Dragon Lady

Dragon Lady

“Women like complications,” an old black & white French film warned from the internet.
The dreams started in the early days of January 2024. The Dragon Lady, as she like to be called, haunted these reveries and critiqued my friends or associates from the past. “I think he was full of it,” she began. “I see him with three children following him everywhere, and he’s struggling too,” she added.

I saw old faces from the past and recognized the Dragon Lady’s voice and mannerisms from the many conversations I had with her in the 1990s into the 2000s. On another night, she fingered out more people I knew with flaws. In late February, she made another return, suggesting she knew what type of lady would be by my side.

She was believable, giving me wise yet cynical opinions, which I, of course, dismissed her ruminations as part of my no methods to my madness. As always, life moved on, and my life was in a happy little rut. Then, suddenly, in the early morning of October 28, 2024, from the depths of yet another profound sleep, I heard her, this time, scream with fright, rousing me from hibernation. “They tried to take me!” she cried.

“They tried to take me!” she wailed again. Eventually, a stranger emerged from the reverie. Surprisingly, the Dragon Lady appeared to be Afro-Canadian when she was really Portuguese in origin. “I’m outside Castle Frank Station in a park or parkette!” she desperately continued.

“It could also be Osgoode Station, too—I can’t tell them apart!” she added, disappearing into the ether. My vision was blurry, and the cobwebs still covered my eyes, but I did catch sight of a digital clock showing 2:30 a.m. I can’t remember the last time a nightmare stirred me.

I usually dismiss my dreams as entertainment, not to be taken seriously but this one seemed to resonate…for a few days, I could sense the feeling of urgency in her mannerism. Aldous Huxley’s Doors of Perception brought some insight. “I perceived it was her,” I repeatedly told myself.

“It could be her, or anyone—or its just a dream!” I would lament to no end. In time, I went to Castle Frank Station, where I spoke to a transit official, who stood idly by near the former ticket booth. “Has there been a lot of police activity https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rErzD09n9l0 in the area?” I asked her.
“No!” she shot back in surprise.

“You see…” my voice trailed off, trying to think of a way to explain myself. I’m thinking of moving into the area, and I just want to know if this place is safe,” I assuaged the suspicious official.
She insisted the area was safe. “Is there homelessness here?!” I continued to ramble.

“There was one tent in the park outside; now there are half a dozen tents,” she answered with a nod. I then departed through the turnstiles, exited the station, and gave the outside the once-over. To my right, on the south side of the street, was Rosedale Heights School of the Arts.

On my left was a small park. It didn’t take long for this pensive man to stroll around the park, me fish-eyeing the makeshift homeless encampment with its blue tarp to cover the scattered belongings. I strolled along a trail carpeted by fallen autumn leaves behind the subway station.

Signs, or plaques, also identified the area as a Discovery Walk. Along this route, I was surprised to see scenic hills and dales of the Don River Valley, a park-like atmosphere of Toronto’s oldest cemetery. I then made my way back to the subway station. The average Torontonian would never know about this offbeat path into nature, but I relished every moment.

On another day, I exited Osgoode Station and saw Campbell House Museum on the northwest side of Queen and University. I avoided that location because a suspicious character was scouring the property. So, I crossed the street, passed the construction site, and finally came across a wrought iron gate with an opening, which led me into the park, or parkette, located in front of the Women’s Law Association of Ontario.

Once again, the front lawn had plaques with historical significance, while squirrels raced around and little birds flew hither & thither. The building looked gloomy. I proceeded deeper into the property and realized the WLAO shared the same front lawn with the Law Society of Upper Canada. I remembered my dream where the Dragon Lady mistook the outside of Castle Frank Station for Osgoode Station.

Quite frankly, the areas looked almost identical, except the latter had a burgeoning homeless population and this location had cameras with good security. Around this time, I tried to read Doors of Perception, but it was too associated with the consumption of drugs for me to glean any relevant information from it. Still unsettled, I crossed paths with David John, an older gentleman who bills himself as Canada’s Oldest Psychic. I remember meeting him after the Covid 19 lockdown. “I’ll give you $20,00 if you tell me if my friend is alive,” I begged him.

