I dreamt of meeting Lady Gaga.
On a bright, sunny day, Gaga exited a building in a black vehicle; I ran up to one of its windows and to my delight, she wound the window down and waved, grinning behind her shades. She wore the same ensemble as she did the day she returned to Japan, her teal locks cascading down an emerald trench with coordinating pumps. Suddenly, she was perched atop a hill, with a conspicuously plain table before her and a line of fans ecstatically queuing - but now the Lady appeared somewhat like she did during her Music Lovers interview, her teal hair sliced into a fringe above her brows and slicked back. I was lucky enough to be one of the first in line. When I got to the front, Gaga looked at me with a sense of ease and familiarity as if I had taken a picture with her before. And suddenly, I imagined a memory – recalled a moment that did not happen because it made sense in the moment. Why would she look at me that way if she did not know me – if she hadn’t met me? As I tried hastily to take a picture with her, not wanting those behind me to have to wait too long, I noticed that the lens of my iPhone was facing in the wrong direction – capturing stills of a nearby park instead of the two of us. My perception of time accelerated as I struggled with the gadget, unsuccessfully attempting to fix it until someone offered to take the photograph for me. Despite the delay, no one seemed impatient.
Abruptly, the scene changed; I was now backstage with Gaga, looking out into the crowd at the 2011 MMVA’s as it cheered in anticipation of her final performance. She still wore her Music Lovers look, teal underarm hair present. We visited her dressing room, and in the dimly lit setting I saw something resembling her Elizabethan latex dress, along with a similar outfit in black that was perhaps worn in performances of “Paparazzi” in the theater version of the Monster Ball.
My time alone with Gaga was like the eye-of-the-storm: calm amidst chaos. Despite the tranquility, I felt guiltier and guiltier as time passed; I wondered why I alone could have this privilege. When I told her that I should go because the other fans were still queued at the hilltop, she didn’t seem concerned and insisted that I stay with her longer. My intuition told me that she somehow felt safer around me than other fans; her request made me feel as though she needed someone to confide in. I didn’t know what was on her mind, but I sensed a definite sadness. As our surroundings morphed into my grandmother’s living room, she turned to the left, faced the window…
…and the dream ended.