at the doors into the garden the man was caught (by a middle-aged, Latin man and woman, a couple, who may have been dressed in blue or purple nurses' scrubs?). The captors held the man as he violently struggled with them and screamed and barked after me.
The courtyard was square. The garden was complex, like a medieval garden, but it looked worn down and neglected. There might even have been rusty junk, like old wheelbarrows, in the garden. The walls of the building may have been stucco. There was a wood-columned, patio-like, covered walkway along the walls. I ran through the garden and at a set of wide, old, greying wood doors (like for a horse stable).
I was now in a car, driving very slowly through a suburban street. I was with the Americorps crew with whom I had worked in New York City in 2005. We were in some neighborhood like far out in Queens, a very quiet, suburban neighborhood with houses and yards.
I knew we were coming to a house number that was the same as the number of the house I had last lived in with my family. I didn't really care -- it didn't seem too special -- there must have been tons of houses with that same number. But I new my crew mates would be interested. But I also didn't want to tell them my old house number. I felt uneasy about giving away even the slightest details about my family's past or present whereabouts. But it was like my crew already knew.
We parked at the curb of a dark-tan-bricked house, the yard of which had a slight upward slope. The house number was written out in big, black-iron, cursive characters to the left (my right) of the doorway. The door was open.
The crew had brought me here as a kind of surprise. They knew either that I had lived here or that the house number made this house very much like the house I had lived in. My crew had arranged for me to come in to get a glimpse of my "old days." Some other people were also slowly trickling into the house. There was a whole houseful of people inside, all relaxedly mingling with each other.
The house itself was huge on the inside. The interior decoration was very much like that of a house of the late 1960s or early 1970s. It was dark carpeted, with mostly dark-toned furniture. There seemed to be a layering of rooms -- the rooms were divided from each other not by walls but by successive flights and sometimes by small bars. Something about the bars or walls may have had a stony quality. The space was altogether expansive, though the dark colors made it feel somewhat closed in.
The people all looked like middle-aged people from the late 1960s or early 1970s. They were dressed semi-formally. I met up with some of the people and was walking down a flight, to the main buffet table.
Suddenly I remembered the incident with the barber. I started telling the story to the man to my left. The man was probably in his late thirties, white, tan, with a bowlish haircut, a thick, white, turtleneck sweater, and a black blazer. I told the man that the barber hadn't gotten very far along at all in cutting my hair. I then thought how disappointing that was. I knew how shaggy my hair was. And now my sideburns probably looked all lopsided, too.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
(12/24/08) the fool of the second half
(Entered in paper journal at 9:15 AM at Starbucks in Westminster, Colorado.)
Dream #1
I may have been in some play where I was playing the part of a fool. The play may have gone into intermission. I walked outside. I stood on a small bridge that was over a deepish slope. At the bottom of the slope (to my right) was something like a plaza with a river. The light was like winter, but the air may have felt warm. The trees may have been barren.
I saw a futuristic craft flying toward me from over the plaza/river. The craft was white -- it looked like a mix between an ambulance and the Back to the Future DeLorean. It flew on some kind of hovering power, and its exhaust was more like clear convection rather than any smoke.
I hoped I could get a clear view of it. But somehow it knocked me off my feet, as if it had managed to wedge under me. I felt rejected, like I had felt a kinship with the vehicle and was now treated poorly by it.
I looked over the bridge. A car that looked like a police vehicle and a hummer, but with a strange, futuristic shape and strange, "swiveling" wheels, pulled up on the plaza.
I was something like an undercover cop. I knew the group of people in this vehicle were big criminals planning some large crime. They hadn't been expected to show up here. They were a dangerous group of people in any encounter, and they had come to think of themselves as invincible. But now that they showed up here, thinking nobody would be looking for them, in fact not having been expected here at all, I knew I could probably catch them by surprise.
The white flying vehicle now came back to me. I couldn't get inside, but I jumped on top of it. The craft took a dive straight down. I wondered if I would just crash or experience a harsh landing. But the craft would, I knew, engage its hovering mechanism as we approached ground, so it would be just like we were landing on a cushion of air.
As we approached ground, I may have gotten a better view of the four-wheeled vehicle, possibly as it opened itself up (like a children's toy). Somewhere on the vehicle was the title "MR. SHAMAN," the name of the covert group.
