Save Me a Dream

Save Me a Dream

         Wanting to escape reality, I flip through the pages of my art history text book.  Salvador Dalí’s “Persistence of Memory” takes up a quarter of the page, but it engulfs me completely.  Believing I would be happier there than here, I gather a view of the scene.  I am near the water looking out towards the soft time keepers.          
         The water is crystalline; to step on it would shatter its glass perfection.  It is dusk but not foreboding.  The glow from the rocky cliff is warm and hopeful. It does not burn like a desert land.          
         Walking towards the characters of the painting, the sounds of unsynchronized clocks resonate softly.  I find the tree with a single forked branch.  It is in its finality of life, stretching out its hand with a clock.          
         “I surrender.  Here, take it.  I am tired of my fixation upon time.” 
         Shocked the tree is speaking, I say, “I’m sorry.  Can you repeat that?”  He speaks as if I am not there, “It can not be stopped or understood in this reality.  I have been trapped between its steel gears and its illusion for too long.”
         Before I could ask him what he means by the ‘illusion’ of time, he passes into a threshold and a shell is left of him.
         The ants are preoccupied with another clock.  They have organized themselves in a whimsical, dizzying mandala over a closed pocket watch to ravage it.  The investigative fly has his own muse in the second slipping clock.  He wants to discover the exact point where its physical materialness evolves into a flow of perceived time.           
         The scientific fly contemplates out loud, “Perhaps it streams out.  Maybe it expands into vast nothingnesszszsz.”  He turns to me as his research colleague, “But where does the physical mechanization become ephemeral?” 
         Unable to understand his question, I turn to explore the human profile.  He is dreaming.  The fly follows me and in an excited, scientific rant, “Will he ever awaken? Did he once roam this land? Did he fortuitously walk upon his destiny finding a true reason and purpose?”           
         Staring at me with a million eyes, he waits for me to join him in the rain of questions.           
         I ask, “Ummm, can I sit here to think about it for a moment?”           
         “Yes, yes.  Go right ahead.  There is no rush in the search for truth.  This moment goeszszs on and on…” as he buzzes into the barren land.          
         I sit to contemplate the life of the thin half-face.  The fly was too far to hear, yet his new questions echoed in my head, “Where did he come from and where was he going?”  His voice began to sound more like a master guiding a student than a mad scientist.          

         I sit next to the chin.  A version of me walks with the complete body of which the dreamy head belongs to.  It is more than visualization, I am transported to him.
         He walks to the mirrored waters to see his reflection.  He gazes into his eyes and sees visions of memories long forgotten – suffering lessons and joyful moments to remind him how good and true it was.  He had attempted to bring others here before to help them expand horizons.           
         Turning to me, he says, “Once you shift your perspective of past suffering you can then adjust views of the present and intentions of the future.”           
         “Is he referring to the suffering I am avoiding?  Does he know the future?” I ask mentally.  He answers with a smile, “Only the great prophets can see possibilities.  Most of us can only intend and make decisions that influence our future.  The more you believe in the possibilities of your desires, the closer you come to opportunities.  Always be ready for it, because you never know when the surprise chance will land in your hands,” he says, portending.
         In this place without time, past and future calmly collide like two galaxies and resolve in an expansion of the present. He looks at me with whirling intensity.  Unknowingly, his stare had transported me back to the shade of the profile.  I open my eyes and slowly focus on my surroundings.           
         The sun is setting behind a cliff not shown in the painting.  It mirrors the one just ahead near the crystal waters.  Its shadow has stretched across the kind desert and almost reaches the bay.  “If there were time, and if this were summer, it would be about eight,” I said to myself.  The fly returns from nowhere, “Hmmm, already thinking about time again?  Our habits are strong, aren’t they?  It must szszsignal it is time to go.”          
         “Go where?” I ask.          
         The fly buzzes away just as quickly as it had returned, scattering questions behind him, “Where do I go?  Where did I come from?  Why am I here…?”
         I am left alone and a surge of lonely fear flows through me.  I had been comforted by Dalí’s presence.  “Wait, I wasn’t really with him.  It was a dream,” I said to myself.  The buzzing master’s voice echoed, “Was it, really?”          
         I begin to contemplate the sleeping face.  There are no arms to hold the unexisting time.  He floats, just his face, without the wire workings of a brain.  The echo of the master says, “But the mind doesn’t need a brain to exist, now does it, hmmmm?  He was able to perceive with a more sophisticated manner of thought.”          
         Confused, I ask, “The mind doesn’t need the brain?”          
         The buzzing master reappears, “We are taught to use only five percent of it for repetitive actions.  Unfortunately, we also capture manners and emotions our parents have taught us, whether they are the best reactions to a situation or not.”  What I was trying to escape is slowly coming into consciousness.  He was referring to the pain I feel from my mother’s caustic words and berating behavior.

