One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy

I am in a large multi-purpose room with many people. The room has been set up for a theater performance, with banks of folding chairs all facing toward one end that will serve as the stage. Maybe it's a community program or charity benefit. I am here with the family, but I quickly separate from them and find me own seat somewhere in the middle.

In the front, a few of the actors are milling about, chatting with patrons before the performance. I recognize a few people from high school. That makes me groan. I turn my attention to the crowd. They are settling into the seats, but they are also moving the chairs. There's supposed to be a few clear aisles between the banks of chairs, but as the people move their seats, the aisles shift and become crooked or blocked. I groan again. Why can't people just accept and let things be? But of course, I'm being a hypocrite. Realizing this, I become a mess of frustration, partly directed outward and partly inward.

The group of seats I am in has become a single column of chairs, such that there is no one to my immediate left or right. Again, I am conflicted. Isn't this nice? Like having a row to yourself in an airplane. But on the other hand, it's just a poor allocation of space and a mockery of the well-laid plans of the organizers of this event. The other people in my column have decided to move to the left, joining the nearest bank. So I go along too. Now I have someone to my left, and the open aisle to my right.

The play begins. It is billed as The Frogs but I quickly realize it is actually Othello as evidenced but a character named Iago in the first scene. I watch disinterestedly. The actors aren't any good; they are just volunteers. I turn my attention once again to the audience in the hopes of people-watching. Quickly, though, my interest is drawn to the person sitting to my left, who is an attractive young woman.

She has fair skin and dark hair gathered into a pony tail. She wears a light blue tank top and black or navy leggings. I smile at my own luck. My gaze draws hers and our eyes meet. She smiles shyly. She twists in her seat a bit, so that she is facing more toward me and her legs rub against mine. I place a hand on her thigh. Her eyes close, as if savoring this intimate connection. I slide my hand up her thigh, but as I get too high, her attitude suddenly changes. She slaps my hand away and turns her body away. A few people nearby turn to gawk. I feel ashamed and embarrassed. I must have gone too far.

Now I feel the urge to use the bathroom. Maybe it's a convenient excuse to leave this situation. I give one glance at the actors. They are still hamming it up. I stand out of my seat and navigate the crooked aisles to the exit. I pass a hallway and find a bathroom. It has full-length windows on one side, so the room is brightly lit by sunlight and offers no privacy. The floor is also flooded with about an inch of water. At least I hope it's just water. I cringe and tip-toe toward a urinal.

As I'm doing my business, a man approaches and gets my attention. He's a deliveryman. He shows me a package and points to the label with the address. He's asking if this is the right address. I look at it and say yes, but this is the bathroom. He ought to continue one door down, where they might accept the package. He leaves. Another deliveryperson arrives, this time a woman. The same conversation repeats. Isn't it obvious this is the men's room? I am a bit frustrated but mostly just amused. I finish. I'm pretty sure I didn't wash my hands, but, well, it's just a dream.

I return to the main room. I look for a seat other than the one next to the girl in blue. But the only one I see is next to my family. Ugh. I'll take my chances with the girl. I sit back down, trying not to draw attention to myself. I peek at the girl, but I can't judge a reaction from her neutral expression and posture.

Time passes. Eventually I make eye contact with her, but still no clue from her facial expression. Instead, she spreads her leg out to meet mine. But it's a cautious gesture. I'm not sure if she wants to get closer, or if she's using her leg as a guard to keep me at a distance. We remain in this stalemate a while as the play drones on up front. I steal glances at her. She is very pretty and I feel very sorry for having offended her earlier. But I don't see any graceful way to reconcile.

She makes the first move. Once again, I smile at my luck. She shifts her body toward me. Her leg is still against mine. Now her whole side is leaned up against me and her head tilts on my shoulder. She takes my hand in hers and places it on her leg near her knee. "You can touch me," she whispers.

I am relieved, but still cautious. I leave my hand on her leg, but don't move it up. I look to might right, scanning the crowd. Perhaps I'm trying to act nonchalant. I look at the spot where my family had been earlier. But instead of them, I see a woman in a red dress. The Goddess.... She gives me a stern look. We don't speak much lately. I feel a multitude of emotions. I give her an expression as if to say: Let me explain?

The play is ending. People are standing up. The girl stands too and my hand leaves her lap. I look at her. She looks at me. We remain in eye contact as she starts to back away, following the crowds as they begin toward the exits. I try to read her expression and body language, but I can't be sure. Why can't people just say what they feel? Sigh. I'm being a hypocrite again. After a protracted gaze, she turns and disappears into the crowd. I turn back to the right, looking for The Goddess. She is gone too.

I wake. My first thought, true to my erudition, was why the play was either The Frogs or Othello and what symbolism that would share with my ill-fated romance. I will ponder that.

Quo vadis? is Latin for "Where are you going?" I don't think the Romans used question marks though. The phrase is associated with a biblical scene, when Peter sees Jesus after his resurrection and asks where he is going. Jesus replies that he is going to Rome to be crucified again.

---

I find myself in a grocery store. This is a common scene for me in both waking and dreaming. So far, I have procured all my items and now I approach the checkout lanes. I see that they are all long. That fact makes me a bit discouraged, but also I have patience. There is no other option but to wait, so I am content to wait.

As I wait, I glance around. By chance, I spot someone I recognize from waking. She is in the produce section, examining some fruit. Let's call her Siren, which is not far from her real name. She has been in just a few of my dreams, but in my recollection, all lucid. The incredulity of seeing her here makes me lucid once again. I stare at her. She is darkly tanned with long dark hair. She wears a black cocktail dress that perfectly complements her form. At this distance I don't see her face but, having recognized her, I bring my memory of her waking visage to mind. She has a beautiful face with striking hazel eyes and a warm smile.

Time passes. The checkout lane shuffles forward a bit. I remain in revery, staring at Siren as she chooses her oranges and onions and whatever. I am entranced. I am "lucid" but not lucid. In other words, I am self-aware but not clear-thinking. This is a common theme of my dreams recently. Perhaps it is a theme of my waking state too.

A thought enters my mind: What are you doing? It is a reminder that I have been trying to entrain in myself. It reminds me that I should be doing rather than merely being or observing. In this moment, I don't actually act but the thought does alter the dreamscene.

On cue, Siren turns and spots me. She smiles and I see her face, just as I remember it. Her hazel irises are piercing in the middle of the whites of her eyes, which contrast so strikingly with her tan skin. Similarly, her smile is pearlescent and radiant. It is hypontizingly attractive, and all the more so because she is looking and smiling at me. She begins to walk toward me, with her basket held just-so at her hip.

"Where are you going?" she asks me. She is Turkish and has an endearing accent to her English.

I look to my right, at the line of people waiting for the checkout counter. It hasn't moved. "No-where," I answer to her question.

She tilts her head, as if pondering the deeper meaning of my response. After a beat, her smile broadens. "Come with me," she offers.

Now, I tilt my head and ponder the deeper meaning of her words. Or, more accurately, the possible sexual meaning. I am suddenly filled with lust. The scene of the grocery store fades away. Her dress fades away too. I am now staring at her naked body, tan and lithe. I entertain visions of touching her, and, though I don't yet act them out in the dreamscene, the visions are nonetheless made manifest in the dream on some level, in a way that can only happen in dreams.

I catch myself in this fantasy. Once again, I think: What are you doing? And to that, I add her words: Where are you going?

I pull my attention away from her body and back to her face. She is still smiling, innocently. I'm only dreaming. What does that mean?