Open Windows
A violent gust of wind blew the window open. It knocked on the wall repetitively until I got the courage to close it, and lock it tight. The wind died down, but again the window blew free, free of its lock, free of its prison sealed to the pane. This house truly was haunted.
I always read before I fall asleep. Tonight it was a ghost story, the same story told in every ghost story. It eases my mind though. I couldn’t help but think about how my windows are never locked. The thought wasn’t motivation to lock them, just a thought. As your mind drifts off into that serene place, you often think a lot.
During the night, a lifeless gust of air blew the window free. Blew it open rather, for my windows are never locked, making the windows unable to be freed of anything. Nevertheless, it was open, much like the ghostly story I had just read. I wasn’t worried, how can one worry while they are asleep? The clement breeze grazed my face and I unconsciously turned in my sleep, putting my back towards the warm air, and relieving my face of its touch.
A dream, a succession of images and thoughts passed through my mind. It seemed to coincide with real life at first, but as the sensible logic faded to lucid obscurities, I subconsciously realized that I was indeed in a dream.
“Been living here long?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, I knew I was dreaming, but I couldn’t form the words in my mouth to answer the giant cloud.
“No, I just moved in.”
As I looked around I was suddenly sitting at a table having coffee with the cloud. It’s strange how things can change so quickly in your dreams.
“How about you sir? Lived here long?”
“I’ve been here as long as I can remember. This is good coffee”
“I’m glad you like it.”
It felt normal, talking to the cloud. His personality seemed to match his appearance.
I drank and drank and drank, but the cup never emptied. I must have been thirsty. I was running. Where did my large cloud friend go? What was I running from? I tried looking behind me, but as my head turned, the surroundings turned as well. I couldn’t break the focus from where I was running, and I couldn’t stop. Maybe I wasn’t running from anything. I was running to something.
There was a monumental being in the distance. My steps grew to those of a giant’s. My hands felt swelled and heavy. I knew I was bigger than I was before, but the scene before me was still greater. Suddenly my feet stopped moving, throwing my body weight forward and causing me to fly through the air. I knew I couldn’t be hurt, but I still had fear in my eyes.
My wife turned on the bedroom light, unaware of her sleeping husband.
My surrounding turned to white and I was not flying anymore. I was seated.
She realized her mistake and quickly hit the switch.
I was still seated, but the room was black. I don’t even know if I’m in a room. I could be anywhere.
As I start to move a new light flickers on in front of me. It was a sign. Not a metaphorical sign, but it was literally, a sign. The neon light read “Dada’s”.
A door seemed to melt into my view, right under the sign. Next a window, and another, and before I knew it, a whole building was set in front of me.
It was a coffee shop. I’m not sure what my deal with coffee is. It looks to be a reoccurring theme. I thought to open the door. I couldn’t help myself, really. I could not stop my hand from reaching for the handle of the shop.
A bell rang as the door opened. It was raining… in the café, but why should that be a surprise? I took the umbrella from my pocket and opened it.
“7 years bad luck, my boy.”
I couldn’t tell who was talking to me. Everyone’s face was blurry and fading with every rain drop.
I sat down in a booth. It was small, like a booth that a couple would usually sit in, but smaller. How was I even fitting? I must not have been that giant figure I thought I was before. Time felt permanently stuck until a waiter came to my attention.
He was wearing a hat. This hat had arms and hands coming out of the top. The left held a quill, the right, a pad of paper.
“I didn’t know people still wrote with quills. Don’t you need ink to go with it?”
He looked at me like I was the one with 4 arms. I noticed that his face wasn’t melting like everyone else’s. He actually looked familiar. I knew exactly who he was. I looked down at the left hand, connected to the left arm protruding from his body. He was holding a jar of ink. I felt foolish.
“What do you want? You know you have to get something in order to be here. So what do you want? What will you have?”
“I’ll have a coffee, sir.”
“Hot or cold?”
What kind of question was that?
“Hot please.”
With those words, his body started to shift, he turned flux. His arms were those of a clock’s. He started to walk away. He bent and broke the whole way back to the kitchen.