         Just beyond the dirt box at the outer edge of consciousness, lies a flat surface between the dead branch and the calm water. From a distance it looks like a blue shelf of a cupboard. At a closer view, it is a fast, shallow flow of water upon a thin plateau that has abruptly stopped. It’s unlike the soft forever seas afar, but it continues to be water.          
         From there, my mother’s screaming gouges needles in my bones.  Now it seems as the entire house has come crashing down on my mother’s world.  “Oh, these fucking slobs,” her voice rings out because the dishes weren’t done exactly after we were done eating.  “Samantha, I told you it’s your turn to do the fucking dishes,” she says as if her words could twist my sister’s spine into surrender. 
         The guiding fly leads me near the blue plateau to observe my mother’s anger.          
         “My sister would have done them,” I say to the fly.  “Just an hour or so later.  Who cares when they are done, right?”          
         The view of the kitchen has transformed into the bathroom.  My sister and a version of me are there.          
The other me says, “Samantha, my friend is coming over.  Can you please put away your makeup and clean the toothpaste from the sink.” 
         “Why do I always have to do everything?”  Then starts the blame, “You leave your fucking shit there all the time.”          
         I sadly defend myself to the fly, “I left my toothbrush out yesterday, but I swear that is all.”          
         The fly continues the lesson, “We are not taught to use the higher consciousness of the mind to override the instinctual and learned behaviors of the brain, you szszszee?”  After allowing me a moment to reflect, he explains, “Your world comes crashing down when your mother and sister don’t communicate to create solutions like the rest of the world does, hmmm.  Where did you learn that?  From your mother?  And she learned it from her mmmmmother.”          
         “So where does that leave me?”          
         “Uszszse your higher consciousness to transform the desperate perspective of it.  Do not mirror your mother’s reactions.  They are based on her valid, though harsh, perspectives.  Who cares if your mother yells daily?  She cooks for the family and cleans the house and is there for you when you most need help.  Iszszn’t that right?”          
“I understand.  But her complaints about making dinner singe my nerves and I feel like sticking scissors in my ears so I won’t have to hear her.  I would like to be grateful for the meal, but her dark, heavy energy squeezes every ounce of goodness out of it.”          
         “Iszszszn’t that how your mother feels when the dishes aren’t done 5.6 minutes after everyone is finished eating?”          
         “Okay, I understand.  My reaction to my mother is the same as my mother’s reactions.”  With dire pleas I explain, “But I want to change.  I want to be happy.  I want to learn how to deal with life’s difficult situations.  I want to know how to feel and think when I don’t get what I want.”           
         Unconvinced he says, “Oh you do, hmmm?”          
         An aggressive, instinctual reaction tenses my muscles because he didn’t believe me.  Before I choose to argue or runaway, I slowly take notice of the contractions.  I realize he was joking and testing me at the same time.  I smile and relax, “Yes, I would like to learn.  If it is not right at this very moment, I would like to find the answers in this lifetime.”          
         “You got it half right.  You will learn, but it doesn’t come in an answer to be discovered and taken as a treasure.”  He became excited to reveal a secret, “It comes as a processzszs.  Moment to moment, learn how to let go of the need to control others and connect to another consciousness.”  He danced in zigzags and swirls, “Sometimes there is failure and sometimes there is success, but you must accept it takes lifetimeszszsz to master.”          
         The idea sinks deeper into my mind, “Control.  I didn’t know that was the root of the issue.”          
         “It’s not,” he says as he flies towards the realm of the sleeping Dalí.  I slowly trail behind him while I contemplate the possible facets of my wounds and my mother’s.
         Before I could grasp what was revealed, the fly explains, “You’ll understand as we go further.  Are you ready?”          
         After I nod yes, he buzzes about the portrait and asks, “What is dreaming of?”          
          “I don’t know.  He is deep in something,” I respond.  “He is dreaming in another dimension.  Any life of him is not on this plane.”          
         “Where is he?” he prods me further.          
         “I want to go with him to find out.”          
         Dalí’s eyebrows are waves of gold.  His eyelashes are long, extending just over the cheek, not like protection, but like comfort.  I want to caress the man’s brow and cheek, but a tired clock kindly hugs over him.  It guards over the gentle face.  It must keep time of the precise moment when he returns to original consciousness.  The time keepers mission would be achieved, but success would end in its death.  For now the portrait is deep in his ocean dream.  Upon return, the clock would stop.          

