Short stories are such an interesting way to learn about our
dreams. Our characters often show
the journey we may be afraid to discuss.
Here is a short story that was recently submitted and my
thoughts on what it might tell us
about dreams.
September 28, 2009
What I dreamed of
when I was a boy
By Gerrit Gorter
There isn’t much sunlight left, an’ it only shines at this
time of day in early autumn, when my world tilts toward the sun, but I am
blessed. I am blessed because these are the thirty minutes that they let me out
of solitary and give me my pencil and paper an’ let me sit in the sun to write.
The other men in the yard don’t bother me; the guards would
gleefully intervene. It would break the monotony. The others enjoy their own
thirty minutes of freedom way too much to waste on a weirdo like me. They shoot
their hoops and let me be and rarely even call me weirdo anymore.
A court-appointed shrink, with her fancy psychiatry
trainin’, came up with the pencil and paper idea, and she must have convinced
the warden that I wouldn’ use the pencil to put out my one good eye or run over
to the pickup game an’ use it to put out one of their eyes either. The three
sheets of Big Chief they gave me to write on are fairly harmless too (what am I
gonna do, wad them up an’ cram them down my throat?), so instead of creating a
weapon, I use it all to create words.
I’m in some kind of program—one of thousands these shrinks
dream up every year—and I was chosen because I’m in solitary and I can write.
Apparently the shrinks can’t wait to read the mumbo-jumbo that comes from the
mind of a lifer. I’ve got to get it right the first time too, because they have
yet to give me a pencil that has an eraser on the end. The lead is always soft
too, and I have to waste precious sunlight paring back the wood from the stubby
point with my thumbnail. But I am blessed.
I didn’t mean to kill her. I was just too strong from
workin’ so hard on the farm for so long. An’ I didn’ mean to kill my cellmate
neither, but not meanin’ to an’ bein’ too strong didn’ fly too far with the
jury an’ all, at least not the way it was presented by my court-appointed
lawyer. See, I don’t naturally come across as bein’ remorseful. Like I said,
not meanin’ to don’t fly too far in a court of law. Anyways, that’s all water under
the bridge now, not worth wastin’ my last sheet of Big Chief.
When I was a kid, I dreamed of bein’ a veterinarian. I loved
it most when the animals had their babies. Not just the farm animals neither,
but the wild ones too. I found a baby bird one time. The whole nest fell from a
limb in a storm an’ the rest of ‘em fell out an’ died, but this one stayed in
the nest an’ survived. His mama left ‘im there to die, but I picked up the
whole nest an’ ran home an’ my mama helped me feed ‘im milk from a Visine
bottle, an’ he even ate little bits of soggy bread from my big ol’ hand.
I was gonna teach that little bird how to fly by watchin’
me. I put ‘im on a tree stump, nest an’ all, an’ I made wings outa corn stalks
an’ tied ‘em to my arms with balin’ twine, an’ I flapped aroun’ the yard
showin’ ‘im how it’s done.
But, he ended up dyin’ just like the girl and that crazy
little cellmate. Still, I woulda made a good vet. I jes know it, because I
still dream about flappin’ aroun’ the yard, a yard the size of this one, an’ I
run an’ take off an’ go flyin’ off into the sky, with that little bird right
behind me.
When I read the story, I thought about how many people we know that are “lifers” – only letting their dreams out for 30 minutes a day –
if that. You can imagine that the girl represents our love for our dreams and the cell mate, people that we are dreaming with. Once you’ve killed
the dreams of others – or been told you were “too strong” for your own – many
people do put them away for life.
What do you think?
