selva oscura (anonymousblack) wrote,
selva oscura

give me something for the dream that i am in

i dreamed i was modeling, fell asleep on the table curled on my side. hovered around the room, drawn to those pulling magic towards them in the course of their work. maybe they would become artists, i thought, maybe magicians, and then i thought about me. the art room window, light-passing blinds through which anyone passing by on the moderately trafficked catwalk right outside the wall of studio windows could see the model illuminated by the studio lights, reoccurred and reoccurred and reoccurred in different forms: the blinds were a source of injury for me. in waking life, i was scared about it. all the models were. that fear might be the reason i wanted the job in the first place. $20 an hour to pose naked in an art studio with a room full of art students a captive audience for my mix tapes of virgin-era tangerine dream, yessss, but i was also on the newspaper staff and something was bothering me. i needed to write something. i needed others to read it. side benefit: the newspaper wouldn't need to imposition/endanger one of the non-agendaed models for the photo shoot. i could take the bullet it very nearly was. maybe actually was, i don't know what happened to that film. it didn't matter. it was worth it. i wanted this story on the front page. i needed this issue dealt with. the night class got out late, the parking lots were huge, large sections were dark and unmonitored, you often had to park damn far away. when i asked if the models had security guards walk out with them the first semester i took life drawing, people just looked at me funny. i didn't feel safe for our models. the window issue was the shit frosting on that cake. i already felt unsafe: i lived in unsafe. this made me feel worse. i thought about the safety of our models a lot. the only solution i could suss out was to put myself in that situation and solve it from within. save the next generations of nude models at this institution from harm. model the behavior of demanding a seven foot tall amazon security guard with nunchucks walk me to my car every night, maybe she could have red hair and a firey disposition, maybe we could talk about the weather, make each other tea on the porch of a log cabin at the edge of the pine forest sometime. maybe during a rainstorm, but i'm not picky, just specific. very specific. i didn't get that either, but it was expecting a lot, that other people give a shit about my safety. because: i don't actually exist, not in the same way people who matter do. maybe all the other safety concerns wouldn't come up for me if i modelled, and if they did, well, i earned it. i'm awful. in the end, the instructor stopped my story by saying he'd asked the administration for opaque blinds and progress was finally getting made on the issue and please don't do a feature on it because you have no idea how these people can be. i couldn't argue with that. i didn't have an idea, i knew it to be true. i'd been on the newspaper staff for eight months. i'd done a front page feature regarding some poor decisions about pesticides made by someone at that level, and anyway, weren't these also the folks who signed off on putting light-passing blinds in a studio that hosts nude models on a daily basis in the first place?! there was my story, perhaps: why the fuck did no one consider those possibilities before all sales final? i didn't write anything. nobody wanted my writing. i earned this. i'm awful. in the dream it was finals week. it's always finals week in my dreams. finals week was so often when it all fell apart. i turned around and walked out of the classroom. i walked across the stage knowing i had failed. in the dream, i slept in the studio. everyone in the class was fine with it, everyone in the class thought it was the best possible thing. curled up on my side like the sleeping goddess of malta, mirrored, in that same position on my bed some years later, i dreamed of students making art and working magic. i wondered if any of them would become artists. i wondered if any of them might become magicians. i wondered what would become of me.
Tags: dream, journal15

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