         Suddenly I become exhausted.  The need to sleep comes over me like a spell.  As I feel myself slipping under, I hear the echo clocks and of my buzzing teacher from the other side, “You must first dive into the subconscious to become aware of your unknown emotions, bring them up to consciousness, and use your higher being to transform your perspectiveszszzz…”.          I try to wake up to understand, but asking ‘What?’ seems too far away.          
         He sends assistance as I float deeper into the unknown, “Changing your perspectives changes behavior.  But sometimes there is a contradiction.  You think positively, and act out negatively.  This is growth.  This paradox is why and how we evolve.  There should not be frustration in that, only observance, acceptance, and intention to transform. Awarenesszszszszszs.”
         Here consciousness ends and I dive into the subconscious unknown.          

         I awake in the same barren land, but it is somehow different.  Everything is asleep, even the winged scientist.          
The cliffs are much larger and further away.  It would take an entire day to arrive there.  The water next to the cliff is a mirage now.  Something from the corner of my eye catches reality.  I look out to a large movie screen.  It is not a movie however, it is real life.          
         There he is.  The real Salvador Dalí.  He is painting the space I am in.  He does not see me because I am too small and hiding behind the edge of the canvass. 
         Behind me the painting is darker in the shadows than before.  In front of me is a white abyss surrounding the edge of reality.  Careful not to fall into the white infinite, I slide further to the inside edge to get closer to Salvador.  He is looking down at his dirty palette with various colors of paint.  His head rises with his paint brush.  He clears his throat, raises his hand, and begins to paint.           
         A beautiful woman with dark, pinned up, coiffed hair, comes slowly behind as not to disturb him.  She has perfect makeup with bright red lipstick and is wearing a dress ready for a night on the town.  She thinks to herself, “We had plans for an evening out and here he is still painting.”  He knows she’s there admiring him.  She puts her delicate right hand on his shoulder.  She softly comments, “Those golden clocks are amazing melting like that.”          
         He smirks gently, “Gala, dear, they are not melting.  It’s not hot there, and they are in the shadow.”          
         “Sorry, forgive me,” she laughs and walks towards the sofa. “It is just an interpretation.”                    
         He states directly but not smugly, “They are soft.  It represents Einstein’s idea of relativity that time is not as absolute as we perceive it to be.”           
         “It must be so difficult to be an artist, even one as talented as yourself.”
         “What do you mean, dear?”          
         “Well, the artist must always have an internal conflict with an attempt to evoke an idea, then receiving a different response from the onlooker.”
         He wipes off paint from his hands with a white towel and walks towards the beautiful lady.  I am relieved and feel as if I have been holding my breath the entire time they were contemplating the canvass.  I peek out of the edge to view their next moves.          
         He leans over to kiss her completely on the lips and says, “It’s not about what others may or may not conceive.  It’s about expressing truth.”          
         “That is why I love you so,” she says.
         He rubs his face in her neck and down the middle of her chest.  She kisses him on his temple and whispers.  My heart beats wanting to feel the love they have for each other.          
         Gala whispers, “Ricardo and Marie are coming.  Get cleaned up.”          
         Salvador walks to the sink hidden behind a folding shade.  A boisterous couple is heard coming up the stairs.  Gala opens the door before they knock.  Though they are three, kisses and laughter fill the studio as if there were thirty of them.
