Illusion

Outside my window is an owl perched on the corner of the roof overlooking the pool area. I notice him for the first time, as I draw open the curtain to welcome the morning. I can’t tell right away that the owl is not real. But when I do, it makes me think about the illusion of things: what I see outside my window--the pool acquiescing to winter, with its thick rubber blanket stretched taut and secured to hooks at even intervals around the perimeter; the white plastic deck chairs stacked neatly under the awning; my own nondescript room here in a hotel an hour or so north of the Thruway. It is autumn outside the hotel, a crisp fragrant day in a quaint Victorian town. The owl is unmoving, vigilant. Still, he keeps the birds at bay so that summer bathers here in this equestrian town can float undisturbed along the surface of the water, as they go about their pretend lives…

Last night we walked down Main Street, past graceful, majestic buildings—all that history, the owl undisclosed in the dark—to have dinner. The leaves fluttered lazily down to the sidewalk and crunched beneath our substantial shoes. It was a mild night, and I felt happy. Felt the stars in the sky—and didn’t want to know about the science of it, the illusion of that radiant showcase. Their light having burned out years ago; what we see not real. As I walked down the street with him on a singular night in October, I was happy. I knew that, and the stars, to be true…

I leave the owl to his perch, and turn away from the window. I shower, dress, and make my way down the carpeted hotel hallway to the early morning session. This is my second conference in less than a week, and I am inspired. This morning is a panel discussion on creativity. Chairs are arranged in a circle, and I take my seat. Look around at the other people assembled here on a spirited autumn morning in this graceful town. What are they expecting? I tug at the hem of my dress, cross my legs, flip through the conference program.

The first woman on the panel asks us to recall our first memory, and she gives us a moment to do so. I remember mine: a 3-year-old girl pushing her doll in a baby carriage along the street—and the rhythmic unfolding of the sidewalk cracks as I walked and walked and walked. I do not recall getting lost, or the hysteria of my mother trying to find me. I remember only the mesmerizing unfolding of those sidewalk cracks… And to this day, I love the sound of car tires moving over the sectioned highway, and the rhythmic click of a train moving along the tracks. But as I recall my first memory here in this morning session, I also wonder about the reliability of it, the truth of it. I wonder if it is something I’ve constructed through my mother’s repeated telling of this story over the years? And then the panel discussion leader confirms this. Tells us that memory is collective. That other than what we dream, everything else is constructed, is collective. And I take this to mean that nothing is real, which I don’t like being reminded of.

The second woman on the panel talks about creativity as construction. Frames it all very theoretically, and by the time she finishes talking, I no longer feel I can define creativity. Beside me, a colleague suggests that creativity is not “other,” says that manipulating language in our everyday conversation is an act of creativity. And it disappoints me to hear that… Many years ago, a fortune teller told me that I had an overwhelming desire to communicate, and that if I did not find a way to do that, my life would be one of despair. He found all that in the quiet palm of my hand on a warm afternoon in summer. I knew right away that he had spoken the truth. That words—mine or yours—make things real for me. Keep me from feeling so alone…

A few seats down, a large woman sleeps. I watch as she folds her arms over her substantial belly and leans in as if to listen to the panel discussion more intently, to understand each nuanced point. But instead her heavy lids close—and I wonder if she dreams, and in doing so, participates in the only thing that is real…

The other night he awakens with a start. Gets up and goes to the bathroom, and comes back quietly, lifting the blankets and easing himself back into where it is warm, where it is safe. I ask if he is okay. He says no, says that he has had a bad dream in which he was crucified—nails driven through his long, slender hands. I resist the first reaction, which is to marvel at the hubris of such a dream, but he is trembling still, rattled. Do you know who did that to you? I ask. And he tells me. And he is still shaken, still trying to erase the memory of it—and of the old Jewish man at the end of the dream who yells at him about proving the existence of God… I don’t remember ever having a dream like that. And perhaps that’s because I like my illusions, like the make-believe world that I am creating—right now--under the watchful eye of that owl perched just beyond the hotel window.
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