I had a very strange dream about Harold Lloyd. I was listening to some gospel music, or rather watching it performed live, and it was the anthem Jerusalem
(a. k. a. The Holy City) being done in a very over-the-top way. Later I was trying to find a recording of it because it reminded me of church, as if it was being sung by my former church choir, though nobody looked the same. At one point I was sticking a pencil in a vast machine-looking box to unlock it. In some way the music was supposed to come out of it, but the pencil kept breaking off, so I didn't get to hear it again.
Then I had a chance to meet Harold Lloyd. He looked like a slim, good-looking but otherwise unremarkable middle-aged businessman, from the era of his talkies in the mid-1930s (I was thinking The Milky Way where he plays a milkman boxer), and he started firing questions at me: ten standard questions handwritten on a piece of paper “just to get to know each other”. This was his usual method with people. I took the piece of paper and crumpled it up and threw it away and said, “Let’s just talk to each other instead.” He looked uncomfortable, but seemed to come out of it and we talked. I don’t remember anything we said after that, but he soon left, and as he went out the door I yelled after him, “Would you like me to send you my novel?” He breezily said, “Oh, n-” (the “o” disappearing as he vanished around the corner and was gone).
No interest at all. Oh no, don’t send it to me. No one even wants to READ it to find out what they think. "I already know I don't like it." Like a little kid with new food.