She grabs Marie’s hand and Ricardo follows, “Look at Salvador’s next masterpiece in progress.”          
         Again I must hide.  Afraid to fall in the white oblivion at the edge of the canvass or into their reality, I quickly run beneath the portrait.          
         Salvador calls out behind the shade with half of his face shaven and the other half with shaving cream, “No, don’t show them… oh, it’s too late.  You know it is bad luck to show someone a work unfinished.”          
         Ricardo yells back with a grin, “Don’t be preposterous.  You don’t know the meaning of bad luck, my friend.  If it did come your way, you would not succumb to it.”          
         Gala says, “Isn’t it gorgeous?”          
         Marie responds, “It’s magnificent.  Instead of the traditional hourglass of time slipping away, he presents us with melting –,”          
         “Shhhh,” Gala tries to stop the word.  “They are not melting, they are soft clocks.”
         The whispering group attempts to muffle their giggles.          
         “I heard that,” Salvador walks out from the shade with a smooth face and a perfectly trimmed mustache.  He joins the group after preparing four drinks of ice and Cuban rum.  The clinking of the glasses prepares them for the bigger party across town.  “Well then, if they are melting, then they are.  You are free to express your own notion about it.”          
They stand over the painting admiring the small canvass as if it were life size.
         Ricardo points out with the same hand holding the drink, “Now, that’s you Sal, right?”          
         “Shit,” I say.  “They are looking right where I am.”          
         Marie answers teasing Salvador, “Of course.  Look at that nose.”          
         They are all afraid to ask about the strange shadow just below the nostril.          
         “Fine work, my friend.  Can’t wait to see it finished.  I imagine it has to do with dreaming and perception of time.”  He pauses for a moment. “And what is that?” Ricardo cautiously asks.          
         The two women attempt to pacify their laughter.          
         “What are you talking about?” Salvador says playing a game.          
Ricardo sips the perfectly aged rum and accepts the next move, “I do not recognize that little shape right there.”
         Salvador gently pushes Ricardo aside to get a closer look at the image itself.  I feel Salvador’s breathe just above me.
         Oh, that,” Salvador says. “I don’t know yet.  I must have painted it when I was in a trance.  Maybe I will paint over it later.”
         Ricardo responds with a prank, “Yes, perhaps you will.  Because it looks slightly like a peni–”          
         Marie femininely hits Ricardo in the shoulder as they all start giggling like rebellious teenagers who just got caught for looking at pornography.          
         Unable to hold back her laughter, Marie says, “Please excuse him Sal.  You know how men are and what is always on their mind.”          
         Salvador confidently says looking at Gala, “Yes, of course.  And that is always what is on my mind.”
         He walks towards her and kisses her brow.  She openly receives his tenderness and remembers her guests, “Are we ready?  We shouldn’t be late.”
         Ricardo leads the group out the door, “Of course my lady, but here time does not exist.”          
I hear the door close.  Coming out from under the rubbery profile, I am caught between unfinished strokes of paint and a larger than life reality.
         It’s dim in the studio because the sun is about to disappear below the horizon.  There are no walls dividing the kitchen from the living room or the bathroom from the bedroom.  It is simple and unpresumptuous.          
         The life they live beyond the canvass calls me out.  Love, happiness, sharing, and creativity are what my heart desires.           
         A soft voice of the fly echoes out, “That is the true issue to explore.”  He urges, “Go deeper.”
         I ask myself, “Do I dare walk out of his canvass and into his reality?

