The International Writers Magazine: Dreamscapes

Purgatorio • Oswaldo Jimenez “night, circling opposite the sun, was moving   together with the Scales that, when the length   of dark defeats the day, desert night's hands;”       Dante

Here’s what I remember: The lights were on. I was standing on the ground floor at the foot of a staircase staring at a door at the top of the staircase....waiting.

I went up the staircase, one foot in front of the other, counting each step. I counted each step as each foot landed on each step: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Fourteen? I’d never counted the steps before. For what reason? There’s really no reason to know how many steps are in a staircase; not in your own house, much less in  a dream house. The house in my dream felt familiar. FELT familiar, not LOOKED familiar. The house in the dream felt familiar, so did the staircase.

I don’t know the reason I went up the staircase. I don’t know why I counted each step as I went up; then again, is there a reason for anything in a dream?

Fourteen steps. The fourteenth step was a narrow wedge, not really a step. It wasn’t as wide as the other steps. When I reached the top of the staircase, I stood with my nose an inch from the door at the top of the staircase, I reached for the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed the door open. When I  released the doorknob, it squealed.

I walked into the landing area and was blinded blinded by the blazing light from a 200-watt light bulb hanging from the low ceiling. Too much light for such a small space. I was blinded by the blazing light while standing in a small rectangular room with five doors: one leading to a bathroom, another to a closet, another to a bedroom, another to a second bedroom, and yet another leading to the ground floor.

I shut the door leading to the ground floor. All the doors were shut. The doors, walls, carpeting, were bright white. The extreme whiteness of the confining space blazed under the 200-watt light bulb hanging from the low ceiling. 

It was too bright!

I was blinded by the brightness. I stood in a small rectangular room with five doors: one leading to a bathroom, another to a closet, another to a bedroom, another to a second bedroom, and yet another leading to the ground floor. 

It was a kind of limbo.

As I stood in the landing area, a feeling of claustrophobia overtook me. It was severe. Five menacing doors surrounded me. I slid open the door leading to the bathroom. It disappeared into the wall. I pressed the light switch in the bathroom. Instantly, three 15-watt bulbs came on atop the vanity mirror over the sink. The lights came on in the bathroom; the lights went off in the landing area. 

What a relief!

I was relieved......I became calmer......I felt better....I could breath. 

I opened the door leading to the master bedroom, the room where I sleep. I wasn’t asleep. I reached for the brassy doorknob, twisted it, pushed the door open and  stepped into a blaze of darkness. I was blinded by the darkness. The darkness felt comforting, though,  after having been blinded by the blazing bright from a 200-watt  light bulb hanging from the ceiling of the landing. The bedroom felt cold, a crisp cold, a palpable cold, an intense cold, a very crisp,  palpable, intense cold. Like Antarctica.

Like an antarctic pool.

The cold took my breath away. I shivered as I shut my eyes to get my bearings. A vision appeared in the darkness of my mind: a memory from the time when as a child I fell into a well. My heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second. I took a deep breath and swallowed a mouthful of water; tasted the mud, the algae. I was drowning...I opened my eyes and found myself standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up at the door at the top of stairs leading into the landing on the second floor. 

Once again, I walked up the stairs, one step at the time. Again, I counted the steps, and again, I was met by a door. Again, I reached for the brassy door knob. This time, however, I saw my reflection on the shiny brass doorknob. Very unusual, I thought. I saw my hand looming large as I reached for the knob, my body was reflected, getting smaller, while my hand grew larger, as if the brassy doorknob was a fun house mirror.  I turned the handle and went into the landing area. I was met by the same brightness from the 200-watt light bulb hanging from the ceiling. I was surrounded by the menacing doors. I thought: It’s only a dream, I’ll wake up in my bed and it’ll  all be over.

I  played along.

Playing along meant walking up the steps, over and over. For what reason? I didn’t know. I just knew I had to open the pocket door that lead to the bathroom; turn the light on; open the bedroom door, and walk into the cold dark bedroom. 

This I did. I did it over and over, and over, and over, and over.  

And over, and over, with few variations. For instance, at some point, after I had made it to the landing area and was standing under the very bright light surrounded by the five unopened doors; before I reached for the pocket door leading to the bathroom, and before I turned the lights on and opened the bedroom door, and walked into the cold dark room, I heard the distinctive noise of my stomach rumbling. The rumbling was steady, determined, it rumbled like thunder in the distance. It went on with a shallow, churning noise, that ended with a meowing noise like the cry of a kitten. Just then, again, I stood at the bottom of the steps looking up:

Looking up 
at the door
at the top 
of the stairs
from below.

I went up, counting each step. Same number of steps; same brightness; same number of doors; same cold dark room. I shut my eyes and waited. I waited in the cold. I waited in the dark, knowing, instinctively, that the moment my eyelids lifted I would be awake in my bed. I kept my eyes shut an waited a while longer. Darkness: self imposed darkness, darker than the bedroom, darker than the dream. 

When I opened my eyes. I was still in the dark. I was still dreaming. I was still in the dream. In the dark bedroom; only now, I could detect--not see, but detect--the outlines of furniture in the room. I detected the outlines of my bed, the walls, the dresser, the lamp. However, nothing was its normal place. Someone had come into the room and rearranged everything in the room. 

I was still dreaming. I was still in the dream. I pressed the light switch and found myself  back at the bottom of the steps, looking at the door at the top of the stairs.

