Chestertrance

Although I had this dream a few days ago, it's stuck in my mind and it's so Chestertonianly accurate that I must record it.

It began with a down escalator, at top of which stood Algernon, my little sister, and me. Algernon, in loco Father Brown, was explaining, "Men may keep a sort of level of good, but no man has ever been able to keep on one level of evil. That road goes down and down. The kind man drinks and turns cruel..." as we all gazed at the escalator, from the bottom of which was echoing "the litany of the dark angels" (I had just watched The dagger with wings). After that, things got a little confused, but someone ended up dying, possibly me. Next thing I knew, however, Coyote was getting married, and Ria and I went shopping for a dress with her.

Notice, that the only friends of mine who made it into the dream were Chesterteens.

Back to the wedding dress. We went to this one department store, that looked pretty ordinary, but the owner, who was showing us around, unnerved me. His glasses caught the artificial light at absolutely any angle, so that wherever he turned his eyes were obscured. Equally alarming were the dresses he showed us. Ria and Coyote were all raptures, and told me I was being most unsociable. What they couldn't be brought to see was that something on every dress was the wrong shape. I didn't know I could imagine up such ugly frills, severe swirls, or ungraceful bows. the majority of each dress was well made, artistic, and elegant. But one detail, usually in the trimming was downright ugly, an accessory so small that it was not immediately visible, but wrong enough that it disturbed the overall image.

I kept pointing out these crooked minutiae, but was asked in hurt tones if I didn't think it was a profoundly beautiful dress. If all I objected to was the lace, which Coyote, the bride, was fine with, I ought to keep my criticism to myself. My in-real-life-brilliant friends didn't get my point - a point I stressed more and more as we went deeper into the store, which narrowed like an Egyptian temple.

As the wall to our left began to bend at the top, just a few inches below its meeting with the ceiling, growing increasingly into the shape of Father Brown's telltale piece of paper, I grew frantic. Somehow my carefree, giddy friends must be put on their guard.

I pointed to the bend in the ceiling, horrifically evident now, and drew the parallel of Chesterton's story in vivid terms for two confused-looking young ladies. After staring at me in silence for a few moments, they asked sweetly, "Don't you feel well?"

In rage, incredulity and despair I turned away. My Chestertonian friends, the girls I love and look up to, thought I was insane, and were walking blindly into -

Well, what? Was there really something deplorable waiting beyond the next display? Surely. Was I insane? Or was the owner? Were my friends? I settled it thusly: I was, at least partially, and therefore by far the most logical of the party. That heady and dismal conclusion being reached, I faced my friends and my responsibility once again.

I received a bit of a shock. There, chatting pleasantly with the girls, and slowly drawing them back out towards the light, was a person who fit the exact description of Gabriel Gale, fictitious patron of lunatics. Gratefully commending my friends to his expert management, I cast one despising glance at the owner, whose glassy eyes wouldn't meet mine, and whose Mona Lisa smile could be defined (by me) as nothing but nefarious and hateful. With this leer hovering before me, I woke up.