*****

         Muffled noise comes from beyond the walls of a studio I barely remember.  Sunlight shines through the windows draped with transparent white curtains.  Gaining focus and becoming aware of my body, I feel a comfortable couch beneath me.  Then I realize it is not my couch or my house.  I sit up straight and frozen.
         The painting is gone, but a fearless child appears.  “Do you want to play?” he asks innocently.
         I look around for parents.  Since the room has a dreamy reality to it, I trust I am in the subconscious.  I gain courage to explore all I could do. “Sure, we can play,” I say to him.
         Come on,” he says.  He is nine years old.  Curious, I follow him to a hall running parallel to the living room left and right.
         We arrive to his parent’s room.  He shows me a silver picture frame with a relief of flowers and vines bordering.  “This is my dead brother.  His name was Salvador, like me.  I don’t think he is me, but my parents sometimes treat me like I am.” 
         He kisses the picture, “I bring him flowers at the cemetery.  It’s strange to see my name on the large stone.  Can you help me?”
         “Wait.  Whose dream am I in?” I ask myself.  Not being a psychoanalyst, I had no idea of how to help this child.  All I could do is be aware it was a dream, not resist anything, and let the subconscious come up.
         “Sure.  I will certainly try to help.”  Wondering what Freud might do, I ask him, “And how do you feel about that?”
         “I want to be me.  I am my own person.  But my parent’s are so saddened by their loss, I feel trapped in someone else’s life.  I feel I have to please them as my brother.”
         After glancing at the photo attempting to come up with something helpful to say, I look back at Salvador and he has transformed into a thirteen-year old teenager.
         Before I have time to adjust, he says, “Come on, let me show you my charcoal drawings.”  As I follow him down the hall and into the living the room, he admits, “They are really incredible if I do say myself.  I am a prodigy they say.  I will have my own exhibition in a few weeks.”
         He walks towards the kitchen, but then stops at the living room.  He detours towards the coffee table.  He becomes strangely agitated, “I hate that book.” 
         He grabs it and sits down on the floor in frustration.  He holds the book to me, “He showed me this when I was a child, just a child.”
         Ripping pages from a hard bound text book, tears fall from his face.  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”  I walk towards him to provide comfort, but he raises his hand up to stop me. “Don’t touch me.  You might catch a disease.”
         “What are you talking about?”  I pick up a crumpled page to find images of genitalia with venereal diseases. 
         “Who gave you this book?”
         “My bastard father did.”
         “These are extreme cases.  Common intercourse does not lead to this.  I’m sure your father did not teach you reasonably the potential dangers.  He didn’t know how.  He was trying to protect you.”
         He throws the book and torn pages in the air.  They stay there in perfect stillness.
         Having his back to me, he wipes his tears.  He takes a deep breath, and turns towards me with a smile, pretending he never felt the pain.  I made a connection to him finally by understanding he was reflecting what I do after remembering the pain.  I just go on as if nothing happened.
         He says, “Follow me.  These are my drawings.  What do you think?”
         Viewing the drawings of naked women and men, plaza scenes, flowers, people in the café-bars of Spain, landscapes of mountains and plains, churches… the drawings were perfect and intense.  Knowing his pain and seeing his divine talent shifted my perspective of life.

         After being entranced, I look up to compliment him but he is gone.  Instead is an easel.  I go over to see which painting it is.  “Thank God.  ‘Persistence of Memory’,” I say.
         I am startled by the footsteps of an adult Salvador Dalí.  He walks over to his very first charcoal drawing on the kitchen counter as it slips over the edge into the trash can.  If it did fall into the trash, he knows the energy of the ideas expressed would remain immortal.  He touches one just as it slips and it remains in the air as a frozen melt of it.
         Though it is barely larger than a sheet of paper, I try to disappear into the painting before he could see me.  I stare into it.  My consciousness made no sense of the painting, but within an ocean of the subconscious I understood everything.
         He says, “It’s still wet.  You’ll smudge it with your little nose.  What are you trying to do, get into the canvass?”
         I pull away and say, “Yes, I must get back.” 
         He searches with penetrating eyes to understand why I am there.  I search his for a clue to help me return to my reality.  We gaze at each other trying to get into the other’s head.  “The answer is in the dream,” the faraway voice of my teacher says. 

