One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy

This wasn't a sleeping dream. It was a daydreaming session that drifted into a sort of trance. My intention was to pick up the narrative with The Goddess, because our previous encounter was so memorable. I've been wondering if she has a true name, so I intend to guess it.

I am back in the art museum with the white walls. There is where I last saw The Goddess. I imagine there is one empty picture frame and perhaps, in talking with her, something will appear as the painting.

That was the scripted part. I had a few ideas where this might go, but at this point I try to allow the narrative to unfold on its own.

The Goddess enters. Today she is wearing a suit of armor with a flowing red cape. No helmet though. Auburn hair and red lips. She looks beautiful but not in a sexual way. She is radiant and glorious. She reminds me of Joan of Arc.

I speak first. "I think I've solved your riddle and I want to guess your name. I've discovered that I am Michael. I am the Hand. And you the Voice. So your name is Gabrielle." (This was an idea I concocted earlier, riffing on another dream about angels.)

She doesn't speak. Well, she never speaks. She communicates telepathically. She just gives me that Mona Lisa smile. She remains aloof, as if to say: Hmm, that's a good guess. But she won't say yes or no. I was so confident that it was Gabrielle a moment ago, but she's driven me back into uncertainty.

"Or is it Mona? Or Lisa?" I look at her suit of armor again. "Or is it Joan?" I look at the suit in a different way. "Are you the Tinman, err, Tin-woman?"

She gives me no clue. Just her clever smile as she walks toward and around me. I know she's teaching me a lesson.

As she walks around me, she draws her hand along my shoulder blades and finally communicates with a playful touch: So, Mr. Guardian Angel, I see you've earned your wings. Who are you going to protect?

I hadn't thought that far. "I -- I don't know."

She leans her weight into me like she does. And with her suit of armor today, she's quite heavy but I can support her. She turns to the empty picture frame and I follow her gaze. She "speaks" to me again: So, what happens next?

We both start at the empty picture. "I don't know."

And then she hits me with the best line ever. As always, with a clever smile she looks at me: Third base! And in the picture frame, a baseball field appears.

That makes me laugh and zaps me out of my trance and back into present. We made a novel connection about names, asking questions, and the Who's on First? routine.

I don't quite get back into the trance, but I want to indulge playing the routine with her, so I continue to imagine.

Third base? But who's on first? Who. Who is the first baseman? Right. Right field? His name is Wrong. "Who" is the first baseman. Right, that's what I asked you. Who. Yes, who? The first baseman? What is the man's name? What is the second baseman's name. Not second base. Who is at first base? Right. Right field? Wrong.

(starting to understand) I see. "Who" is the first baseman. His name is "Who." Right. And the rightfielder's name is "Wrong." Wrong. What? Second base. The second baseman is Wrong? What. Yes. What is the second baseman's name? Right. "What" is the right fielder's name? Wrong.

(growing upset) I want you to tell me the first baseman's name! Who. Yes! What is his name?! What is the second baseman's name. Why are you asking me?! I DON'T KNOW! Third base!

I am looking down at a gray cart. It looks like a janitor's cart. In the middle, it has a large sink basin filled with water. Around the basin are other compartments to fit things in. I notice that it is gray and plastic and wonder if that might have symbolic meaning.

I consider the sink, but can't decide if this object belongs in a kitchen or a bathroom. Now my mother is to my right and my sister is to my left. (I start to groan, because I used to hate when they appear in my dreams, but it doesn't bother me so much anymore). It seems we all cooked dinner together and now are washing the plates in the sink. So this cart goes in the kitchen. But I still have the wondering that it might also go in the bathroom, so I want to be sure to clean it very well between uses.

I scrub and scrub the thing, careful to get into the corners so that it is spotless. I also improve it. I add a little gauge that monitors the water pressure. I also modify some of the compartments on the left so that one fits exactly one cup of liquid while another one fits two cups.

My sister returns and we use the cart to bake several batches of cookies. The measurement cups are a great help for this. We sell the cookies and there's a long line out the door of people who want to buy them. After all the customers are satisfied, we start using the sink to clean everything again.

To maintain a high quality for the cookies we sold, we tossed out some of the broken and bitter ones. These leftover cookies are left in the sink, now soggy with water. My father enters from the right. He looks at these imperfect cookies and looks at my sister and me with scorn. It's as if he's accusing us that we didn't make very good cookies.

But as he's staring us down, one lingering customer stands up for us. He explains that everyone loved the cookies and ate them, so you can't judge the good cookies by the leftovers.

I wake up. I think, huh, that's a nice little parable.