Thursday, April 7, 2011

'tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen ~ cymbelline

My life seems quixotic and never drab, but when I dream, the thoughts that prevail through my attempted slumber are somehow so detailed and epic that I’ve been keeping a journal for memory’s sake…

If you wish to be entertained by a retelling of a dream I had last week, read on…

I was living in another world. Not a futuristic world, and not some sort of unimagined world, but a world existing with the correlation of time, coinciding with my own reality of the world from which I am writing this entry.

The only way for someone to find their way into this other inhabitance, is to travel by way of an underground train. Everything on the train has an outward appearance of being dated back to a time I can only explore through history books and old photographs in vanilla and sepia.

I’m not sure how I found myself travelling by way of this mysterious train, but I know as the journey progressed, and we drew closer to this somewhat, seemingly magical world, everything started changing around me. I noticed that I was no longer dressed in my modern day attire, but that my clothes had been replaced with an exquisite gown, made of silks the color of merlot, and a sort of sauvignon satin. It was draped about my figure, accentuating all of my best womanly features, and the pieces were held together by jeweled brooches and handcrafted clasps that provided the dress with a sense of royalty to which I indeed did not feel entitled. My hair was long and dark, and the front pieces were pulled away from my brow in a sort of crown-like style, with my somewhat curled locks hanging loosely down the graceful lines of my back. My reflection stared back at me from the looking glass, so quiet and aware – keeping her secrets hidden behind her pursed lips. Her eyes seemed more beautiful than my own, and she was so elegant and lovely. I didn’t even feel as though I was looking in a mirror, but looking into the soul of someone I had just met.

I stepped back from the mirror and surveyed the room that I was given on the train. The furniture was no longer the hard, angled pieces of the twenty-first century décor, but was now handsomely sculpted, sturdy pieces – like something from an era resembling the 1800’s. I ran my fingers across the top of the dark, cherry-wood armoire; the smell of magnolias and history rising from its wooden pores. The chair in the corner of the room had petticoats draped over its arched back, in lifeless solitude, and it was upholstered in a delicious, golden, marigold velvet. The bed was massive, and the brocade duvet was plump with goose feathers, and so enticing to a wearied body.

I noticed that my suitcases had been replaced by wooden trunks, and my old clothes were no longer folded within. Instead, there were exquisite, hand-sewn gowns, cotton petticoats, satin peignoirs, muslin nightgowns, and a navy blue, velvet cloak. I was astonished. Where was I and where was I going? How were things changing so quickly around me without my instant observation?

I looked over toward the writing desk. A brass writing set with two bottles of sepia ink and a quill pen, rested on the tabletop, with a note pinned to the ribbon that was tied around the leather-bound journal laying close by.

The note read:
“This journal is yours. It is the only way for you to discover your way home.”

I opened the journal, hoping to unfold pages of history, informative instructions, directions on what to do next – but the journal was empty.

My thoughts raced through the life I once knew -- the life I had been a part of mere hours ago -- and dashed from my childhood to my present life back home, and then wandered into the questions of the world around me. I traced my fingertips along the embossed pattern on the front of the book and down its rigid spine. I picked up the quill pen, and ran the feather along my cheek, down my neck and across my chest, tracing the lines of my body, hoping for answers from within. I closed my eyes and breathed in the musty air of the dimly lit room. I crawled into the middle of the bed, arranging the train of fabric that was swirling around the bottom of my dress, so that I was sitting in a pool of russet waves. I turned the book over and over in my hands, hoping for an answer.

The train seemed to be slowing down. Was I to de-board when the train stopped?

Absentmindedly, I opened the journal to the first page. Nothing. The light flickered in my room as the train jostled the cars along the tracks. What was that? The light shone on the inside cover of the book, and I caught a glimpse of tiny words inscribed in a light colored ink, against the taupe color of the inside endpaper. I held the book up, hoping to catch the light again.

Tiny, but legible, the words read:
“Ink puts to paper the indelible answers
to the heart’s unanswered questions;
Thus you will find your way.”

