perfidia

I am half asleep right now, but feel that I must should want to write this down before I forget. Another dream recalled:

I am on a cruise ship. On board, there are many other people my own age, but I am younger than I am now. It seems to be some type of singles’ cruise. I am wandering the decks, trying to find my room. I realize there is a camera crew following me. I see an attractive, blonde woman walking toward me. It is my first love. She informs me that we are on a reality television show, “Paradise Cruise 2.” I never heard of it, and feel confused about how I ended up on it. There seems to be a plotline injected into the editing now, as though I am watching myself on the show, but from a first person perspective in my own consciousness. I become self-conscious and slightly paranoid. The plotline involves an expectation that my first love and I will hook up, but there is an Italian man who is competing with me for her affections.

Suddenly, I am with a stunning, tanned brunette woman. Another contestant. Sometimes she speaks in an Australian accent, but in a thick Eastern European accent at others. She has a strong, outgoing air about her. She smells like orange blossoms. I feel completely at ease with her. Enthralled. Excitedly captivated. We are in her cabin on the cruise ship. We form some type of alliance, the details of which I am unclear—having just been plopped down into the middle of the television series. We stay up late talking, laughing, and sharing our selves. I feel consumed by a combination of passion and security. We fall in love. We make love.

In the morning, I wake to find myself alone in her bed. I step out of her cabin, and look down the deck’s hallway. I see her at the end of the hall. She is kissing the Italian man. I feel confused, baffled. I spend the rest of the day looking for her in a fit of jealous rage. I spend weeks looking for her on the ship, which is as impossibly large as a metropolitan city. I find a deck that has been fashioned to resemble city streets. An entertainment district of sorts. I wander down several alleys. I run into an old friend, KD, and tell him what had happened with the brunette woman. He tells me, “That aint the game, man.”

I am confused. I ask, “You mean The Game, as in Neil Strauss’ book?”

He seems both indifferent to and offended by my question. He walks off. It seems like he has invited me somewhere; to a coffee shop. I feel like he has some sort of answer. I suspect he knows where the brunette is. I try to follow him, but he has vanished. I become lost in a maze of alleyways. I start trying random doors on blank, non-descript brick buildings covered in soot. Finally, one of them is unlocked.

I open the door, and look inside. There is a dark hallway with low ceilings, blacklights, and abstract, dark blue neon art works. It is like a tunnel. The air is moist and heavy. I walk down the hall, until I come to a three-way intersection. Down each of the tunnels, I can sense activity, and see a cold glow of fluorescent lighting. I look for signs indicating what is down each of the tunnels, but there are only odd-looking neon art works hung above the entrances. I cannot make any sense of their meaning. I choose one randomly, and walk down it. It leads to a dimly lit, circular bar. I walk in. The room falls silent. All the patrons turn their eyes toward me. I become nervous, but begin looking for the brunette in every booth and group of people there. I am determined to find out why she used me, what she gained in doing so, as well as to win her over.

I cannot find her in the bar. I feel dejected and defeated. I sit down at a booth. My first love is up on a stage, preparing for some type of performance. I begin telling my sob story to anyone who will listen around me. A crowd of new patrons begins to gather for the performance. My old friend, KD, shows up again. My first love joins us at our booth. She brings several of her attractive fellow performers with her. They sit down at the booth. We all talk about my frustration in being unable to find the brunette. KD is counseling me with a distant, off-putting persona.

Suddenly, I spot the brunette across the room. She is headed in our direction. I feel excruciating anxiety. KD tells me, “The Game.”

“I’m preselected,” was my response.

The brunette walks near the table, apparently on her way somewhere else. As she is passing she notices me, smiles, and says, “Hi, Bomarzo.”

I remain silent, but she does not notice, having not waited for any response to her greeting. KD congratulates me. I feel horribly fearful that I have made an incredible mistake. I ache to run after her. I had been searching for her too long to just let her walk away again. I become despondent. I enter into a dysphoric mania, demanding that I am going to kill myself by drinking.

I walk to the bar, but they do not have some type of rare drink that I am looking for. The bartender laughs, telling me that no place serves what I am asking for, and that it is illegal because “it kills people.” It is a poison. I man at the bar elbows me to get my attention. He tells about a hidden door at the back of the room. I go to the location, and find that there is another tunnel behind the door. I have to crawl to get through the tunnel. When I reach the end of the tunnel, I enter into a small kitchen. It is a mess, appearing to have been ransacked. There is an old woman behind a small wet bar. I ask for the poison. She starts looking for a specific bottle, and enlists my help. We are unable to find it. While we continue to look, we hear someone coming down the tunnel. We panic, fearing that it is law enforcement. I feel tremendously guilty and ashamed.

A person enters into the room from the tunnel. It is the stunning brunette. She is crying and relieved to have found me. I console her. She explains the details of the plotline from the previous episodes of the reality series. I feel irrevocably injured emotionally in having been used as a pawn. I profess my love for her, explaining my entire relationship history. She is very taken aback my by speech. She become enthralled by what I have told her. We kiss. I feel blissful, but there is no resolution. She speaks, but I feel confused by words. I am uncertain what is going on. I feel lost.

I wake up. It is raining outside. A Cuban song from the Dexter soundtrack is running through my head. I have not listened to that album in at least a month. I have been listening to it while writing this journal entry, and have identified the song. It is Alberto Dominguez’s “Perfidia,” which translates to “faithless, treacherous, or false,” performed by the Mambo All-Stars. It is the song that is playing in the night club during the “Paris” flashback scene in Casablanca. I feel exhausted, groggy, and irritable.