Vivid dreaming took me to a rooftop Japanese restaurant called Happiness last night. A petite, radiant woman of indeterminate age wearing a brocade kimono emerged from white and gold doors to greet us. A carved, painted hair pin held her black tresses in a wavy twist.
“I am so sorry, but there will a short wait before I may seat you.” she said. Her voice was low-pitched, calm.
I noticed several tables off to the side, overlooking a jewel-like cityscape.
“May we sit there while we wait?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
Buck and I, and the two young children with us, settled ourselves into comfortable chairs. We couldn’t hear a sound from the full restaurant nearby. It felt like we were the only four people in the universe, the sparkling city below and bright sky above an endless buffet set before us. Even now, I feel the soft breeze.
Soon — I suppose soon, although I had no sense of time passing at Happiness — silent servers with secret smiles brought an array of small plates with delicious food. I never knew what I was eating, only that it seemed to me like miniature works of edible art.
Other guests arrived. They, too, sat outside. I never saw any guest go into or emerge from the tall white and gold doors.
Conversations intermingled, and sometimes new people would join our table to talk for a while. The talk was a rounded murmur, easy on the ears.
Two servers glided by like dancers with a shiny #8 washtub filled with a simulated ocean scene and three whole poached salmon arranged en gelée as though they were undulating through water. I couldn’t help myself, but instead laughed out loud and clapped my hands like a child.
That’s all I remember. I woke up serene, refreshed, and with that sharp-brained feeling that I had been given yet another clue.
Just when I typed the word happiness to begin this post, I remembered a post I had written on my intermittent microblog, False Dawn, about a dream I had in November of 2010 called No Talking on Happiness. Wow. This is my brain. This is my brain on happiness.