Pat Gunn (dachte) wrote,
Pat Gunn
dachte

Hotel Room of Dreams

I have a hotel room in another city, deep in my dreams, a city of tall walls and few people, thick fields split by pueblo and night. I have a hotel room where a policeman just visited me, thinking I was hiding drugs there. I have a hotel room in which I keep my things that I have forgotten about, my other working NeXTStation, some beloved furniture, a collection of books, a book of poetry that I left there years ago; the room is in a large hotel, and while others have perhaps been in there, noone has disturbed my things. I cannot remember this hotel room except when I am in the city, and then it is *the* place to stay - I wander into town knowing there will be a place, and I remember then. I just visited it, and on the way out, a cop visited it and was rude to me, so I told him he could not search it, talking of warrants and consent. He didn't hear these words often, used to cowing everyone who came by, and told me that my words were pretty but they would do me no good. I did not want him to enter my hotel room, to search it, because it held cherished memories and things he would not understand. Things that had thrilled me, some more private than others, some sexual, some poems or books. He would not take them, but he would profane them in his company. Sure of the drugs, he punched me, and I thought back to a conversation with Jason, and another conversation with another Jason, and thought that perhaps this is a time that they're right, and that cops are bad, horrible people. I asked for his name, and he laughed, sure of the drugs, and said his name quickly. I took out my pen, and asked for it again, jotting down half of it this time, as he continued his abuse. Finally, fed up, I told him to go into the hotel room, to see what he would see, and he left, and came back, angry not to have found drugs. He apparently was following a 'tip' from someone, and angry at me, as told him, again and again, that I was going to report him for hitting me, and threatening me, and ignoring the warrant need, and he ran off. I have a hotel room, and I am thinking of keeping less there. It still feels safe, but I am now unsure what to keep there, because I cannot remember anything I keep there. It is still charming, perhaps because despite its deep wooden tone, it has a screen patio door, completely out of place, that leads into endless fields of grass. My hotel is perhaps in Amsterdam, perhaps in Paris, and definitely on the other side of one of the mirrors I have. On the way back from the hotel, for I find I must have left at some point, I find I'm running barefoot through the streets, healthy, away from that place, as the rain comes down. The words "You may think that your clothes look good, but they mark you as being beneath everyone you see" echo in my head as if someone just said it, making me feel self-conscious, and I suddenly feel that I should turn back and get more things from that room, but turning back, I already realise I have gone so far on the way back, and to go back now wouldn't feel right. Perhaps I will remember next time I visit that memory-obliterating hotel room of mine.

Tags: dreams
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