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.