The bell rang again. Three men walked in. Their legs were long, about an elephant’s height, but they were twig thin. The rest of their bodies were proportional. They simultaneously pulled out their umbrella, as I had done. The trio sat at the counter together. I couldn’t make out who they were. Just then, lights turned on inside of their umbrella and I could see their faces. It was Lorca, Bunuel, and Tzara. The waiter came to them right away. I could hear them like they were right next to me, like they were in my head,
I stuck my fingers in my ears and pressed hard until my hands were both engulfed into my own head. I could still hear them talking, talking with the waiter about me. Even worse, I could see each individual word coming out of each man.
Their thoughts were being created from their mouths.
They all ordered cold coffee and stared my way when the waiter told them that I ordered mine hot. Their shunning looks punctured my eyes and I made contact.
The waiter made his way to my tiny booth. He set the cup of coffee on the table. It was glowing red with heat. I stared at it. It actually started to hurt my eyes.
“Are you going to drink it with your mouth or with your eyes, buddy?”
With the holes drilled into my eyes with their glares, I could’ve poured the liquid right in.
“It’s scolding! I think I’ll let it cool before I do anything.”
“You ordered it hot. So drink it hot. Drink your coffee sir. You can’t let it go to waste.”
“I’ll burn my-”
“Drink it.”
I pulled my hand out of my head, not even realizing that they were still there and wrapped them around the porcelain mug. I could feel the heat getting closer to my face. The coffee hit my lips. Lava ran down my throat and made my body glow with warmth. Lorca, Bunuel, and Tzara were now standing with the waiter around me.
“Is there a problem boys?” I asked them. “I don’t want trouble. I’m drinking the coffee, see?”
I took another sip. Tzara stepped forward. He knocked the cup from my hands and grabbed my arms. Lorca ripped the table from the tile and tossed it effortlessly. He grabbed my legs. Bunuel swiped my umbrella from the air. It had been floating above me keeping me dry. Theirs were floating as well.
The waiter took me from their grasps into his own. He carried me to the door with his hat hands. His other pair opened the door and hurled me out. As I hit the ground, the windows of the shop were thrown wide open and I sank down through the ground, through the sand, until I was lying down.
“That’s what happened doc. Any thoughts?”
“Many my friend, many.”
My psychiatrist called me “friend”. It was nice.
“The dream is a creator. It’s an instigator of action, and it’s capable of dialectically resolving the contradiction between desire and reality. In your dream, you were running from reality, I do believe. I know you my boy; you don’t have a passion for reality.”
He went on.
“The café. Dada’s was it? It symbolizes your involvement in the dada and surrealist movement, does it not? I believe it does. The thought of total liberty: Social, moral, and intellectual, and of course, thought is made in your mouth. Are you following?”
I nodded.
“I believe that the 3 men, Lorca, Bunuel, and Tzara, was it? They are friends of yours. Correct? Or so you thought. Lorca was your poet friend. Frederico Garcia Lorca.”
He said his name with a strange, humorous accent. It added some pizzazz to the words.
“And Bunuel, your film making friend was there and Tzara, the brains behind your little dada movement, your nihilist, chaotic, unserious, dark group.”
“All that you’re saying is true doc. And the waiter was-”
“Breton. Andre Breton.”
Again with the accent.
“That man did not like you very much, eh? He’s the reason you’re not part of your beloved group anymore. He expelled you. What a shame. You were doing good things.”
“Thank you.”
“So, you being kicked out of this café is a symbol of how Breton excommunicated you, if you will, from surrealism.”
“That sounds reasonable doc. I’m beginning to understand, this might take more sessions though.”
“As you wish. Brilliant dream my friend, brilliant.”
“Well, thank for your help. How much to I owe you for today?”
“This session’s free. You don’t pay when you’re dreaming.”
“Dreaming?”
He laughed.
“You’re still asleep my friend. After sinking through into the sand you landed here. Never did you wake up.”
My eyes opened. I was staring up at bright fluorescent lights. I couldn’t talk. But I could hear, and my vision was coming back.
“He’s coming to Gala, come see,” a voice said.
I saw my wife hovering over me. She touched my face.
“Sal honey, you’re at
I could feel my eyes getting weary again. I wanted to keep looking at her lovely face, but my beautiful wife was turning gray. Her voice was fading. I drifted back to sleep, doomed to live in my dreams for the rest of eternity. I didn’t mind though, I sure did like dreams.
“I’m afraid that we just lost him Mrs. Dali. I’m terribly sorry.”
“I love you Sal,” my wife whispered, knowing that I couldn’t hear her.
I could see her now though. She always looked so good in my dreams.
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