I stayed seated on the flying vehicle. A small group of men were seated in the various opened compartments of the Mr. Shaman vehicle. The innards of the vehicle may have been shining chrome and dark black, with blue and purple glints. The men wore sunglasses and had the look of cheesy 1980s future-action movie badguys. The men laughed at me like I was an idiot. They didn't know who I was. They thought I was just some passerby.
I said, "Now's the moment!" I made some call to my vehicle. Small areas on the sides of the vehicle opened up to reveal guns. The guns fired rapidly, though they made very little sound. I couldn't tell whether I had killed the group.
I was now walking back into the theater. The play was slowly beginning again. There were very few people in the audience -- the theater was maybe only a tenth full. The stage was enormous. The scene was of something like a barber shop.
I walked to the stage and sat on the steps up to the stage at the right (the audience's right). I was dressed in the costume of a fool.
I watched the play. I couldn't remember my lines for the second half of the play. I thought that was fine, in some sense. I figured I had (hopefully) practiced my lines so much that they had just become natural, spontaneous, for me. I thought that when the moment came, I would just know I was supposed to step on stage. But I also thought it would be embarrassing if the moment finally came where I was supposed to come on stage, and I still sat where I was, not remembering my entering line. Or worse, I thought, I could remember to step on stage but I wouldn't remember my lines.
I imagined myself on a strange stage of green, screen-like planes that were "supposed to" signify forest (?). I saw a group of nuns around me, coaching me on my lines. I might have been embarrassed because the actresses were all pretty girls and I was forgetting everything like a doofus, not the star I wished to be.
The current stage was supposed to represent a barber shop. The stage was still staggered in screen-like planes against which were projected grey and white patterns that may have resembled television static or newspaper print.
A man sat in a barber's chair. All around him were a group of people, probably dressed in mid-twentieth-century business clothes. The man himself was dressed in something like a tan robe, like a stagey version of a monk's robe.
I was waiting to hear the line that would bring my character on stage. But now a character stepped on stage who, I thought, was playing the fool instead of me. The character was somewhat sexless, but more female than male. The character may have been old, with hair that was scraggly and white, but dirtyish, as if the old color were still fading, aging, out of it. The person wore a grey and black, tweed (?) trench coat pulled over almost "her" whole body. The person may also have been holding a whole armful of newspaper, all in disarray, as well as some plastic bags.
I thought, Perhaps I'm not supposed to be in the second half of the play. Maybe that's why I can't "remember" the lines I'm supposed to speak. This person is the fool of the second half.
Now a group of actresses dressed as sexy nurses all crowded onto the stairs I sat on. The nurses' outfits were like novelty outfits -- all short-skirted, some white, some pink. The outfits may even have been made of latex, like fetish clothing.
The nurses were all speaking lines about tending to some man whom everybody loved. The nurses all nudged me out of the cluster they were in, as if to tell me I needed to get out of the scene altogether. I was only in the way in the part they were now acting out.
I thought, Well, maybe I should just sit in the audience until I hear a line that's familiar to me. I looked back into the audience as I sat down, to see if I could spot any other actors who were doing the same thing as I.
Maybe a row or two behind me sat about four or five women. They were all costumed (?) as women from the late Medieval or early Renaissance times. They all had the look of women in Flemish paintings: very pale and oval-faced. The women's dresses were rich, crimson velvet (?) with white bodices. Their hair, blondish-brown (?), was done so the sides of their heads were capped in little, white fabric bundles.
These women looked like actresses to me. I tried to figure if I was supposed to fit into the same part of the play that they were supposed to fit into. But I couldn't think of any context where they would speak lines that would bring a character like mine on stage.
Dream #1
I may have been in some play where I was playing the part of a fool. The play may have gone into intermission. I walked outside. I stood on a small bridge that was over a deepish slope. At the bottom of the slope (to my right) was something like a plaza with a river. The light was like winter, but the air may have felt warm. The trees may have been barren.
I saw a futuristic craft flying toward me from over the plaza/river. The craft was white -- it looked like a mix between an ambulance and the Back to the Future DeLorean. It flew on some kind of hovering power, and its exhaust was more like clear convection rather than any smoke.
I hoped I could get a clear view of it. But somehow it knocked me off my feet, as if it had managed to wedge under me. I felt rejected, like I had felt a kinship with the vehicle and was now treated poorly by it.
I looked over the bridge. A car that looked like a police vehicle and a hummer, but with a strange, futuristic shape and strange, "swiveling" wheels, pulled up on the plaza.