I felt just as lost as I did before reading those words. Was I correct in understanding, that by writing in this journal, I was supposed to uncover truths I hadn’t known before and find my way back home? I didn’t even know if I really wanted to go back home. This was proving to be far more adventurous than my previous life.

The train came to a halt. There was a knock at my door. Who would I find on the other side?

I tucked my journal under my arm, slipped the quill and jar of ink into the pouch tied at my waist, and went to the door. I drew in my breath and turned the knob. There was no one there. I looked down the long hallway of the train car, my eyes adjusting to the different lighting of the corridor. The floor was lined with a sort of mossy green covering, and the walls were painted a deep chestnut.
Should I gather my trunks now, or will someone fetch them for me later? This whole experience was surreal and had no logical pattern from moment to moment. What was my first instinct? Leave them. Fetch them later if they were not brought to me. I had not an inkling of an idea of where I would be going and I didn’t want to make a heavier load for myself if it wasn’t going to prove a necessity for the time being. I steadied myself just outside the door of my room, my hand pressing into the wall. I could hear the chatter of people just outside. I moved my hand to the window. Cold. I couldn’t see outside, for the window was fogged, and the only portal to the world beyone was through the handprint I left on the pane. My cloak! In one of my trunks was the navy blue, velvet cloak! I rushed back into my room, rummaged through my trunk and drew out the cloak. I draped it around my shoulders and tied the rope near the top, securing it and drawing in its warmth.

I counted my steps toward the train’s exit in quiet meditation. When I stepped off the train, journal in hand, I couldn’t quite take in the magnitude of what picturesque scene unfolded before me. Elegant ladies roamed in pairs and trios, no doubt gossiping over the latest news about town; all were dressed in clothes much resembling my own. Men stood in distinguished groups, clothed in long coats and top hats – some leaning on walking sticks, others puffing slowly on cigars. I watched as the cigar smoke rose into the evening sky, circling around in willowy swirls, entangling itself with the steam rising from the steam engine. I bit down on my lip and ventured eastward. I hadn’t known where I was going thus far, and had no one there to tell me which way I was meant to go, so I figured whatever direction I chose would be the right one.

Once again, time lapsed and I found myself looking through a haze. What seemed like only a couple hours ago, I had stepped off the train and started walking into the unknown. I was carrying a blank journal. Now, I was in a cozy room within a magnificent castle, what looked like something out of a dark fairytale. The room looked lived in and was filled with things that were seemingly mine. There was a vase filled with wildflowers, sketchbooks, a bookshelf filled with poetry and literature and yet another writing desk. I still had no idea what year it was, as everything around me seemed timeless, and not distinctive of one particular era. I had a headache. As I rubbed my temples, I realized I had memories of this place. I had been studying here. I had friends within these castle walls who also resided here. There were dinners at long wooden tables, with me at the head of one end, and a man at the other. He wore garments tailored with the same color as mine. I was wearing the same dress I had been wearing the day I arrived. I looked in my closet. All of my gowns and simple frocks were sewn with similar shades of fabric. Crimson, burgundy, sienna, ruby, garnet – all of them beautiful and so courtly by design.

I closed the doors to my wardrobe and closed my eyes, trying to bring forth more memories. The man at the table – he was my mentor; someone who not only taught me to reach further than I ever thought I could, and someone to guide me, but a man who completely loved me. He loved me not as a man loves a woman, but as a father loves his daughter. Most of my memories featured him standing right there beside me. He was tall. Very tall. There was no one I had ever met who was as tall as he was. He stood maybe seven feet tall – large, without being overweight. He had a head of long, grey hair, and a full beard. He loved to laugh, and he loved to sit with me while I was writing. I just couldn’t grasp why I had all these memories, but I didn’t recall making any of them. My journal. If all this time had passed, I would have made some sort of entry in my journal. After all, I had several memories of the seven foot man sitting with me in the library by the light of the fire, him reading his books and me keeping close track of my thoughts.

