In the past several months I have been inscribing my father's memoirs. This involves asking him to speak on whatever subject he chooses, whilst occasionally asking questions to fill in few more details or to give a personal, subjective side to the factual basis of his narrative.
Thirteen short chapters so far show the structure of an extremely old-fashioned personality. One rarely finds such an identity represented nowadays. Even "Bear" Grylls caters to modernity in the way his shows are structured, so as to makes his adventures look accessible to anyone who wants to take them on.
My father's mental imagery from dreams was slight yesterday. He mentioned only that sometimes he saw a pond that looked like he could swim in it,only it turned out to contain an unexpected danger in the form of a crocodile.
I went to sleep and had dreams of my own. I was drinking coffee in a poetry house, when I suddenly left and took my collection of books with me. The airport alarm sounded at the door and I smiled then immediately turned back as I deduced I must have taken a book belonging to another in error. It was a miniature, but brightly-colored book on the very top of the pile. It was a book for a one-year old or two-year old. Every page contained at most one word, for that was all there was space for.
"The book on the top was yours. I took it inadvertently," I stated. "The rest of the books are mine."
A small women, in modest, middle-aged attire made her way to me. She seemed to be wearing a white towel that had been turned into a robe, with blue flowers embroidered into the sleeves.
"Don't worry," she said. "It only a very small book."
She looked at the rest of the books. Those belonged to the coffee-house, too. I gave them back and the women -- for there were now five -- cuddled me, like we were long-lost friends. We were going to go shopping together, but actually I wanted to escape from them and return home. I began walking faster and faster until the voices of the nice ladies began to echo in the distance. Just then, I dropped down into some construction works on the first floor platform of an overpass.
Immediately, I reached out for a foothold, but alarmingly there was nothing beneath my feet. I was going to sink into wet mud and die in a construction work and nobody would know I'd even been there.
I began to scream out that I'd fallen into something deep, but my voice let out an almost silent scream.
Two silent cries and the realization that the pit was bottomless, the poles that made up the construction now appearing higher than they used to be. I knew I was breathing my last -- then, I woke up.
Thirteen short chapters so far show the structure of an extremely old-fashioned personality. One rarely finds such an identity represented nowadays. Even "Bear" Grylls caters to modernity in the way his shows are structured, so as to makes his adventures look accessible to anyone who wants to take them on.
My father's mental imagery from dreams was slight yesterday. He mentioned only that sometimes he saw a pond that looked like he could swim in it,only it turned out to contain an unexpected danger in the form of a crocodile.
I went to sleep and had dreams of my own. I was drinking coffee in a poetry house, when I suddenly left and took my collection of books with me. The airport alarm sounded at the door and I smiled then immediately turned back as I deduced I must have taken a book belonging to another in error. It was a miniature, but brightly-colored book on the very top of the pile. It was a book for a one-year old or two-year old. Every page contained at most one word, for that was all there was space for.
"The book on the top was yours. I took it inadvertently," I stated. "The rest of the books are mine."
A small women, in modest, middle-aged attire made her way to me. She seemed to be wearing a white towel that had been turned into a robe, with blue flowers embroidered into the sleeves.
"Don't worry," she said. "It only a very small book."
She looked at the rest of the books. Those belonged to the coffee-house, too. I gave them back and the women -- for there were now five -- cuddled me, like we were long-lost friends. We were going to go shopping together, but actually I wanted to escape from them and return home. I began walking faster and faster until the voices of the nice ladies began to echo in the distance. Just then, I dropped down into some construction works on the first floor platform of an overpass.
Immediately, I reached out for a foothold, but alarmingly there was nothing beneath my feet. I was going to sink into wet mud and die in a construction work and nobody would know I'd even been there.
I began to scream out that I'd fallen into something deep, but my voice let out an almost silent scream.
Two silent cries and the realization that the pit was bottomless, the poles that made up the construction now appearing higher than they used to be. I knew I was breathing my last -- then, I woke up.
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