Where the Bitches Are

 “Imagine a train, Dr. Komorov, a train on which a small gray snake has become a passenger. It must have made its way in at the last stop through one of the open doors, and is now making its way along the overhead compartments while the train is moving, a train which has only one passenger.”

“What kind of train is it?”

“The kind where the whole inside of the car is lit by dim florescent lighting at night and the overhead luggage compartments are made of wire that runs the length of the car, and the passengers sit on benches.”

“That doesn’t sound like any train I’ve ever heard of. You’re describing a subway.”

“Look is this your imagination or mine?”

“What kind of snake?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What kind of snake is it? There are no snakes in Winter.”

“It’s about half a meter long, and it makes its way slowly along the overhead compartments in the same direction the train is moving.”

“Does it represent something evil?”

“What? No, the snake is a metaphor for what connects the mind operating the train to the passenger who is just sitting there.”

“And all three are asleep?”

“The passenger is, that is what keeps the train moving.”

“And what am I in all this? An omnipotent observer?”

“No let’s say you are somewhere else. Where was I?”

“I think you’re describing a situation where you were aware of your own dream, perceiving your conscious self and the subconscious mind as separate entities.”

“Yes, as long as nothing disturbs me the passenger isn’t roused and the snake is free to climb the rail until the train reaches its destination. That is the key.”

“Sounds like some sort of math problem. How long has it taken you to figure this out?”

“Twenty years.”

Dr. Komorov leaned back in his chair.

“So it starts this same way every time? And the images passing in the windows are places you are able to choose arbitrarily?”

“Yes and they always pass by in the same order. I’ve seen the Winter Palace in the time of the Tsars with hundreds of lords and ladies dancing.”

“What about the strange building and the girl who watches you from the water? Tell me about those.”

“I don’t like those dreams they’re just very common. An octagonal stone building that stands on a hillside has been looking at me my entire life. It has a carved human eye a meter wide, the pupil is made of black glass and there’s an inscription beneath it. The girl is from France in the time of Monet; the pond is the one in his paintings. I think she is his daughter. I’ve been seeing her since I was younger than she is and now I’m old enough to be her father. But those aren’t useful dreams.”

“And what is it that makes a dream useful? You said they’ve given you certain abilities.”

“Yes, have you ever had a spiritual or mystical experience in your life?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well let’s say you had just a small one, a moment of duress where you had preternatural strength, precognition or even heard the voice of God. Whatever it was is still preserved somewhere in your mind and can be revisited through introspection, all you have to do to harness it is to go back and live in that moment.”

“To achieve what exactly?”

“Travel through time, commune with the dead, assist ourselves. I had a conversation with my older self in which he told me a specific date that would be significant to me. Now what’s to prevent me from having that same dream again and passing on whatever information I choose? You know what the source of wisdom is don’t you?”

“Yes, experience.”

“Not anymore, you see I cheated! Do you understand what that means? You could potentially go back to a time before you were born and name yourself, or suspend time in your own thoughts, a step toward becoming a universal being!”

“Prove it to me.” the doctor responded.

The patient reached behind his back, took out a red, ripe apple and placed it on the desk in front of him.

“You’ll never guess where I got this from.” he said smugly.

“The cafeteria?” Dr. Komorov picked it up and looked at it.

“NO, that is not a regular apple! That is a dream apple, I brought it over with me!”

“I have no doubt you brought it with you.” he put it down again after brushing it off on his sleeve, although he couldn’t think of why he did that. “I thought you said you can bring objects from the dream world into reality.”

“Yes it takes several days just to prepare that one demonstration. You see not every dream is practical, I have to ride the train to an actual place I can go to in the waking world. One is a little overgrown clearing in the woods where I used to camp as a boy. It takes me four hours to drive back there each time, and a row of apples is there waiting for me on a bench.”

The doctor looked at him not knowing what to say to this.

“Aren’t you concerned spending too much time in this double life might have some unforeseen consequence?” he asked. “What if you couldn’t get back again?”

“It’s possible, but the point is we are able to create things with our minds. Anyone is capable of it, they just don’t know because their conscious self has no mechanism, no vehicle to reveal it to them.”

Dr. Komorov got up out of his chair and turned away from him, deep in thought.

“So what do you think?” the patient demanded.

“I’d like to try an experiment.” he went over to the bookcase and selected five books from the shelf, placing them on the table in front of him.

“I want you to choose the ones you like best, one at a time, without taking the time to think about it.”

He reached out and selected Tolstoy first, then the others leaving Franz Kafka’s The Castle behind.

“Why not that one?” the doctor asked curiously.

“I’m not sure.”

Dr. Komorov then walked over to the back of the old classroom where some dusty paintings were leaning against the wall.

“Now the same thing.” he said, holding out each one for him to see.

The patient chose a fantastical piece by Hieronymus Bosch depicting lost souls in Hell.

“What do you like about it?”

“It’s creepy and different I suppose.” he answered. “I enjoy things like that.”

“But not this one?” he held up a painting by the same artist showing Christ crossing over into the underworld, with a strange vase-like tower in the background surrounded by a raging river.

“No not that one.”

“And this?” he held up a famous Medieval portrait the patient knew was called Portrait of a Lady but he couldn’t recall the artist. The woman looked like a nun, although she wasn’t a nun.

The doctor put them back again.

“You have a fear of certain buildings and of women.” he stated. “I would even say your fear of women has almost been eclipsed by your first fear by now. Do you know why that is?”

“No, I don’t.” the patient shook his head.

“Tell me about your dream where you are the most comfortable. The one where you’re running in a park at night?”

“It’s just a running dream.” he shrugged. “My legs are pumping and it’s twilight like it is now.” He glanced over at the windows.

“What do you like about it?”

“The solitude, the quiet, the trees…”

“Can you draw a picture of this place for me?” Dr. Komorov placed a clipboard in front of him.

The patient hastily sketched a serpentine walking path with a footbridge going over a small pond and a stand of tall, narrow trees like Russian cypress on a hill in the background.

“What is behind those trees?”

“An abandoned building, a Catholic convent that was once a boarding school. But I only know that from when I was very young.”

“And what did they do to you there?” the doctor demanded.

“I’d rather not say.” the patient frowned.

“Well as a psychiatrist I would call those trees a ‘mental windbreak’ of sorts.” he mused.

“It was a long time ago and I’ve put it behind me. That’s wise for one’s peace of mind isn’t it?”

“Yes but there’s an interesting coincidence.” the doctor walked over to the windows. “The park where you used to run is the one down there isn’t it?”

The patient got up and stood next to him, looking down the misted hillside at the path below.

“Those trees were removed years ago.” the doctor said. “This building is the old convent where you went to school. In fact it’s still run by the same nuns!”

A line of hideous black-swathed hunchbacked creatures came tapping violently into the room, striking the floor with heavy aluminum yardsticks. They were in their seventies when he was a boy which would put them in their hundreds now. Their gap-toothed faces seemed to have lost every vestige of humanity as they closed in around him.

The patient spun around and saw through the windows the train that brought him here was leaving without him. He grabbed a chair and hurled it to break the glass; at the same moment feeling a sharp crack against the back of his head that sent him reeling to the floor.

“Doctor Komorov!” he pleaded, but the doctor was on the train waving back at him.

“I think some of them may need a bath!” he said gleefully. “Do you know how long an eternity I’ve been trapped in this place? I didn’t know your world was a real destination we can go to until you inspired me! Das vidaniya, dreamer!”

The train shunted into the mist and out of sight.