The Dream of Visitation to the Oblong Princess of Alchemy

            Awake.  A long and quiet hallway stretches before me.  I have never been here before but somehow I know it is the mansion of a Princess, one whom I know by the name of Kimia.  It has been three months since I’ve seen her, but upon the delivery of my humble drawing of her as a birthday gift, I receive in return a special invitation to be her guest.  The voyage across the country to her palatial home seemed to take no more than an instant - a mere closing of the eyelids.  At the end of the hallway there is a painting that I also recognize.  I am in the painting, which strangely sways from one corner of the frame to the other.  I am looking into the distance, satisfied.  My back faces the eye of the artist, whose rendering consists of sharp and contrasting colors layered over each other gracefully.
            “That painting...”  I whisper.
            “I made it for you, remember?”
            Behind me stands the Princess herself.  We exchange hugs and she excitedly leads me through the fragmented hallways of the mansion, as they expand and contract in fluidly distorted dimensions.  I am in her painting.  Mirrored images join real ones, she reaches for doorways in mid air, extends her arms through the baroque furniture to produce keys and dives into liquid walls and small passageways that turn the entire building upside down on occasion.  She shows me another painting of hers, André cleaning his boots, sitting on the side of the porch.  The mud by his feet, permitted by the artists’ mastery of chemical composition, merges with the forestation of the background.  I am reminded of our travels through those distant lands.
            “Where is Donesh!?”
            “Here he comes, down the stairs.”
            A little creature hops in my direction.  The Prince, it seems, has shrunk to the size of a small animal.  The oriental features of his face are still recognizable, yet his head is wide and pale, of catlike proportions.  It is Prince Donesh, I realize, even though in appearance he is of a completely different species now.  He jumps into my arms and sits on my shoulder.  I think of asking him if he’s made any improvements to his slingshot design, but I am not sure he can speak to me.  I look at Kimia and only now realize that she too, is transformed.  Her figure is elongated, resembling one of her self-portraits.
            Kimia walks me past her parents’ bedroom.  These are different people, not her parents but those whom she pictures in her paintings: people with vibrant colored skins, unnatural.  They speak to me, gesturing neurotically.  I close my eyes, try and remember what her parents really look like, and they turn back to normal in front of me.
            “Luis, how are you? Kimia has said wonderful things about you.” They smile.
            We leave the house together, and even though it is eight hours away, her driver takes us to Boston instantly.  Just before the store is closing, she tells me to try on a certain jacket and a pair of pants.  As I am sliding my arms into the sleeves, I notice the fabric of the clothing exudes a subtle noise.  It is playing music, streams of it floating up into my ears.  She explains to me how it makes use of a great new technology that I don’t understand.
            We walk around the city all night, watch two movies in a row, eat at a diner that doesn’t play music, and I watch her paint a homeless man on the street.  She strokes the paper in front of her gently.  The lines unwind like a computerized diagram, in perfect harmony with the geometry of the old man and his surroundings.  Kimia has a concentrated expression on her face.  Her eyebrows slant downward and her lips are tightly pressed.  She is a Princess, she taught herself to be an artist.
            “My name,” she says, while still painting, “you remember what it means, right?”
            “Yes.”
            “It comes from the study of alchemy.  Scientists who believed they could change lead into gold were in search of the perfect combination of elements which would yield this transformation: Kimia.”
            “Cool,” I reply.
            I start telling her about my cat.  About how it caught on fire, and while in flames, found its way to a sink full of water, emerging out of it with golden fur and black stripes, like a Tiger.  It’s getting early, we’ve walked all night and start forgetting what we’re doing.  I try and say goodbye.  A phone rings.  Asleep.

 

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