A Wurlitzer Dream

The pants were soaked on the bottom and bone dry on the top. No explanation for how this could happen sitting Indian-style in front of a black-and-white television. The screen is black.

We find it hysterical, my former neighbor and I.  We cannot stop laughing.

The trains aren't running in Queens. Undaunted, my sister (who is suddenly Filipino), along with my roommate (who is Mexican), decide to walk several miles in the rain to the theater. They do it for joy. I promise to join them later.

I am lying on hot smooth rocks, eyes closed, sun burning into my hypothalamus, there is no goal, there is only stillness and a deep feeling of contentment.

An old schoolmate is one of a group of gals rushing for the showers after a refreshing dip in the lake. I have a picture of her wearing an elaborate head piece of gold filigree and dancing diamond teardrops. I show it to her. She does not understand and turns away from me. I think she looked beautiful in her glittering cage.

I notice that the gals are following something.  Four women dressed in plush hotel robes are walking in lock step, carrying one door to a wrought iron gate.  Dozens of wet-haired women create a processional behind this gate. This is what my friend is following. I am following my friend.

The rocks are an uneven plain, challenging to walk across, and women stumble to their knees, but get right back up with no complaints.  Someone suggests adding one man to help carry the door of iron. The suggestion was met with great enthusiasm. One man is produced and he takes his place at the center of the robed door-bearers.

Ahead is a western style log cabin large enough to fit every species in twos.

In the belly of the mammoth log cabin is a turn of the century Vaudeville theater with a proscenium resembling an Arabian castle.  But for the light ivory arabesque patterns on the proscenium, everything else was dark: mahogany handrails, Moorish style lamps of iron cut-out to resemble the folds of a dahlia, casting long teardrops of light on the indigo, crimson, and magenta colors in the carpet. This is a castle of secrets. The stage for deception. Voices from above are discussing the fate of one in the procession. "She is klutzy but good-hearted. She can stay."

I think my Filipino sister will be performing in this theater. The stairs separating the upper and mid levels are too shallow and quite wide. I have to leap into the air lifting my hands to the sky. I leap for joy.  I feel giddy and boundless because this had nothing to do with me.

Fudgesicles

I could see the all the way to the white sandy bottom from my tiny raft, and make out the mangled and twisted sea kelp, but I couldn't make out anything else until it reached the surface. The first thing I saw was four half-eaten fudgesicles bobbing by the raft. The fudge was supple, smooth, and resilient as resin. 

My companion was an adolescent girl with hair so shaggy it never looked wet, dressed in a sack tied about her waist by a rope. She swam ahead of my floating octopus raft, announcing each object that floated by with a sensory tag: "Smells good!" and "Tickles!" and "Very sharp!" Her voice rang across the water like a cymbal in a broom closet. We seemed to be looking for something in the menacing aqua blue water, lit by stars like white paper lanterns. Dead things, half-alive things, and useless things floated by my raft. 

I would not get in the polluted water. I barely fit under the bulbous mass. 

We came upon other people bewitched by the starlight, bathing in the water, using dead fish to rub their calloused feet and elbows. The girl declared, "This is it!" 

I put my arms in the water and paddled as fast as I could, scraping my arms against sharp metallic edges, like shards of broken glass. The raft was barely moving. The octopus was too heavy. I had to get back. This was not it. The girl lassoed the octopus head with the rope from around her waist and kicked us to shore. The shoreline was a rusty color, which seemed to be from the discarded junk and dead sun-baked lobsters littering the beach. The girl swam right over the unpleasantness, pulling me and the octopus to shore. I looked back and saw four half-eaten fudgesicles bobbing in the water. 

Dream of October 17

Sydney Wayser is the key. The toy bells tinkle and my feet arch like fish flipping through the air. Her voice emanates from her left lung, just above her heart. My arms are ribbons tied around a tree branch. Frogs legs kick out from underneath me. This is not my body. 


I am in a very busy bookstore, standing on a tall ladder in a leotard and knee-length gossamer skirt. He asks me to just move and whatever I do, they will be there to catch me. One is a thin, pale, woman. Her dark hair is neatly tucked into a bun, she has vampire lips, she has long curled lashes, light blue eyes, and a straight nose that ends in a tiny square. She is smiling warmly. Behind her, is a gymnast in black. He is holding a net made of stiff, heavy rope. They are suspended by wire and expect me to jump off the ladder and dance in the aisle of the bookstore.  There are people looking for fantasy, how-to, and philosophy in the longest aisle I have ever seen. I am going to dance over their heads. He will capture it all from below.


La Di Da. I tell them I need to find it on my iPod mini (so, so, so mini). La Di Da. Once I find it, my lungs fill with helium, my heart beats irregularly. Beats as the chimes, the piano, the snare, the bass, and finally her voice. I'm an arrow. I shoot through the net. I bend like a bow and fall back into the gymnast's chest. An unpleasant kitchen memory leaves me. I can make any movement and they will catch me. I can zing! A pine tree tall man sweeps child me up! He spins me longer, longer and faster, faster until I feel I am flying. La Di Da.

10/13 at 1:15

Wednesday, October 13, 2010 at 1:15 p.m. I was lying on a white leather couch watching Pride and Prejudice with the director's commentary on. Joe Wright was saying something about walking in or out of frame from the right or left. I think most people step into my frame from the left, but I register them with the right side of my head. 

At the exact same moment Director Wright was talking about frame, she took this shot of the Queens College campus. 


I am on the couch. 


She is standing in the shade, on the other side of the continental United States. 


Wednesday, October 13 at 1:15 p.m. on Long Island it was a "beautiful crisp day."  


The white leather was cool against my over-worked calf muscles and over-stretched external obliques. 


I wanted to take a picture of it. I had framed it in my mind and then shimmering light distracted me. Poof! Just like that it was 1:16 p.m.