My Time With Dinara

You can find a story right below.

A story inspired by a dream that came to me in 2022.

My hope is that you enjoy this story.

A Palatial Theater

Many ages ago, in a city with no name, a theater was built.

A theater more akin to a palace than a theater.

The theater was constructed by a man named “Robert Doyle”.

Robert Doyle was a filmmaker.

A filmmaker who gave birth to great spectacles.

Great spectacles of adventure, romance, action, drama, love; and so on and so forth.

Robert Doyle constructed great spectacles for many, many years.

Every single one of these great spectacles was shown across the world, in theaters and homes of varying sorts.

Even though Robert Doyle’s works were shown everywhere, this was less-than-ideal.

To Robert Doyle, the cinematic experiences being conjured within his studio were intended to be viewed in a very particular manner.

A very particular manner that involved a specific number of seats — each one designed in a peculiar way — all centered around a particular screen, within a showing room with specific facets.

Specific facets, such as a very peculiar lighting and projection system, multi-colored wallpaper, silk/marble flooring; along with a number of other, equally obscure, elements.

To ensure that Robert Doyle’s films were seen properly, a palatial theater was constructed.

A palatial theater that was known as “The Palace”.

Or, perhaps, “The Palace Of Pleasure”, for that was one of its other names.

Really, there were several names.

Sometimes, within a single day, “The Palace” would be known by several names, for each one would spread across the holographic signage of the theater, transforming itself as time passed.

A Great Vastness

All across the surface of “The Palace”, there was once seven theaters.

Seven theaters, each one united by clear specifications and aesthetic choices, all of which served to facilitate Robert Doyle’s vision of a “pure cinematic experience”.

A “pure cinematic experience” fundamentally removed from common conceptions of cinema and storytelling, as well as the nature of “experience” itself.

Right underneath the seven theaters within “The Palace”, though, there exists a set of spaces.

A set of unique spaces that contain wonders upon wonders, as well as mysteries upon mysteries.

To access these unique spaces, one must either go behind “The Palace”, into a maintenance room, find a set of pipes, push several of them out of the way, crawl through the space underneath these pipes, enter a dumbwaiter, and reach the bottom of the dumbwaiter’s shaft.

Or, one can simply go to the lavatory and open up a filtration hatch right above the third stall and, then, climb through a network of turns and twists, to reach the same point.

No matter the choices made, your destination is the same: a vast set of underground spaces.

Spaces that appear small and confined — hallways within hallways and small rooms within small rooms — but, as one passes through each space, opens up to a network of trams and rail cars, all of which connected to the near-unending vastness of the City’s underground.

All across this network of spaces lies laboratories, studios, maintenance spaces, offices, rooms filled with drawings/writings; along with a wide variety of other such spaces.

Each one of these spaces is, in one way or another, intended to facilitate yet another of Robert Doyle’s dearest, most resonant, intentions: giving birth to stories that awaken the vastness of our creative power, allowing for the dissolution of limits.

Such a rich, noble intention, for which “The Palace” was intended to engage with.

My Time With Dinara

Many ages ago, in a body that no longer exists, circumstances brought me to “The Palace”.

My intention was to view a film.

A film that possesses no remembered name.

I remember viewing this film and sitting in the theater.

A comfortable, cozy theater, with beautiful red-and-blue wallpaper, lined across walls that seemed to contract and expand with the film.

Right after viewing this film, and feeling a sense of adventure and majesty — conjured by, and sustained, by the film, no doubt — it occured to me to visit the lavatory.

Or, rather, the sensibility persisted, as I visited the lavatory.

Right after stepping into this lavatory, something caught my eye.

A woman.

A tall woman.

A tall woman with tanned skin and a strong build.

The woman was attempting to climb into the circulation shaft above the stall.

For a moment, no words came out of my mouth.

The woman said nothing, for she did not notice me.

But, eventually, she fell down onto the side of the stall.

Soon after helping her up, we began speaking.

The woman introduced herself as “Dinara”.

Dinara was here to explore the vastness of “The Palace”.

Soon after sharing a brief, rather incoherent, set of stories and possibilities, each one pertaining to the vastness right underneath “The Palace”, Dinara invited me.

I accepted.

