The House of Decisions

Vague, fluid, as dreams are, but this much I remember: In New York City, on a bus to the airport, a weird bus, more like a bullet train. I did not want to go to the airport, but to an area between the East and West Village where there were some shops offering interesting food. I have dreamt of this place before. I was able to get off the bus/train before it left Manhattan, found myself in an open field of tall grass. A derelict building stood nearby. A brick building with a door sill about a foot or so above the ground, as in the older parts of Quebec City and other cities that must contend with deep snow. In the distance stood a big water tank covered with indecipherable grafitti. Approaching the building I saw a wooden sign over the door on the side, The House of Decisions. I pushed at the door and it opened to an empty room lit by sunlight from a window opposite. I thought of one of my sisters, the one who laments her indecisiveness. What a comical place for a photo of her, beneath that sign. But just as I was about to call her from wherever in my subconscious she resides, the scene turned to an art installation with a bald headed man sitting on a chair in front of the house, and well dressed people approaching from the field.

Hmm. An illusion that there exists a concrete place to go to determine the right course, the answer to our conundrums? Or did the building appear derelict and empty because decisions are ephemeral, only spaces we have passed through, brightened by the glare of impermanence.