I was something like an undercover cop. I knew the group of people in this vehicle were big criminals planning some large crime. They hadn't been expected to show up here. They were a dangerous group of people in any encounter, and they had come to think of themselves as invincible. But now that they showed up here, thinking nobody would be looking for them, in fact not having been expected here at all, I knew I could probably catch them by surprise.
The white flying vehicle now came back to me. I couldn't get inside, but I jumped on top of it. The craft took a dive straight down. I wondered if I would just crash or experience a harsh landing. But the craft would, I knew, engage its hovering mechanism as we approached ground, so it would be just like we were landing on a cushion of air.
As we approached ground, I may have gotten a better view of the four-wheeled vehicle, possibly as it opened itself up (like a children's toy). Somewhere on the vehicle was the title "MR. SHAMAN," the name of the covert group.
I stayed seated on the flying vehicle. A small group of men were seated in the various opened compartments of the Mr. Shaman vehicle. The innards of the vehicle may have been shining chrome and dark black, with blue and purple glints. The men wore sunglasses and had the look of cheesy 1980s future-action movie badguys. The men laughed at me like I was an idiot. They didn't know who I was. They thought I was just some passerby.
I said, "Now's the moment!" I made some call to my vehicle. Small areas on the sides of the vehicle opened up to reveal guns. The guns fired rapidly, though they made very little sound. I couldn't tell whether I had killed the group.
I was now walking back into the theater. The play was slowly beginning again. There were very few people in the audience -- the theater was maybe only a tenth full. The stage was enormous. The scene was of something like a barber shop.
I walked to the stage and sat on the steps up to the stage at the right (the audience's right). I was dressed in the costume of a fool.
I watched the play. I couldn't remember my lines for the second half of the play. I thought that was fine, in some sense. I figured I had (hopefully) practiced my lines so much that they had just become natural, spontaneous, for me. I thought that when the moment came, I would just know I was supposed to step on stage. But I also thought it would be embarrassing if the moment finally came where I was supposed to come on stage, and I still sat where I was, not remembering my entering line. Or worse, I thought, I could remember to step on stage but I wouldn't remember my lines.
I imagined myself on a strange stage of green, screen-like planes that were "supposed to" signify forest (?). I saw a group of nuns around me, coaching me on my lines. I might have been embarrassed because the actresses were all pretty girls and I was forgetting everything like a doofus, not the star I wished to be.
The current stage was supposed to represent a barber shop. The stage was still staggered in screen-like planes against which were projected grey and white patterns that may have resembled television static or newspaper print.
A man sat in a barber's chair. All around him were a group of people, probably dressed in mid-twentieth-century business clothes. The man himself was dressed in something like a tan robe, like a stagey version of a monk's robe.
I was waiting to hear the line that would bring my character on stage. But now a character stepped on stage who, I thought, was playing the fool instead of me. The character was somewhat sexless, but more female than male. The character may have been old, with hair that was scraggly and white, but dirtyish, as if the old color were still fading, aging, out of it. The person wore a grey and black, tweed (?) trench coat pulled over almost "her" whole body. The person may also have been holding a whole armful of newspaper, all in disarray, as well as some plastic bags.
I thought, Perhaps I'm not supposed to be in the second half of the play. Maybe that's why I can't "remember" the lines I'm supposed to speak. This person is the fool of the second half.
Now a group of actresses dressed as sexy nurses all crowded onto the stairs I sat on. The nurses' outfits were like novelty outfits -- all short-skirted, some white, some pink. The outfits may even have been made of latex, like fetish clothing.
The nurses were all speaking lines about tending to some man whom everybody loved. The nurses all nudged me out of the cluster they were in, as if to tell me I needed to get out of the scene altogether. I was only in the way in the part they were now acting out.
I thought, Well, maybe I should just sit in the audience until I hear a line that's familiar to me. I looked back into the audience as I sat down, to see if I could spot any other actors who were doing the same thing as I.
Maybe a row or two behind me sat about four or five women. They were all costumed (?) as women from the late Medieval or early Renaissance times. They all had the look of women in Flemish paintings: very pale and oval-faced. The women's dresses were rich, crimson velvet (?) with white bodices. Their hair, blondish-brown (?), was done so the sides of their heads were capped in little, white fabric bundles.
These women looked like actresses to me. I tried to figure if I was supposed to fit into the same part of the play that they were supposed to fit into. But I couldn't think of any context where they would speak lines that would bring a character like mine on stage.
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