Tuesday, 11 September 2012
A Crying Child
Wendy is bubbly and happy today. She seems to have just gotten off work as she is still wearing her office power suit. The color is nothing flamboyant but the usual dark, safe color senior management typically encourage. Wendy is laughing and skipping along with her boyfriend. The scene looks like some Canon camera TV-ad featuring happy folk out to have a good time and capturing their moments in sun-drenched snapshots.
We pass a stall offering a fun-fair game. Players shoot water cannons from behind plexiglass portholes. The cannons have big round tubes that could fire tennis balls. We run into a room behind the stall and can see the people manning it. They throw water at us playfully and and we duck, laugh, and giggle some more.
We scamper out of the game tent to emerge by the edge of a cliff. The ground is grassy, the cliffs rocky and the ocean beyond blue and cleft with fleeting whitewash. It's all very windy and Wendy's curly, busy locks is blown about. Her bouncy hair reminds me of Keri Russell, that actress from the hit show, Felicity.
We stand by the cliff and think dreams.
I am building a mansion and has sketched the plan using diesel oil on a wall, not thick opaque paint. The wall itself has lines and huge squares which help make the drawing look symmetrical. I paint along the outline of these squares but prefer curved arches over the doorways. A young lady on my right does not agree and paints her own version with straighter lines to match.
We are now in a room. Somewhere outside, a play is going on. A child is crying and the sound gets worse. The cry is not that of hunger but one that is sad, very sad. -The desperate sort that tugs at the heartstrings and causes animals to flee.
My mom wanders in and asks what is going on. She gives me the impression that we are on vacation. I tell her to not worry and to get some rest. She's old and has a problem with her leg. Both of us are in a white room with a large bed. Strangely, the bed has no covers.
Some Arab men come in and speak with my mom. She hands over their neatly pressed laundry and accepts payment. The Arabs are happy and leaves a calling card. It is just a small leather tag shaped like an olive. On it is the name 'Shoob'. My mom surprises me with a name chop of her own and she stamps it on the tag and returns it to the Arab gentleman. Job done, it seems to imply.
I bring the gentlemen outside and notice that the house is a white beach-front unit. We have a drink on the patio deck and I then approach someone lounging in a deck chair on the beach. That woman is dressed in a one-piece bathing suit: dark with three colorful lines striping the side. I seem to remember her from a previous pool visit and offer her a drink. Her actions are languid and reminds me of a GP teacher from my JC days. Like that teacher, she also has her sunglasses on.
A loud noise makes our heads turn and we all look up towards the sky. Before I can see what it is, I wake.