The WWII Collection. William Wharton
Читать онлайн книгу.
I talk to them in my dreams, I feel very close to the birds, especially the males; because I’m still flying in the male cage. I wonder what will happen when the dream catches up with the day and I’m left alone in the flight cage. Or maybe I’ll be with a female in one of the breeding cages, except there’re no extra females. I don’t have any control of the dream; I can only wait and see what happens.
In the day I try talking to the males, the ones I talk to in my dreams, especially Alfonso; but they ignore me. They don’t recognize me at all, except as Birdy, the boy. It makes me feel rejected, alone. I spend my days watching different birds with binoculars because it gets me close, blocks out everything else; the birds fill my whole vision. They’re the way they are in my dreams, real my size. I feel physically close to them and they’re not just little feathered animals. I’m getting to hate taking my eyes from the binoculars and looking at myself and everything around me. My hands, my feet, are grotesque. I’m becoming a stranger in myself, in my own cages, with my own birds.
I stop doing the flying exercise. If I can fly in my dreams, I don’t need to fly in the real world. I’m ready to accept the fact that there’s most likely no way I can actually get myself off the ground, anyway. I could probably manage an extended glide, but I wouldn’t fly. I’m also finding it isn’t so much the flying I want, not as a boy flapping heavy wings; I want to be a bird. In my dreams I am a bird and that’s all that matters.
I’m making egg food three times a day. I’m using almost a dozen eggs a day now. There are young in all the nests. It isn’t nearly as much fun having so many birds. When you get too far away from anything and there’s too much of it, the outside is all you see and it becomes work like anything else. It’s also hard for me to handle the birds. I feel like an awkward giant; the bird is only a bit of feathers beating and struggling in my hand. It takes the wonderful part away.
Then, I have something new happen in the dream. I’m in the flight cage as usual; the other males are still with me. I’m flying up and over a perch without landing on it. It’s a trick Alfonso has been teaching me. Alfonso watches for a while, then suggests we go down and have a few seeds. I fly down with him and land on the perch by the seed cup. It’s late afternoon and there’s sun on the new aviary floor. I look out of the cage into the part of the aviary with the breeding cages.
I see myself sitting on a chair with the binoculars! I can’t see my face, only my jacket and my legs with the pants I’d been wearing that day. I fly over to the wire and look carefully. I peep to myself but I don’t turn around. I can look at myself all I want. It’s me. I’m even wearing my red woolen cap. I can see my own hand over the edge of the chair steadying the binoculars. It’s like looking at myself dead. Me, out there, doesn’t seem to know about me in the cage, hanging on the wire. I’m afraid to look down to see if I have a bird body; I’m afraid I’ll end the dream. How can I see myself in two places at once? That’s too much even for a dream.
If I’m out there, gigantic, looking through binoculars, then where am I really, what am I? I don’t look down. I fly over to Alfonso.
‘Al, who’s that outside the cage?’
Alfonso casually looks through the wire of the flight cage. He cracks another seed and swallows it.
‘He’s the one who keeps us here, he feeds us, he moves us. He brought me here once. He brought Birdie here, too. Everybody knows about him.’
‘Yes, but what is he?’
I want to find out what Alfonso knows. I want to know how much Alfonso is only me in the dream.
‘I don’t know. It’s better not to ask. He’s just there. Without him there would be nothing.’
I fly up again to the perch. In my dream, Alfonso doesn’t know, only I know. I’m confused and this time I’m not sure I’m dreaming. The dream is changing. It’s the first time I’m two separate beings. Time is catching up with the dream, too.
When I wake up, I stay in bed a long time; it’s Saturday. I have to clean all the breeding cages. I have to put in new feed, clean water troughs, make egg food, wash out all the egg cups. Do the birds ever think about where the food comes from? None of these seeds would grow within hundreds of miles of here. It’s all so artificial, make-believe. Their lives go on because I want them to.
Probably our world is the same. At breakfast I put butter on my toast. I don’t know how to make either butter or bread. I don’t know how to raise a cow or milk it. I don’t know how to plant wheat, harvest it, remove the grain, mill it, bake it. The Little Red Hen has it all over me.
– Who wins? What’s winning? The sure way to lose is to have to win.
One thing I know. You sure as hell can’t pin life.
I’m getting so the dream holds together. It stops for the days but I can’t remember that it stops. Another thing is I can’t remember the beginning of what I’m calling the dream no matter how hard I try. In my dream, I’m convinced I’ve always been there, and the dream has no beginning.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.