The Dream
In a small room with unpainted plywood walls just about enough for ten people, I am lying down in a bed shifting from sleep to wake. Across me is a panel of “judges” hearing out a young woman in a red sequined dress auditioning for a role (I can only see one gray haired old woman but I can hear more of them behind the wall that blocks my line of vision). The aspiring performer speaks between giggles as she covers her mouth with her white hands, nails painted with bright red nail polish but looks sideways, up and down with short quick glances at us. Someone hands her a red flower, another brings in an elaborate red and gold Louis XIV chair for props. She is about to shift into another act. I tell the judges to cut it. She is wasting our time. She is disappointed but not sad and simply walks away. I am unmoved.
Another young woman comes over to me and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. She is also auditioning. I tell her to look at the judges in the eyes and not to appear like she is talking to the walls and making the judges look stupid. The intention is to give her tips on how to communicate and not isolate people she is talking to.
She seductively whispers to me she is going on a trip the following day. To Montalban, she says. I can feel her dry breath and smell her soft silky hair. She has her small arms around me. Having no resources of her own, I know one of her “customers” have invited her. She must be a bar worker, a stripper, a hooker, an entertainer. It wasn’t clear. I tell her it is alright and that she must go. Images of a light aircraft interior flashes in my mind.
I suddenly find myself with the young woman beside her host sailing over rough seas on a hand glider. By his accent I surmise that he is French. It is a long stretch with the kite going up and down to maintain altitude and stay clear off the huge waves. He says it is perfect weather for flying. It looks like a storm is brewing on the horizon and I am afraid we will hit the edge of the storm and sink. The flight goes on and on and on, it is getting dark and the sea gets rougher and I am beginning to worry.
Suddenly there is a break in the sky. Yellow light rays stream down to the waters and the silhouette of land lined by coconut trees appear in the horizon. We close in and the sight is magnificent. I am overwhelmed by an emotional feeling upon seeing bright sunlit land after a long dark journey across the rough seas. We rise altitude and see the land from above. The French “pilot” shouts “Malacanang here we come!”. We circle the island and I look at the now cloudless blue sky and calm waters as far as my eyes can see.
The place is empty. It appears deserted. I begin to feel there is an ambush waiting for us. As we prepare to land, young boys start coming out and kick soccer balls across the sand. It is a welcome relief from the fears of sinking and an ambush. We land softly on the sand. There is a feeling of peace.
The vantage point feels familiar. It looks like I am at the corner of my family home looking down towards the lake. The white pillared house on the right reminds me of my ancestral house. I have to stop and take a photo but I don’t have my camera. I ask for it but no one seems to know where it is. A girl in a brown printed bikini steps out of a small room by the side of the house. She is carrying trinkets and shell accessories. She welcomes me and pins on a pair of long earrings. I feel the sharp pierce on my ear lobes.
I must get my camera and take pictures. It is in my room. I walk towards the house across the green lawn still wet with morning dew. It is no longer the white pillared house by the sea but my real childhood green and white home on a hill above the lake. There is a silver station wagon parked halfway into the garage. The girl reads the name of the car…it is her name. The image is clear but I cannot make out the words. I try to open the doors but they are locked. I ask the Frenchman for the keys and he opens the door by remote. The car smells of leather and the door is full of buttons and controls. As I attempt to look inside I suddenly remember the camera is in my room not in the car. We all run to the side of the house and go down the moss laden stone stairs. The area is neat and clean. I can feel the cold moisture in the air. I tell him I am happy that he has taken over the house. He opens the door and lets me in. I enter as he returns up the stairs.
The basement where I grew up in had always been a dark damp place but now it is extra bright and warm with sunlight. My mother is in the hallway carrying a pile of freshly dried clothes walking towards their room by the stairway. I go to her and kiss her on the cheek whispering, “Lolo must be very happy about this” and I am referring to the well kept house that he built. She is her usual unreactive emotionally held back self. I go to the room on the right and look into the closet. I find my green short pants and my brown wallet is inside the pocket. I get it and start to step back into the hallway (wasn’t it my camera that I was looking for?).
My mother introduces me to Francois who is by the door leading outside from the bodega. He is an old man with a white beard. Apparently, HE has taken over the place and not the Frenchman that brought me there. There is a window that opens to the bathroom and the maid’s room from the bodega. I tell them I have never seen that window open but suddenly remember I have when I put up a sewing operation in that room. (In reality there is no such window). I tell him I am so happy about what he has done about the house. The bodega is no longer cluttered and there is a new flight of stairs leading up to the landing of the stairs beside my parents’ room. I see my mother going up. She gives us a side glance and moves along.
I engage the old man in a short conversation. I tell him that I have been away for sometime and as a business development consultant I thought that if the place was managed well we would see five Maseratis parked in the driveway. He says no. Ok, two I say. He says yes. I tell him about my younger days when the boys in town would look up to me as the rich kid on the block since I was enjoying life while they worked their butts off all day but now they are the rich kids on the block and I cannot seem to define what I am anymore.
I feel the atmosphere vividly. The morning sun, the cool air. I feel the moisture and softness of the moss on the stone steps. As a child I used to scrape them off like a piece of rug. I can smell the wet grass and hear the pine needles whistle in the wind. The whole scene feels very real. I am happy. I am in tears. I have been since I met and kissed my mother at the hallway. She has been dead for almost two years now.
Somehow I wake up and lie still, eyes closed. I can feel dried tears in my eyes. I have indeed been crying in my sleep. I tell myself not to wake up and stay in that dream until I am ready to face the world with new eyes. I go through the dream over and over over. It must be good dream. I look for signs and messages. I wonder at the shifting colored scenes from the audition room, the dark stormy flight across the rough seas, the land in the sunlit horizon, the island setting and finally to my ancestral home. I question the fears and what happened to the young woman and her French host. I savor what my senses register. I wonder what this all means. I am mesmerized.
Very few dreams affect me this way. I must not forget it. I get up and write this page.
