Skip to content
March 19, 2010 / Brittany Hendrick

Theatre of the Absurd

Why didn’t I think of this sooner?!?! This is the perfect venue to keep a record of my dreams. Maybe it suddenly hit me now because I’ve been having such crazy dreams the past few weeks.

Not everyone remembers their dreams, and not everyone dreams in color. I feel fortunate to have vivid, lengthy, trippy, Technicolor dreams, most of which I am able to recall and remember even years later. They are that cool… and that informative. I’ve always had a deep interest in stories of the subconscious (and unconscious!), metaphors and what they mean, having pored over Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams and Jung’s Man and His Symbols. I haven’t read those books in many years, so revisiting them seems like an attractive project at the moment.

The most recent one was this morning, which is the usual time, right before my body would wake up anyway. Occasionally one occurs in the middle of the night, also causing me to awaken.

This is the second dream this week that took place at a theatre seating venue. I know why this scene is recurring. Today’s setting in particular was the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. The Grammys were being presented there. For some reason I was not in my own seat, but hovering in the aisle behind the last row of seats in that particular tier, which was mid-level.

Wanting to rest my legs a bit, I crouched directly behind the chairs in front of me. Meanwhile, the award for “Best Male Leader in a Band” was about to be given. There were three nominees, and upon each one’s name being announced, I blurted my opinion to myself (Mike W., you’ll understand in a millisecond):

“John Mayer!”


“Michael Stipe!”




Really, my comments were intended for myself and no one else to hear. But lo and behold, I had an audience in front of me, who happened to be taking his seat just as I was crabbing: Chris Martin of Coldplay.

He turned to me and said something to the effect of, “I like hanging around douchebags!” Something like that. Martin wasn’t being defensive but rather ironic while poking fun at himself, since he has a real-life reputation for being a douchebag himself. Then I noticed Gwyneth Paltrow was sitting next to him. The three of us laughed. I felt comfortable remaining in my position, and even helped Paltrow (also a douchebag) catch her jacket (a warm-up jacket, weirdly) from falling onto the floor behind her chair.

Now is time for Theatre of the Absurd (as if everything thus far wasn’t absurd enough.). I looked to my immediate right and spotted DJ Steve Aoki sitting in the front row of another set of chairs, same section. DJ Aoki?? I don’t know a thing about this guy. Anyway, his hair was in a decorative configuration of long, thick braids; and he was wearing tinted glasses and some goofy outfit. He had a bunch of Asian friends with him, crouched in the aisle like me, also to my right. One of them said to me, “What is that guy’s name?” motioning his head toward the row in front of us.

“Chris Martin…” I answered.

After that, I decided to get up and move along. I wanted my purse, which I had shoved underneath Paltrow’s seat. But it wasn’t there anymore. My throat dropped into my stomach. Did Gwyneth steal it? Did one of the Asian guys steal it? Was the inquiry about Chris Martin’s identity just a distraction so that someone else could snatch my purse?

Before overreacting, I checked with my mother, who was in attendance. I went to her seat and asked if she had my purse. She didn’t. I went back to where the famous people were sitting. I looked behind the chair again and discovered that there was an opening at the base (kind of like car seats, or stadium seats), but with a flap over it. Somehow, my purse got shoved through the opening… and fell to the tier below– I could see through to the bottom– my purse, my cell phone that had fallen out– on the floor.

Since many minutes had passed since the purse disappeared, I was surprised no one had picked it up. Time was of the essence, so I raced to the section exit, noted the section number so I knew where to return, and attempted to get to the section below.

Of course, this was not an easy feat. It was a maze to get around the fucking place. I had to go outside, climb down a fire escape, hit a dead end– literally a brick wall– climb back up, go down another… I couldn’t get to my purse!

Things get sketchy and fractured at this point in the dream… during the course of figuring out how to get one level below where I stood in the theatre, I learned that my purse was now at a Fox Theatre in… Savannah? Yeah, that’s 3 1/2, 4 hours south of Atlanta. So, I took a cab to Savannah and was let off in a suburban part, at my request. After the cab drove off, I thought,  “SHIT! The theatre is going to be in downtown Savannah!” I didn’t have any more money, so I just started walking through the strip mall parking lot where I was let off, to a residential street.

The houses were old and run-down. Close together, small yards, impoverished. Kind of like how you’d expect the antique parts of a coastal town to appear. By now, it was dark outside. I passed a house that had a van, like a VW van, in the front yard, that appeared the be in the middle of repair; the hood was open. An older man, in his 50s or so, was in the yard, too. I said “hello” to him. He didn’t like that too much, because all of a sudden, his son came out the screened front door– with a gun– to kill me! Yeah, gun, I know. Jokes, jokes. Like none of you males ever had guns appear in your dreams.

And that’s when I woke up.

Funny thing is in all of this, I don’t know who won Beat* Male Band Leader!

*Hahaha! I just noticed this ironic Freudian Slip typo yesterday; and, as always, it stays. Also, of course, there is no such award for Best Male Band Leader; therefore, they’re all losers.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: