((The Dreams of 1974-75 & ‘76) (The present, Oct 2, 2016))
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The poet,
an old man, clean shaven, had some difficulty getting out of bed. The big bay
window in the bedroom he always liked to peer out of when he woke up, even in
the middle of the night, to make a bathroom run, or in the morning, once out of
bed. It would had been better had he
pushed the bed over towards the widow but his wife slept on that side so he’d
still have to get up in order to do day and night his habit.
There was no fuss about the matter, he
had his writing items on a wooden table alongside him, alongside his side of
the bed, and that being to his benefit, should he wish in the middle of the
night to write a verse or two, or make a note.
The poet this morning had written down
some notes about his twin boys who now of course were grown men, and would in a
short while stretch them out to make a short story. His dreaming in fact led him to that subject.
In particular, when his twin boys were dressed for their 3rd Halloween
party, like little fairies, to which they won 1st and 2nd
place (1974), each winning a prize, amongst many other children. And part of
the dream was when they had went on their 1st Easter Egg hunt (1974), in one of the local parks, with a group
of other children—both gathering up several eggs; and third, about their first
4th of July picnic (1975), when a bee got into Cody’s Coke can and
he had to grab the can and his wife yelled at him for taking the boy’s coke and
wouldn’t believe the bee actually entered the can, so he told his wife “Go ahead and drink some,” and
she dare not, staring at the can as if it was cursed! until the bee drunkenly bussed
out of the can and flew off. The last part of the dream was when Shawn (1976)
went to buy two ice-cream cones for him and his brother from a Ice-cream van that
rode back and forth within the Army Housing Project, and a strange boy a year
or two older wanted to take one cone form him, and Shawn whom had learned a few
karate moves from his father whom was looking out the bay window from the
living room, and Shawn looking up, and his father giving him the go ahead to
kick, kicked the boy in the chest, and the boy went home crying, his father was
proud of that day, he didn’t like bullies.
His Father-in-law had died in 1976, at
the early age of 47-years old of alcoholism, and that was when they were still
living in Babenhausen West Germany, matter of fact all these chapters took
place in Babenhausen, Germany.
The tired old man with the pen in hand
was not ludicrous, the moving of the bed was just a thought, quickly forgotten
(now being October 2, 2016). And he looked out the window as he always did, it
in his own way, actually woke him up some, he was near seventy years old. He had sat up on his bed some, to allow his
blood to circulate throughout his body, so he told himself—then slowly got up,
if not he’d roll back over and lay quiet and
still for another half hour or so in bed, a little beset with notions concerning
his heart, he had had a heart attack and a stroke in his mid-40s, he had been a
hard smoker, and drinker in his 20s and 30s, and now and then his heart fluttered.
He figured the chances were high he’d die someday from that very fact,
unexpectedly, better not jump out of bed too quick. It did not alarm him, it is not easily
explained: after his heart surgery, it made him more alive to take more risks. But
as he lay in bed it came to mind, days and months were passing, making his old
body more useless, every month his body becoming two months older so it felt. But something inside of him still felt young.
It is absurd of course to identify what made him feel like a young man inside and
old man outside. But what can be sought is what the old man was thinking about
as a young man inside of him and it was those special days with his twin boys.
He had enjoyed a long helpful hand in his life, God and his guardian angel that
was assigned to him, and everyone he met in the world he had enjoyed, now this
morning a great many notions were in his head.
He had once been a quite handsome man,
and a number of women had been in love with him. At least that is what the poet
thought, and such thoughts pleased him, and why argue with an old man’s thoughts, or his dreams that were
at one time not dreams, but realities. Such dreams this morning had driven a
long process of figures before his eyes. He had eaten popcorn before he went to
bed last night, he had indigestion this morning, but after he drank his
pineapple juice, it passed. Thus, he got out of bed, looked out the window, only
one single short, nearly baldheaded man passed on the sidewalk, it was Sunday,
all was quiet. He went downstairs, saw his wife sleeping on the couch, she had
went to early mass, and come home and fallen to sleep. He made it over to his writing
desk, and began to write, this all made a light impression on his mind, and he
wanted to describe it. As he sat by his desk, he wrote for an hour or so, a
story he called, “An Old Man’s Quite
Dreams.”
#1164/ October
2, 2016
