The Man and the Cat

A stream of consciousness type short story about dreams and the dreamer.

He wasn't alone. Not really. The old man sat in his chair, where he always sat- a fire blazed in the corner of the room and he thought. Not the kinds of thoughts that you or I can understand- the inner workings of his mind were beyond us. Our lack of understanding wasn't drawn, however; from a lack of intelligence you understand- more from a lack of comprehension. The thoughts in that old man's head spun counter to our clock.

An entire space spun in there. Not like ours- unique and unto itself, yet somehow he was able to watch all his worlds spin, watch all of his people walk- he could make them do anything he wanted, but where would the fun in that be? More often than not he would just watch them; maybe intervene if they really pressed for it, but in reality he wasn't interested in changing their fates, nor recording them; just watching.

Like I said, I don't think either of us could truly understand it, for, despite the context of thought, he was still there. To us he would just sit in his armchair. He would stare into the fire, but that in and of itself is a misinterpretation. He didn't stare into the fire, he stared into stars. The fire occupied the space in front of his eyes in the same way that your computer screen now occupies your field of vision- yet you don't see it. As you see these words, lit up and bright, he saw the stars. Still, he sat by the fire. Watching it. Watching them.

The only person who he ever shared it with was his cat; Tabby. Her name was Tabby. She didn't care for the affairs of the people within the world any more than he did, on the contrary she was about as aware of them as we would be. All she knew was that the man who she had befriended a decade ago sat there, and so she sat too. He barley acknowledged her, as her paws pressed against his leg. She gently brushed her face against his arm and he opened up to embrace her. The two sat there then- in front of the fire, and they lived in their shared dreams.

Perception and knowledge, transmission and translation- they didn't mean anything to the man or the cat. He saw his worlds, his lives; and she felt them. Unaware of their actual workings and yet fully capable of understanding them. She could feel what he saw, neither were able to have the full experience then, but neither really cared.

I guess the only people who saw the whole thing, who felt the whole thing were those who dreamed his dream- for his dream was their world. A little panorama boy on the street, an overweight nerd who just wanted to sing, an obsessive compulsive pseudophille who had nothing better to do than wonder weather there was a god; weather he was god.

The dream was vast, it contained cities and stars, planets and nations, but how few of them mattered? Or rather, how many did? I honestly couldn't tell you. While our dreamer was wise- his mind was vast, but not limitless. He could imagine all of it, but never all of it at once, and so he would pay attention to that parts that interested him; a bank robber who wanted to make a new life for himself, a little boy scrambling at a keyboard for attention, or a girl smashing her head into a wall trying to make the world agree with her- but only for a moment. The briefest breath in the dream.

It's getting late now; I suppose it was an inevitability. He's an old man, after all, and the dream is calling. He closes his eyes one more time. The cat looks up. The soft hum of her breath soothes him, but not for long. Soon it becomes a siren’s call. Gently leading him home. The world of his dreams might keep going, or it may blink out of existence without him. He had been it's curator, not it's lord or ruler, for the better part of this century, but now it is time for dreams to end.

Somewhere above him, a distance that cannot be described or measured away, an old woman sits and scribbles something on note paper. “And with that last breath he died. Tabby looked up at the shell of the man that used to be there, and she sighed. She jumped off of his lap and walked out into the night.” She smiled triumphantly- she had found the perfect ending for her book. The tale of the old man and the cat would end with a whisper rather than a bang, and then she would shift her dream to a different world.

As I now shift mine.  

Reviews

[Dot]

The inner workings of the mind, once one begins to understand the basic components, instantly captures fascination, and as a means of self revealing, writing, especially fiction, plays a key role in translation. Subjective experience in and of itself is a state of absolute curiosity, and is a fusion of perception and comprehension, existing within each individual, however it takes a certain trigger to emerge as an entity capable of identification, and this may come at any age, depending also on many variables, both internal and external to the thinker; or subject in question. When encountered, the shift is almost catastrophic, leading one to question all they ever knew and now understand, or perhaps it would be greater justified by suggesting that the means one goes about understanding are questioned. It would seem to the individual that from the moment of their ability to perceive and cogitate, experience is linear and straight; a monotheistic means of being and existing if you will, nevertheless, if one is... lucky, one encounters the shift and is thrown into an mulitheistic perception, but at emergence, there seems only a duality, between mind and reality; a level of naive realism, under this stone sleeps an earthworm, I see it, therefore it is external to me but existent, and if I place the stone cover back over it, it still exists, yet is out of view, but it is only me that allows this to be; no external force controls these dual existences.

In regards to this short story, I'm instantly entranced. The reader is thrown into the description of a subjective reality, yet the writer, a devious being, restricts from us the reality, giving us only a taste of something delightful and profound. As a means of capturing interest, this method is dominant over the usual, for instance the drivel of thrillers, and the reader will continue to read in the hopes of being allowed to either be spoon-fed the reality, or to have the means to come to their own conclusions.

As for portrayal and environment construction, the setting floats into the mind's eye as if a door has opened and in comes a colourful billowing of smoke, creating for the reader a gentle picture of a dusty reality. Simply delightful. The story - and this I highly praise - also describes minor elements with seemingly either the slightest or smallest of details, but it is these elements that could be described as rarefied components; each a minute piece of information that settles into the mind of the reader, and must be personally deciphered, which, beautifully I may add, connects with the concept of the story nothing less than wonderfully.

The texture[s] of the story, are somewhat dull, but allow me to state here that they are not dull in an negative way, perhaps I should use an alternative adjective, gentle perhaps, soft, comfortable; what I intent to state is a feeling of relaxation, as if the author is guiding us along the story, gently ushering us forwards with a warming hand placed on our shoulder, whispering in a appealingly sensual tone while enlightening us with the points of interest alone the way. The sensation is as if by our side walks a friend, capable of fluently, eloquently, and comfortably telling us the story like we are a child again, curious, fascinated, and innocent once more. Wonderful feel.

Similarly to the texture, there seems to exist a purpose for the story, and while the reader must come to their own conclusion, one cannot deny that there, somewhere, beneath a warm blanket, or scribbled on a note in some dusty drawer located in the details of the story, exists a profoundly insightful message that is itching to be discovered, yet is willing to wait for each separate reader.

Over all, I want more. My own personal fiction, of which I intend to not add on here, too explores the realm of subjective fiction, so I must say, I could not ignore this piece, for it is obvious you see its true nature also, do you not? Please, I exhort you, write more on the workings of the inner mind. I feel it could be a tremendous path for you to take considering you express it so well. Felicitations my friend on this stupendous piece!

[William Coad]

Well, I'm certainly flattered and I appreciate that you grasped some of the ideas behind it- although to be fair, I would never be so bold as to imply that there was anything behind it at all. My goal with this story was to rock the reader into a sleeping state as our old man slowly falls asleep as well, so I'm glad that I achieved that. If you want I can take a look at your work and tell you what I think, and I may write more like this (or I may already have done so, you lose track after a while, you know?) depending on if the mood takes me again.

[Dot]

I like the idea of what this piece achieves, "to rock the reader into a sleeping state", fantastic idea my friend, and achieved it you did! You can take a look at what's on this website, but they're more just entries of my day to day mentality, but do feel free to state anything that comes to mind if you want.