“Did you email her?’
“Yes.”
“No response?” I shook my head. “Any sign of her on social media?’ Again, I shook my head.

He invited me into his eclectic shop, Mystic Tea House, at 1242 Danforth Avenue.
He sat me at an old table with a mound of tarot cards. “Listen, I don’t care about me,” I repeated. “I just want to know if my female friend from the past is still alive.” He didn’t even shuffle the cards. “I’ll give you twenty dollars for it,” I offered him, once again.

“Forget about the money. I do this sometimes because I’m a nice guy,” he responded, taking one card from the pack and placing it on the table. All around his shop were paintings, including UFO merchandise for sale. He even had other tables and chairs that looked comfortable yet worn over time. I learned on a previous occasion that his shop was a gathering spot for artists, including guided meditations.

“You’re asking about a friend? Don’t worry about it,” he continued. “Forget about the money,” he assuaged me.
With a nod, he picked up a tarot card from the table and flipped it upwards. Every time he did this, he unraveled her character.

“Well, she loved the streets,” he began softly. “She was something that I am not—she was knowledgeable and streetwise,” he shook his head at the irony.
“She had a couple of degrees from York University. One was history, and another was journalism from Ryerson University,” I interjected the reading.

More cards were flipped on the table. “Once she got her mind to do something, she would do it—no questions asked,” came more news. Another card went skyward. “She was like a child,” he frowned. “If she wanted money, her mother would give it to her,” he smiled at the thought. “She was like a child!” he pulled a face.

“I remember her having a Turkish boyfriend named Caesar; she never married him, she broke up with him, and then she moved to Paris, France, and found plenty of guys there, so I understand,” I contributed to the conversation.

One of those cards went heavenward. “If any of the men didn’t perform up to her standards, she would tell them,” he smirked at that one. “She made a point of telling them, too!” he seemed to marvel at the audacity of the Dragon Lady.

“She also had a disease called fibromyalgia,” I disclosed more information. The older gentleman then picked up another tarot card from the table, and it also saw the light of day.
“She could lift her left arm,” he continued, moving his arm in unison, “but she had trouble with her right arm,” he added, moving his other arm sideways. He then flipped another card up and pondered it for a moment.

“In December 2023, there was a mercury retrograde,” I muttered quietly. I think she passed when it ended on the opening days of January 2024,” I added. She must have passed when 2024 began,” I shook my head. Hence my dreams,” I sighed.

“She got sick when it started, but she had a tremendous shock and shut down,” he stared at the card on the table, gesturing at what he had just said. He took another card, flipped it. “Yes, she got sick at the beginning of the Mercury Retrograde and had a severe shock at the end of it, and she simply shut down,” he repeated.

“I think she passed around that time,” I responded. In those early days of January, I had a dream that simulated her talking to me, except I didn’t see her talking to me; just heard her, and it sounded like her.

He was reluctant to say she had passed, but in my heart, I felt she had.

The Dragon Lady left sunny Toronto in 2008 and relocated to Paris, France. During the pandemic, since she was an ESL instructor at Telelangue(?), she had to get the vaccination and probably was boosted. All I know is that if a person has a pre-existing condition, the vaccination would aggravate it, and sickness or death could result.

The Dragon Lady belonged in the dazzling boulevards and bridges of the City of Lights. If she had moved to England, the nightlife in London would have been her home. If she had travelled to Asia, the notorious clubs of Tokyo, Japan, would be her kingdom. Since 2008, I have usually received a yearly email from her, but June 2023 was the last one she sent me. Apparently, in that email, she informed me that she went to Balade à Veules Les Roses with an email link.

“Have a look at where I spent the day. It’s an enchanting little town with the smallest river in France,” she told me from a faraway place.” I hope those dreams I had were not prophetic but…entertainment.