averygoodun42 | Mmm...

I actually got some sleep last night. I didn't even notice Geoff getting up in the middle of the night. It was really good.

What was also good was the lovely, long dream I had. It included a lot of the people in my life, and it all took place at the Chicago Art Institute (museum, not school). Kind of. Dream version, you know.

We were all on a tour of the facility, being shown rooms that weren't available to the public. One of them wasn't a room at all, but an ugly-ish asphalt courtyard surrounded by small evergreen trees. At one side of the compound, there was a playground, and I noticed that the length of the building had doors that opened up onto the courtyard. Sure enough, it was used as a school yard for young children, one I had no idea the museum contained.

It had been called the tree room, and someone in the group who had been in the tree room before had praised it highly for its beauty, so I was rather disappointed by the mundane urban sight.

The tour moved on, and we were led through gorgeous marble and wood hallways and foyers, one with a masterpiece of a wooden stairway off of it, the polished and inlaid wood making it look more like fine furniture than something utilitarian. I hung back a moment to examine the stairway while everyone else moved on to the next room, so when I went into the next room, everyone else had already reacted.

It was the tree room. It was beautiful, but more than that, it was impressive. The room was small, no larger than a typical living room, and narrow. The walls were covered in darkish wood panelling and the furniture was made of the same wood in the same finish, so it blended in while making the room feel somewhat cramped. At the same time, the windows looked out onto a small forest glade filled with ferns and shrubs, with light filtering in through the tall tree branches, making the space light and airy, even as it was densely crowded with life.

The room seemed to melt away as I looked out into the glade. I wasn't aware of the other people, nor of the walls and furniture before me. The only thing I felt in the room itself was the wall behind me, like a grounding force, reminding me that this was only a respite from the rest of the building, the rest of life. I was free to rest here in the glade, but it was not suitable for living in.

The group was gradually drifting out of the room, and, when I looked around to see where the people were heading, the illusion was broken. The room was back, dark and oppressive, and I was startled to find that the windows that held such a glorious view were actually quite small and high on the wall. It had only seemed that the entire wall was glass.

So, feeling almost meloncholy, I left the room with the others, and continued on the tour.

I think at this point I woke up a bit, when Babe came into the room, but I had no intention of letting that dream go, so I quickly fell back asleep, and returned to the art museum.

The tour was still going, although it was winding down. We were led upstairs to conference rooms where classes, conferences and workshops were all held. The current class was on cake decorating, although not the normal little rosettes and piping. This was painting on cake. The instructor's cake looked like it would be at home on the walls of the Impressionist wing, next to Monet and Pisarro.

We talked a little about the decorating process, and soon I was filled with the desire to ditch the rest of the group and make my way to my favorite places in the museum. I wanted to go see the Vermeers.

Of course, at this point my conscious mind had to stick its nose in and point out that the room I was thinking of was in the National Gallery, not the Art Institute (as if the building I had been touring was an accurate rendition of the Art Institure!), but I just shrugged and decided I would be almost as happy in the Impressionist wing. See if "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" was still in its place of prominence. And then I could wander around, looking at my old friends, and probably meet new ones as they do rotate their collection.

So I wandered down the grand staircase to the function area below where tables were set up for our luncheon, intent on finding Geoff or my mum to let them know I wouldn't be around to watch Babe. But once downstairs, I got distracted. There was dancing, and ice skating and food and lots and lots of people. When I found mum and Babe, it turned out the Babe needed his diaper changed, so I was given that task, although there was a bit of horror realizing that we hadn't brought the diaper bag. I tried to score a diaper off of a choirmate who has a child only slightly smaller than Babe, but somehow that never came through.

And so, with the search for a bathroom, a diaper and some wipes, my escape into the museum proper was forgotten. But it was mostly okay. I wasn't feeling quite so meloncholy any more.

ETA 2: Ergh. As I inerpret the dream, the melancholy has returned with full force. What would life hold if... It wasn't - and isn't - bad, but it does make me realize how far from my original dreams I've strayed. I've got adequate recompense, though. I think. After all, I'd always dismissed the possibility of having kids as a fool's dream. I didn't even allow myself to acknowledge that one.

I don't know. All I know is that I have a child "ringing" in my ear right now and all specualtive thoughts have been chased from my mind.

Heh. A dream come true.

ETA: Oh, and "Traitor" is one of the featured stories on this week's