"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
--Antoine de Saint Exupéry's The Little Prince
We spent our last night in the port town of Ensenada, after seven hours on the two lane highway that took us from the Sea of Cortez (or Gulf of California, if you wish) through the blooming Sonoran desert, then down to the Pacific and northward through the string of dusty agricultural pueblos, booming with the entrenchment of agribusiness which has bestowed a vaguely pesticidal haze over all.Ensenada was deflated. Christmas was over and so was New Year's. The big cruise ships had steamed away. It was Tuesday January 2. King's Day wasn't near enough to fill the panaderia windows with cakes and breads yet.
We were tanned and rested but ailing a bit too. So while we walked to dinner, we stopped by one of the fabled pharmacias and bought a potent cough syrup. I blame that and the beer (Bohemia) and grilled octopus I ate for the dreams that followed that night. That, and the general state of this sorry world.
The First Dream:
The department of English met and decided to give a party to show our appreciation to our underpaid and often unrecognized part-time colleagues. It was decided by unanimous vote that the best way to do this was to give each part-time instructor a manicure and pedicure at the party. Funds were donated to me to hire a friend of mine, D.W., a screenwriter/professional waiter, to assist with the treatments. Previous to this, I had no idea that D.W. had expertise in this area, especially judging from his own gnarly toenails that peek out of his flipflops. But D.W. arrived, well-equipped with emollients and creams, tiny scissors and trimmers and buffers, ready to work. My colleagues brought platters of food. The part-timers showed up and started taking off their shoes.
You can see why I woke up.
Upon awaking, I chugged more of the cough syrup and flipped on the television.
It was the funeral of Gerald Ford. Pomp. Circumstance. Flags. Henry Kissinger at a podium. Kissinger cited Ford's "artless decency.” Henry Kissinger. Artless decency. Kissinger. It was too much, really. He shouldn't even be allowed to say those words, I thought.
Back to sleep.
The Second Dream:
A month and a half ago, my friend, E.Z., was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme, a aggressive brain cancer (This part is true). In the dream, me and my sweetie pay a visit to E.Z. in his house in Echo Park. Since his diagnosis, a group of friends have come together to help them manage their lives, donating time and money to make things work as best they can (This part is true too).
In the dream, his lovely wife D. doesn't seem to be happy to see us, though E.Z. is. He seems fine enough, and likes whatever it is we have brought him. I look around for the kids, - their eight year old boy, the 6 year old twins. E.Z. and D. were so happy to become parents. Before the first child was born, E.Z. had the nursery furniture painted pale yellow, with wistful scenes from Antoine de Saint Exupéry's The Little Prince.
But now, I can't locate their children though the house seems full. Young people I don't know are hanging about, here and there, lounging on the sofa, sitting at the kitchen table. Other visitors, I think, people from his life as a public defender, maybe. Maybe that why the wife is acting that way - there's too many people around, there's too much commotion. We should have called. We should have come another day. As we make our leave, I discover the secret though, through the oddness of dream logic, I don't know how is it that I learn it.
But this is it: most of the money raised by the circle of friends has gone to help their three children grow quickly to adulthood so that E.Z., their swiftly dying father, can see who it is they will become. The young adults I don't recognize are the missing children, having grown years in a matter of weeks.
It's not that D., the wife and mother, doesn't want us around, it's that they need to keep this a secret, this gift, these grown children. And they need their time together. All they have is now. We understand. We leave them there in the house with their lives moving so fast.
This time when I wake up it is near dawn. The two people who make up my immediate family are breathing deeply, still dreaming. Their breath sounds like the ocean, one wave after another.
When they wake, I will tell them my two dreams. Then, we'll eat breakfast: oatmeal for my husband, pancakes for the little guy and chilequiles verdes con huevos revueltos for me. Lots of coffee. Then we'll get in the car and drive home to the new year. Lots will happen. It always does.
~ RG