But, had the film not been on my mind, nor the sensibilities sustained, a different choice would’ve been made.

Soon after making this choice, Dinara aided me in entering the air circulation shaft.

Dinara was unfamiliar with the shafts. So was I.

The two of us wandered through them together, making decisions, clarifying the revelations of our intuition, while moving through the space together.

Soon enough, we found ourselves within a basement.

A basement of hallways and shadows.

Right after wandering through a series of empty spaces — spaces with old equipment and arcane amusings — we found ourselves wandering into a series of tight, cramped corridors.

Soon enough, we found ourselves within a vast space containing a network of trams.

Our sense of awe grew and strengthened, in the moments following this, allowing for a great sense of connection to be born.

Dinara and I stepped foot onto one of the trams — an old, rusty, angry machine, made of steel and glass and steam — allowing it to transport across the great chasms below.

Each node within the network of trams lead to great spaces of creativity that were once rich with conception and birth, all giving way to even greater concoctions of form and being.

Eventually, though, something happened.

Or, rather, someone happened.

Someone working within a laboratory that was, to our surprise, very much in use, saw us and, with that, alerted the guards.

The guards were not a particularly angry or violent bunch.

But, even so, we were not looking to be detained, nor were we interested in surrendering to the supposed end of our adventure.

So, with that, we ran back to the tram car and, when the tram car stopped — presumably the work of a guard flipping a control console — we climbed onto the bridge connecting the network of tram cars and wandered for several hours, until reaching an entrance to the sewer.

Or, rather, what was once a sewer.

For, within this sewer, apartments and laboratories and makeshift factories abounded.

None were occupied.

But, each one served as a remembrance, of sorts.

A remembrance of the blood and vigor the City once relied upon for sustenance.

Our adventure ended soon after wandering through a sewer vent in a corner of the City that was just waking up and getting ready for work.

Even though our adventure was intended as a short excursion, it had, instead, taken us into the early hours of the morning.

Our adventure came to an end.

Or, rather, that adventure came to an end.

But, another adventure began.

Dinara gave me a series of codes.

Each code served as a communication vessel, allowing me to reach her.

Dinara expressed the joy and novelty of our adventure.

I, too, expressed such sentiments.

Our plan was to spend more time together, to further our connection.

And, that is what we did.

I remember visiting the parks and natural spaces around the City.

I remember exploring the depths of the City.

I remember cooking meals and enjoying meals.

I remember riding across the gondolas that move through the Sea Of Firefly Lights.

All with Dinara.

I remember Dinara and I remember those moments.

But, within my memory — this great sea of recession and expansion, decay and growth, falling and rising — there lies another memory.

A set of memories, to be more specific.

I remember attempting to communicate with Dinara, through the tools and mechanisms we relied on, all of which relied on our codes, each one given freely.

I remember seeing visual proof that my messages were sent.

I remember seeing that Dinara had not read them.

I remember seeing nothing of Dinara.

I remember hearing nothing of Dinara.

Dinara came into my life and, for a great many months — more than a year, it must’ve been — life was so very rich and alive and beautiful.

And, yet, within moments — moments of confusion and uncertainty — Dinara was gone.

Such times were long ago. So very long ago.

The proof of sending such messages — of Dinara’s very existence — is no longer with me.

No longer with me and no longer with anyone.

For the very remnants of such messages exist on databases and networks that grew and expanded and, then, receded and decayed, in ways that obey the very laws of being and form, information and essence.

Even the last messages sent to Dinara — and the last messages we sent together — no longer exist.

I am tempted, so very tempted, to return to “The Palace”.

To return to “The Palace” and to crawl through the same air circulation shaft.

To find the same set of spaces Dinara and I found.

But, there is the possibility — a possibility that seems greater and greater, everytime it comes to me — that such moments were impossibilities, and that such a connection was merely illusory.

To live within this dream, and to reside within the longing for a past that may never have truly been, that is a great act of foolishness.

And, yet, in these times, these moments, the road in front of me, that’s all there is.

That’s all there. That’s all that’s left.

And, that’s all there will be.

Conclusion

Just to wrap this up, thank you so much for reading!

If you wish to reach me, you can do so by sending an email to “maxwellcakin@gmail.com.”

Best wishes and have a great day!