a girl with no name

Date: 6/23/2016

A party in that old dive, I've not seen this place in over twenty years. this isn't my first dream here but something's different. the people are unfamiliar. These college kids and twenty something hipsters don't belong here. Kojak is not present. it's crowded, I can't reach the back to see if Gallaga or Pacman are still there. I step outside to smoke, relief from the overwhelming crush inside. I have friends with me but I don't know who they are. It's about time to leave, nothing interesting here. I'm joined by a couple ladies, "I'll escort you to the car". Did I get their names? This neighborhood hasn't changed, unless it's gotten worse. We head around back to the parking garage, I know it, I can picture it in my head. Dimly lit, aisles of boxy old domestic vehicles, the aged and cracking concrete pillars, the brick facade. It's still the same, isn't it? No this garage never existed. It's a creation of my subconscious. This should be a gravel parking lot. We enter the ground floor of the garage passing the stair well and utility closet, it's door open and someones inside watching an old television, blue light of its screen flickering off the walls. As we continue on more figures are detected in the shadows, leaning against the walls, lurking in and around corners, staring at us, sizing us up? A shady old man approaches and asks us what we're doing here. He's not unkind, almost friendly but I'm weary of him, his intentions, his friends in the shadows. "you kids shouldn't be wandering around here at night unarmed, are you carrying?" We're not, but I don't tell him that. He offers to show us the way to our vehicle, we decline and continue on. He insists and follows us anyway. Up the ramp and around the corner, the second level I'm sure we're close now but I can't picture where this car is. The shady man motions us to follow him into a doorway off to the side, why would we follow him into the dark. The car is definitely not in there. We follow anyway. Step inside the room and look around. It's a living room of sorts. A den of aged furniture, lounging chairs and a love seat surround a coffee table. It's dark in here but not pitch black, the light source is unknown to me. It's dingey but not dirty, unkempt but also untouched for twenty years at least. Against the far wall above a mantle I spot a small painted canvas, instantly I recognize it. I get closer I can't believe what I'm seeing. I know this scene, it's blue ocean, blue sky, boats with white sails and hulls painted in an even darker shade of blue clearly done by a child's hand. What is this doing here I ask to no reply, I might as well be alone in this room at this point. Alone with this painted sail boat scene, trying to process the memories, who painted this, where did it come from, why do I know it so well? It's been twenty five years at least since I've seen this. It starts making sense, it was gifted from a childhood friend. I can't remember their name, it hung on my bedroom wall once but I don't know which bedroom, or when it left my possession. I flip it over and there's a couple names scribbled on the back in red crayon, Addressed to me, from the artist, Sarah? Mary? I can't remember the name now. It was so clear and familiar in the dream. First name was common and most likely as fabricated as that parking garage. The surname had way too many characters and a nonsensical suffix. I focused on that surname, so unique and unlike any I've seen before. Surely I can easily find her on Facebook, I have to track her down. Finding this painting must be some sort of sign. I need to follow this and figure out what it means. I wake up, I can't remember the name. The dive, the cigarettes, the garage, the sail boats, all still clear as day but the name. God damn, lost the name.