May 26, 2001  □  Washington, D.C.

The festival is just about over as I arrive at the Smithsonian museum. Most of the exhibits are being broken up, and I am obviously too late for the refreshments. There is a great deal of bread left over, which doesn’t tempt me, but I do manage to snag some shrimp—somewhat dry with clinging bits of rice, but better than nothing.

Only two displays seem to be going strong. One is a series of short films in the style of famous paintings. I watch the last two films. The first of them begins with a Russian peasant scene, painted in a primitive style. Then the scene comes to life for a few minutes: This is serious animation, not live action. Each frame must have been individually painted—admirable! It makes me think of the famous animated film of Mondrian’s “Broadway Boogie Woogie,” which I saw decades ago, but instead of music, there is dialogue (in English, oddly). The second film is almost the same, the painting by the same artist, perhaps. I have never before seen either of the paintings, but they remind me of the work of a Siberian artist whose name I have forgotten.

The second still-active display is outdoors, in the sea. One can view it from a sort of balcony of the museum, from which a ramp leads steeply down hill right into the water. Posted on a gate at the top of the ramp are four pages from a newspaper containing a long article describing the display. The newspaper explains that this is an engineering research project to mine energy from the teamed action of burrowing fish. Sure enough, I see multiple blue-striped fish, round as dinner plates and sharp as knives, cutting in unison into the bottom of a transparent and shallow sea, as if they were trained in water ballet. They simultaneously disappear, leaving cut marks in the sand, and then emerge, seconds later, in a round leaping motion out of the water. 

The project is directed by a tall bearded engineer who has managed to corral the fish into square sectors, bordered by neat plantings of green seaweed. I try to concentrate long enough to finish the newspaper article, but am too distracted by the sight of the wheeling fish. I run down the ramp and wade into the water, and it is a long time before I have my fill of the beautiful scene.

Returning to the museum, I glance out of a window where an elevated railroad track runs right next to the building, on the far side from the sea. I can hear the sound of a train, but instead of the train, I see a giant alligator, the length of a train, waddling and sliding along the track. I’m worried but not yet frightened. I say to myself, this can’t be real—don’t panic, Joan—you’re just dreaming. But I don’t seem to be dreaming. I review the past few hours and find them coherent, not dream-like. I feel my body; it has weight and texture—nothing dream-like about it. I even pinch myself, the traditional foolproof test. I decide, with conviction, that I am not dreaming.

I am on the third floor, looking down into a large domed rotunda, standing next to one of the fat round pillars that reach up from the marble floor to the ceiling above me. There is no railing. I jump or fall over the edge and watch the pillar speeding by as I fall. I’m dead, I think—it’s not much further. This is my last moment on earth.

But suddenly, just yards from the bottom, I slow down and land gently. I am not dead—I’m sure of that—but again I ask, am I dreaming? The cold marble floor seems hard and real. Everything is solid, substantial, unyielding. I try to fly, as I have done in lucid dreams. I am stuck to the ground. The bitter conclusion is that I am not dreaming, but I am surely losing my mind. 

I need help. Asking directions from strangers, I arrive at a hospital emergency room. It is just past three o’clock. Two other patients are ahead of me in line, a man and a woman. The man is treated brusquely, dismissively, by the two staff members behind the counter. I can tell that they are having too much fun. 

The woman is next. She has two black handbags. The attendants search both, and clearly don’t believe any of her answers to their questions. I suggest that she ask for another attendant. Someone else comes—a man—but he is even worse. He assumes that one of the black handbags belongs to me, and asks me about the contents of the bag, books, as it turns out. He cannot believe I have read them, and in a mocking voice entertains the others by reading aloud the scholarly titles. In fact I have read them, even though they are not mine. I protest. Whether or not I have read these books is irrelevant, but these people are abusing me as well as the other woman, and they are not doing their jobs. I want to leave, but I can’t abandon her.

To distract the man, I show him my own bag. The three employees turn their full attention to me. “Who is the man you had sex with on the beach last night?” I deny I had sex last night, and admit ruefully that I wish I had—an attempt at humor, but a mistake. 

They turn mean. “Then why is there sand on your shoes?” Without waiting for an answer, they accuse me—in advance—of lying. “This is a hospital. We have ways of finding out.”

I reply that they can look, but they will find nothing.

Immediately, a gynecological examining table—complete with stirrups—is wheeled in. I object to being examined in the waiting room, which by now has filled up with other patients. They answer that my back will be to them; they will see me only from behind.

But I am not asked to climb onto the table. Instead, they want to know how I will pay if I am admitted. I reply that I no longer want to be admitted. It’s 8 p.m.; I have been here for five hours and they have not even asked my name! No one has offered to help me with my problem—in fact they don’t even know what my problem is!

In response, I am led into a room where I will be interviewed in a small cubicle, one of eight cubicles, side by side. The interviewer is a young man, the first friendly face I have seen in this place. His first question: “Will you have sex with me?”

It is a test! I promptly say “No!”

And then: “Well, not exactly ‘no’; it’s not impossible. It’s just that I don’t know you.”

He says, “Don’t feel so sorry for yourself. The night before last, Gov. North was at a party next door to you, and he was interested. Of course he’s a known lech, and he didn’t pursue it, but that proves that someone else could have. Why did you lie?”

I think, I am crazier now than I was at the Smithsonian.

When I wake, instead of feeling relief I am upset by the utter failure of my dreaming-tests. From now on my life will be filled with uncertainty.