Visiting a museum that’s in a big converted old house. After we (my spouse and I) drop our stuff in the ground floor locker room, we fiddle with a colors exhibit halfway up a pastel stairway (like the 90s Dream Pop movie “Toys”). We continue interacting with the apparatus so as to avoid going on roof — I learned via tweet that Plarvolia is on the roof. For awhile stalling works. I’m still playing with the exhibit, trying to reposition typography to fit neatly inside gaps, when eventually I get too anxious about running into her and head downstairs. I get onto a cart/wagon there but become delayed in retrieving my stuff and packing up, drawn deeper into a corridor of rooms on the first floor. At some point I come to understand that Plarvolia is partially invested in the house/museum and is somehow even in charge of parts of it. Then, cornered in the mostly-empty farthest room, a dead-end master bedroom suite, Plarvolia herself fucking comes in. Leaned against a wall I instinctively feign asleep. Just my luck, but it’s her bedroom. She sticks around. Thankfully she doesn’t seem upset, but seems instead to have a maliciously curious attitude — as if she knows she could fuck with me, but is still considering whether I’m actually somehow dangerous, since that’s how she justified her past acts to herself. That’s all I can really glean with my eyes closed.
There’s a bit of a gap, and then I’m also in charge of aspects of the museum/house. Perhaps I’m just taken along for a task. Plarvolia isn’t directly involved (unless she sent me here). But the task itself is to contact an old man staying a bedroom of the building, also on the first floor. He’s a former Christian priest, a long-time tenant who I think is behind on his bills. The hallway has a black and red cast to it. I can see him peeking from behind a clothing rack that forms part of his front wall — not the best way to hide from a landlord. I don’t think anything was accomplished. Then again I’m not sure it’s really my problem.
Later — much later, I think— I’m hunting a special elephant on a range or track, some kind of set course. After that I’m hunting a bird that’s shaped like an orca, which I proceed to break apart so I can to find wood piece inside. I do this messy with in front of someone squeamish as they have to narrate a story to me. I get a little bit of sadistic glee at sticking to my task instead of deferring to whoever this is.
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When I wake up I’m a bit frustrated to realize I’ve once again dreamt of Plarvolia. It’s been five years now. I’m… mildly less annoyed when I realize that today, somehow, is her birthday.
As soon as I step outside my home, I find an unusual elephant figurine, set carefully on a scooter, clearly as an offering. It’s on my desk now.