(Pardon the grammar, but these are just quick write-ups of my dreams.
They are not essays or great works of literature. Just dreams, folks. Don't be hatin'.)

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

(David Byrne likes my poetry)


Myself and a handful of other people are on an outside scavenger hunt. But we're looking for these red, floating icons over things and scanning them with a pen looking thing. It's all very video-game-esque.
I go into a shed to look for things.
Eventually me and maybe 3 other people end up in a classroom. But now we're looking for pink sticky notes instead.
We look under things, behind posters, all over.

Then David Byrne is there. He's teaching, or critiquing, or something, poetry. He asks me to read my poem.
I don't have one.
But I do remember one and recite it.
David Byrne really likes it.

David Byrne, a few other people, and me go down a huge marble staircase. The bottom of the staircase is filled with people wearing blue.
Everyone is chanting, kind of. Like a wavering kind of chant song thing.
I know that they are Turkish and they are mourning a dead Olympian.
I stand with them, but because I don't know the chant-song, I start moving my arms like they do in Angels in the Outfield.

Eventually we get by the stair crowd and move into the huge room. There's bleacher seating around the whole room (crowded except for down front) and one teacher in front of everyone.
David Byrne sits next to me near the floor, right in front of the teacher.
He says, "Hey, why don't we get the whole place to critique your poem?" and hands me a sheet of paper. My poem is not on it.
I tell him I can't remember it. I'm too nervous to remember it.

So David Byrne gets up in front of everyone and tells them about my poem.
Then goes off on a tangent. And then another tangent.
It's all very intelligent stuff.
David Byrne ends up talking about a woman. A person in the crowd asks about this woman.
David Byrne goes on about her being a gypsy.
About gypsies.
Other gypsy related things.
He is very excited and educated and cannot stop.

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