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Ralph Wahlstrom is the author of The Tao of Writing and many short stories and articles. He holds a Ph.D. from Michigan Technological University and is the Chair of the English Department at Buffalo State College in the wonderful city of Buffalo, New York. Most importantly, he is a husband, a father and a dreamer.
Ralph L. Wahlstrom
Kycero's Dreams
His name is Mylan Kycero. He is forty-nine years old, and these are his dreams.
He is alone, sitting inside a gray box, orbiting three hundred fifty kilometers above the earth. The air is stale—it smells of urine and electricity. He pushes a red button and speaks into a transmitter. He is trying to call down, if down is the right word. No, he thinks, home is the right word. The walls are close, and his stomach hurts. He is all but panicked, and no one responds to his calls. They are too busy eating, copulating, killing each other. He wonders, have I become too small?
He is in an airport somewhere in China—no, in New York or Kansas. He searches, moving erratically, stopping strangers who don’t understand him, asking, “Where do I go?”
A slender young man from Shanghai, points. “This way,” he says. He runs toward a crowd of people, but the airport is gone, and red and golden buses resplendent with dragons are flying past, going home, he thinks, without him.
He is with his brother, Jacob. They are traveling; they must find the bus (his dreams often feature buses). They are in a city, somewhere, and if they can find the bus, they can get away, out into the country. He senses his mother is waiting. She is not in this dream, but he knows she expects them. She will have supper on the table, the house will be warm and brown, and he will be safe. The streets change. He cannot find the bus station, and Jacob has vanished.
Catherine, his daughter, is lost. She is a child again. He knows she is lost, but he does not know where or how. He runs from one enormous room to another, through identical hallways to identical rooms. He can hear her, but her voice, her existence is ephemeral, and he wonders if she is safe, if she is frightened without him. He wonders if he will find her again—if she is there at all.
He is running. He is vaguely aware of a destination, some place to the west, some place far off. He runs across a broad field. He does not tire. His legs are strong, and his young lungs powerful, yet his destination fades farther and farther into the distance.
His father stands in front of him. He is tall and wrapped in white linen. The dreamer wants to say something, but he is mute. He looks for his father’s eyes, but he has no eyes.
Helen is far away looking out from a great window, high above a snow-covered place. She calls for him. Catherine and Thomas are with her. He does not see them, but he knows they are there. He is far away, yet he sees her clearly, hears her voice in his stomach. He has to get to her, be with her and the children—to protect them, be protected by them. Somebody is crying, and he aches to be made complete again.
He is crying. He is alone, terrified and spinning in endless vertigo above the earth. They will not call him again because they think he no longer exists. At least, he believes this—they have understood that he is no more than a thought, that the weight of his existence has diminished to insignificance. He understands that they mean nothing by it. He is in a gray box, orbiting far above the earth. He cries and calls, “Come in brothers. I am here. Please answer me.” Sometimes when the station is in the proper position, he can see the earth through a tiny, filmy window. He can see Helen and Catherine and Thomas and Jacob. He can see his father, tall like stone, and his mother waiting for him. He can see, and his body aches with the void.
His name is Mylan Kycero. He is forty-nine years old, and these are his dreams.