This was a difficult dream with few variations. What remained constant, was the fact that I was in a house that felt like my real house. Of course, there were some very subtle additions to the experience. For instance, the churning of the stomach, the reflection of my figure on the doorknob; shutting of the eyes; detecting outlines of furniture in the bedroom. Those details were becoming more, and more, and more constant. I don’t know how long the dream lasted. I know it started again when it eded. It started with me standing at the bottom of the stairs.
 
I don’t usually remember my dreams. Today I decided to write down the dream. 
I decided to write down what I could remember. Here’s what I remember: The lights were on. I was standing on the ground floor at the foot of a staircase staring at a door at the top of the staircase. Waiting.

I was in my house. My house is a two story cottage I share with my family. I think it was night time because the lights were on. I was standing at the foot of a staircase. There is a stair case in my real house. The house in the dream felt like my real house. It felt like the house I share with my family. The staircase felt like the one in my house.  I went up: one foot after the other, counting the steps in my mind. I don’t know for what reason, then again, is there a reason for anything in a dream?
I counted the steps as each foot landed on a step. I don’t remember now if there were thirteen or fourteen steps in my real house.  

Thirteen or fourteen steps? 

When I reached the last step, I reached for the door knob, twisted it and pushed the door open. The moment I walked through the door I was nearly blinded by the light coming from the light fixture on the ceiling. I closed the door behind me. I was in the vestibule area that leads to my bedroom. There were five doors in the vestibule. All the doors were shut. The doors, the carpet and walls were white, their blazing whiteness blinded me.

I shut my eyes. 

When I opened my eyes, I was back at the bottom of the steps. I went up the steps. I opened the door. I turned off the bright lights. I turned on the bathroom lights. I opened the bedroom door and walked into the darkness of the bedroom. I shut the door behind me and shut my eyes tightly.  Just then, I thought: “I’m asleep.” When I opened my eyes, I was in the dark, in my bed. Not my real bed, I noticed, this bed was very small. I barely fit in it.  I felt the softness of the mattress under me. I felt a pillow under my head. I wanted to move, but I could not move. A curious thing: the ceiling was very close to my face. It was much too close to my face, and the bed felt far too narrow for my body, but it felt cozy. I couldn’t move.

I’m sleeping, dreaming, I thought, that’s why I can’t move. My body is being protected by my brain to keep me from sleep walking. 

I shut my eyes to open them. 

When I opened my eyes, it was dark. It was very dark. I did not feel cold. I did not hear any sounds. I did not feel anything. There was only darkness. I didn’t hear any sounds. No churning of the stomach, no breathing, nothing! It was all dark; silent, unsettling. It was so dark I could not tell which way was up, which way was down, which way was sideways. I was floating in darkness. I was not in the bedroom, anymore. I was not in my house, I was not at the bottom of the stairs, I was not in the vestibule. I floated in the dark.

I shut my eyes and opened them, blinking in slow motion. I was back at the bottom of the steps. I went up the steps. I opened the door. I turned off the bright lights. I turned on the bathroom lights. I opened the bedroom door and walked into the darkness of the bedroom. I shut the door behind me, and shut my eyes tightly.  Just then, I thought, “I’m asleep.” When I opened my eyes, I was in the dark, in my bed. Not my real bed, I noticed. This bed was a very small. I barely fit in it.  I felt the softness of the mattress under me. I felt a pillow under my head. I wanted to move, but could not move. I was lying face-up, nose-to-ceiling. The bed was far too narrow for my body. 

I shut my eyes fast to open them slowly.

Once again, I walked up the stairs one step at the time. Again, I counted the steps, and again, I was met by a door. I reached for the brassy door knob. This time, however, I saw myself reflected on the brass knob of the door; very unusual, I thought. I saw my hand looming large, and my body getting smaller, as if the brassy doorknob was a fun house mirror.  I turned the handle and went into the same landing area, surrounded by the same five doors. I was met by the same brightness from the 200-watt light bulb hanging from the ceiling. I felt annoyed. It’s only a dream, I thought. I know I will wake and be in my bed. 

I shut my eyes hard, so that I could, open them to find myself, either at the bottom of the steps, or in my bedroom. I opened my eyes, I was still in the dark. I was still dreaming. I was still in the dream. In the dark bedroom; only now, I could detect--not see, but detect--the outlines of furniture in the room. I detected the outline of my bed, the walls, a dresser, a lamp. However, nothing was how I had arranged it. Someone had come into the room and rearranged everything in the room, including the books on my night table and shelves. I detected on the dresser two miniature knights on horseback jousting, flanking a small plastic fish with an alabaster flower in its mouth, I didn’t see this, I felt it.

Just then, again, I was looking up at the door at the top of the stairs, from below. 

The lights were on. I was standing on the ground floor at the foot of a staircase staring at a door at the top of the staircase.....waiting.

© Oswaldo Jimenez March 2013
artzineonline@gmail.com

Key
Oswaldo Jimenez
There’s really no way to prepare for the death of a parent. When it happens, it happens when you least expect it. When it happens, you grieve, but you feel relieved. Guilty, but relieved. Eventually, guilt subsides and the chore of setting things right begins

Watt
Oswaldo Jimenez
Last Sunday, I was driven in a white stretch-limousine, a very long, long, limo, to the home of a wealthy individual whose estate is surrounded by Sycamore trees in a peninsula bounded by the waters of the Long Island Sound

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