         Neither by his force or mine, we walk to the couch to sit close to each other in silence.  My head softly falls on his shoulder and his head cuddles mine.  We awake in his desert.  It does not appear as real as true nature, but as reflections of the space between atoms.  We could perceive every emotion of the other before opening our eyes. Though every form of his painting is in view, a mystery emanates from everywhere, like an invisible wave.  It evokes peace and excitement all at once. 
         Salvador says, “Our physical forms are sleeping but our awakened sleep is intertwined in the unity consciousness of the universe.”  To help me understand, he explains, “This is what happens in the deep hours of the night, just before the first dim light appears.  It feels like a calm current of electricity.”
         We float to the reflecting water just below the cliff.  Salvador explains, “This is where the soul can see itself, where one realizes all that is hidden away.”  Though we were together, we were in our own world’s, viewing our inner selves.  We both experience regret but based on our particular life experiences. 
         Versions of me appear.  One form is overcome by uncontrollable tears.  Another form is knitting a black scarf with serenity.  Salvador explains, “Knitting is symbolic of healing.  The thread will change colors as the wise self guides us through the alchemic process of resolving wounds.”
         The wise self says, “There is no reason to regret or to blame others.  Who’s to blame?  Where lies blame?  In another dimension it doesn’t exist, and neither does guilt.  They are creations of the ego ‘I’, the separate ‘I’, the ‘I’ without unity.”  Salvador assisted in simplifying the message, “On another level, all is perfect and good.”
         The thread has now turned into yellow.  The wise self lets go of the knitting to guide the suffering self into the water.  A dark, heavy form came forth from the grieving ‘I’.  The wise self explains, “Gratitude should be given for all experiences.  Forgiveness.  Understanding.  Knowledge that every event in life is a passage into the next.  Life’s hardships are not punishments or tests.  They are events to helps us evolve.”  Salvador senses my confusion and provides guidance, “Life is not a series of lessons to forcefully master; it is a flow of constant evolution.
         Memories return of how I had criticized myself for errors made.  My thoughts became softer and more accepting of past decisions.  The wise self continues, “Whether we perceive success or failure in one plane, the wisdom is taken with us in another.  We ultimately spiral forward to the next preparative moment.”  Salvador adds, “Knowledge of the self is a golden key.”  I repeat his words and understand this experience has shown me how to explore myself through the subconscious.
         The wise self returns to her knitting.  Salvador notes the thread has become white.  “We are almost done with the healing process.”  He walks me over to the waters, “Dive in.”  I am comforted as I swim in the cleansing waters.  I come out feeling physically lighter and less burdened with worry.  Intuitively, I sensed the dark form was dissolved.  A happier me was able to be expressed. 
         Salvador comes out of the water behind me.  I understand he has undergone his own transformation.  I intuitively look at the wise self’s progress.  The threads are now red.  We recognize a greater awareness of ourselves.  Overwhelming gratitude flows through us.  We bow down to our knees, not religiously, but lovingly.  A sense of healing comforts us as we fall asleep on the shore.

         A light, rubbery cloth covers me.  Without peeking out, I realize I had awakened from the dream within a dream.  Salvador is gone.  The hum of the fly and the ticking clocks call me out.  He watches as I struggle to come from under the profile.  I want to hug him for taking me to depths unimagined.  He flutters near my cheek providing affection and acceptance of my gratitude. 
         I reposition the face to leave it as I had found it.  I could not place correctly the strange form coming out of the nostril.  I ask my teacher, “Is this a penis?”  He answers, “No.  It’s the pineal gland.”  He glows while sharing a special secret, “Alchemists claim it has a phallic shape.  Scientists say it stabilizes our wake-sleep patterns.  Philosophers call it the ‘Szszszeat of the Soul’, and mystics say it unifies our physical existence with the spiritual realm.”
         I step back, viewing the landscape to encompass its meaning.  I wonder why an image of the pineal gland would be of importance in the contemplation of time.  I wait for the fly to intuitively notice my wonder and provide guidance.  He only sends a smile and buzzes about the clocks.  Sensing it is time to go, I take in one last deep breath to remember the painting.  Everything has changed.  It isn’t as mysterious as before.  The shadow across the land has disappeared.  The water is calm and happy.  The clocks are ticking in synchronicity.  There is realness to everything.
         Taking one final glance at the shore, I notice the sun is just above the cliff. “Why does it seem like morning?” I ask.  The fly remains silent and returns perfectly to his position.  The ticking of the clocks give their last sound.