The journal lay at the foot of my bed. I opened it to find that nearly half of the pages were filled with words; entries full of memories and questions, things to ponder and things I had grown to understand. Every word, every phrase was my own, and documented in my script.

I decided to go for a walk. I needed some fresh air. I found myself wandering through the castle gardens. I had been there for three months. I felt alive and free. Home seemed so grey and so very far away. I wanted to live in this new world forever. I stopped when I came to the edge of Willow Lake, and lay down beneath the weeping branches sweeping mournfully in the afternoon breeze, staring up at the melancholy sky. I let myself drift off to sleep, wondering what dreams may come…

When I awoke, I was standing just outside the train station, wearing another one of my sanguine colored dresses, this particular one almost undistinguishable from the one I was wearing when I first arrived. My hair was longer now, reaching just below my waist, but plaited in a single braid falling down my back. My trunks were packed, and my cloak was draped over them with anticipation. The seven foot man was standing before me, my hands in his. His green eyes seemed even brighter through the tears brimming in his saddened gaze. Tears were running down my rosy cheeks, as I tried to say my goodbyes.

He reached down and took me in his arms. I couldn’t stop sobbing. I didn’t want to leave him behind. Why couldn’t I just stay there? He kept whispering words of wisdom as he clutched me tightly, my feet dangling two feet above the ground.
“You don’t need me anymore,” he whispered
“you have found what you needed to know, and now you must go home.”
I just kept crying. I couldn’t even speak. He gently put me down and kissed my forehead. I knew that this was going to be the last time I would ever see him. The world started spinning around me as I grabbed my trunks and boarded the train. There were so many passengers boarding various train cars that I felt dizzy from all the flurry of movement surrounding me.

I turned around to wave to him one last time, but he was already off in the distance, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched forward, and I knew he would have done anything to have been able to keep me there with him. But I knew as well as he, that I must return home.

As I walked through the train cars, and back toward the car that was awaiting my return, I was stopped by a staggering amount of passengers, all of whom had some sort of question for me about their lives; questions about love, questions about their hearts, questions about their lives – all of them yearning for answers. I was able to tell them exactly what they needed to hear. But wait – how did they know my name and why had they chosen me to answer their questions?

When I finally made it back to my room, I was exhausted. I grabbed my journal and curled up amongst the feather pillows. I didn’t even bother changing into my nightgown. I just wanted to understand what I had learned through my journey of this other realm, and I knew all the answers to my questions lay within the pages of my handwritten thoughts. Entry number one was titled: “A New Understanding”.

As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of a life I could understand and desire; a life of security and hope, love and propensity. But when I opened my eyes, I realized I was no longer in my bed on the train, but in some sort of field near my house. I was transformed back into the modern woman I am today, but my journal was there, in my grasp. I sighed a sigh of relief, knowing that every question, every proclivity unknown, everything I ever wanted answers for, I had discovered their elucidation throughout this mysterious journey.

My gown was gone and I was once again wearing the clothes I had slipped into before leaving home. My trunks had disappeared and in their place were my ever-so-plain-looking suitcases. My journal. It was still clenched between my hands. A smile spread across my face as I realized that through this adventure, I had documented life, and life as it should be – complete with the answers to questions I had frequently pondered. I opened the leather bound book, only to find hundreds of empty pages. I flipped frantically through the journal, prayerful words slipping over my lips and onto the pages, hoping the script would reappear. But when the sun peeked from behind the clouds and I felt his rays intoxicating my already blushing cheeks, I noticed that the inscription on the endpaper was different.

I held the book toward the light, and drew in my breath as I read the words I saw inscribed before me:
“You have lived.
With your thoughts, you get to live again,
as your memories will be a treasured keepsake.
Rewrite history, it’s your only escape.”

1 comment:

  1. This is a remarkable weblog, Lauren. Your writing and your career are very impressive. Thank you for sharing your heart as openly and eloquently as you do. -Dane Dakota

    ReplyDelete