dreams in metaphor
If you wake up at another place at another time, could you wake up as a different person?
Except for the restructured, light brown blazer, I am every inch a dirt bag in my snug fitting, dark tattered pair of jeans, baby blue shirt and my golden rubber slippers.
I get up from what looks like a director’s chair to check where I am. Love the view. Gigantic glass paneled windows allow me to see everything around the Metro. I’m probably in the 40 something floor of this building…
An obscure painting hangs over the love seat on one side, a dark wooden arm chair is infront of my desk, a bookshelf with titles spanning psychology, marketing, politics and popular culture occupies a corner of this 20-ish sqm space.
Where am I? I have no idea.
Surely this is not UNDP or ADB or one of those IFIs whose people would cringe at the sight of my sunburned toes. There is creative passion and tranquil turbulence to the air so this is definitely not a government office.
A perspiring can of Coke light fights for space with a Mac laptop, in and out trays (both very full), a frame holding a black and white photo of me with (GASP!) some guy (whose identity and significance in my life I have no idea) in a goof pose and hmm…what’s this? Haruki Murakami. Kafka on Shores. From where the bookmark is, I am halfway done with the book. I wonder how long I’ve been trying to finish it.
I go back to the director’s chair. If I own this chair, could it be that I am a director? Am I finally Quentin Tarantino, (only I’m gorgeous and a girl)? I unconsciously nibble my left index finger.
A girl with smoky eyes, seriously dishelved hair and purple lipstick barges into what has been my space for the past 10 minutes and hands me an illustration board with some bordered graphics. Like a comics spread.
I spend three minutes studying what I realize is a story board for a giant softdrink company. Long story short, we’re launching a campaign that would bring consumers back to their first love—which is the carbonated, caramel colored fizzy in a bottle. Seems our client is getting a terrible beating from the green tea craze.
I scribble something on the story board and tell the girl, ”There’s a missing frame. I need the team at 5PM. Again. We can’t afford to lose this account.” The girl sighs, nods and heads for the door.
I turn to the laptop. A blank screen greets me. Surprise, surprise. I stare at the blank screen. I feel it stare back at me. Reminding me that I have to work. Daring me to go ahead and punch the freaking keys.
I put on some tunes. Rossini’s The Thieving Magpie starts to play.
As if by instinct, I begin adding the other necessary elements to the 30-seconder. My attention shifting from the story board to the keyboard. Frame after frame, the whole strip starts coming to life.
Just as Maksim is bringing the Flight of the Bumblebee to a climax, my door opens. It’s exactly 3:54 PM the digital display on the computer says.
“Honey! Congrats! You made it!” a woman in purple open toed pumps shrieks. “I made what? Do we get to retain that softdrink account?” I ask. “Honey, we will retain that account, but more than that, you are chosen to be the over all program director for this year’s Ad Congress! The bosses at ABP would like meet you tomorrow night.”
In my signature monotone, I answer “Great. I’m excited. Tomorrow, yes. Thank you…..” Noticing that the woman has yet to realize that I’ve ended the conversation, I add, “Tell those boys to make sure I’ll have sweetened camote fries for dessert tomorrow. And a mountain of trail mix if they plan an all-nighter.”
Maksim begins to play Exodus. “All right-y. You know, I’m beginning to think that the reason they got you for the job is because you don’t have the usual whims that artists ask to get their creative juices flowing,” says the woman in purple open toed pumps as she twists my door’s knob. (I wonder if purple is the theme color of this place.)
The smell of pizza when my door opened struck me hard. (The kids outside are having four seasons again.) I’m starving. I probably hadn’t had lunch. It’s four PM.
Err…not quite…
I open my eyes and reach for my cellphone.
It’s nine in the morning. In the real world.
I slap my forehead.
I thought of what Freud said. That our night selves always return to the wellspring of our deepest desires.
To translate, our dreams are what we long are present realities to become.
I often used to wonder why we dream and what dreams are for when they vanish the moment we open our eyes.
But the storyboard with a frame still missing, the scheduled meeting with the boys of ABP, the director’s chair, the purple lipstick and open toed pumps, the pizza… Could something as vivid and as clear cut be just a dream?
I’ve been out of school for two months now…could the dream be telling me to forget about ADB and UNDP?
The dream sure felt good. I’ve never felt so secure and so adept at what I was doing.
Could this be the writing on the wall?
Phone’s ringing.
"Yeah hi."
"We’re wondering if you’re still interested for the position of project associate at the United Nations Development Programme-Project Monitoring Office. Are you employed already?"
"I just graduated and I’m waiting for an appointment in the executive actually."
"You’re already accepted Ms. Ambat. No more interviews. We hope you could start working for us by the 17th."
Really? That’s great. Thanks. I’m dropping by your office tomorrow.
Sue so me for reigning supreme over loserdom.
