Dreams can be so nice

May 09, 2010 Features / Columnists, My Column

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There is nothing better than a good session of day dreaming. It allows the mind to visit places where one might never go. It allows people to review their mistakes or their successes; it also allows people to plan. I had a good session the other day as I was walking down the road to a shop.
These days I do not get to walk as often as I would like because I get out to work early in the morning and return home late at nights. By the time I get home it is just for a shower and bed to repeat the cycle early the next day.
On this occasion, though, I happened to dream about the days when I was young. I did not realize it then but those were among my best days. True, the life was hard and I was in no position to eat whatever I wanted. I never had money to spend as I liked and the other joys of life like going on holidays were a rare treat.
As I dreamed I saw myself playing cricket for the West Indies team and making a lot of runs. I did play a bit of cricket at the club level and I did enjoy those sessions. Those were my Test matches. However, even before that I saw myself having fun on some foreign beach with white sand and blue seas.
Then I started to think about the extent of my brainwashing. Daydream became a reality. I thought about white sand and blue seas because that was what the people who helped fashion my life wanted me to think. It was nothing about Guyana with white sand and brown water as is the case in the hinterland, or muddy water and brown sand as is the case on the coast.
Even drawing about a day at the beach saw me colouring the water blue and the beaches white. I resorted to the posters that abound. Then my thoughts moved to God. In my mind’s eye he was white with long flowing beard. Again the image was the result of brainwashing. Everything was lily white; heaven was about milk and honey, things that I hardly enjoyed as a child. An old politician, Kenneth Bancroft, once said that milk and honey is a sure recipe for diarrhea.
If that is the case then heaven must have a lot of toilets and reams of toilet paper and some emaciated people.
My parents ensured that I went to church every Sunday and on every occasion the church opened its doors, to pray to this white Being. The other night I learnt that I was not alone. David Dabydeen, the writer and lecturer in England, had a similar image. I found this out the other night.
Anyhow, I went to church so often that these days I cannot seem to bother. I no longer have church clothes and going out clothes. I just have clothes that I wear whenever I feel the need to dress up, which is not often, because there is just no place to go.
As I approached puberty the dreams were all about sex but it was not the real thing. Women were soft and cuddly and malleable, there to serve my every need. I suppose this is the case of every young boy until reality hits home.
The church taught me about decency and about respect for others and if I screwed up there was this white man looking down on me and frowning. In my quiet moments, then, I would gaze at the sky just to see if this white man was looking and I would sometimes scare myself. There was always some cloud that looked like a huge face with a beard and I would conclude that it was God watching me.
I was taught that the man was the head of the home. Many priests drummed this home and I would see the older folks nodding. But some of them who nodded in agreement left that agreement at the church door because at home it was a different story. The wife was the boss; she determined when the husband should be home; when people would eat and the friends who could visit.
She decided who would do what work and woe betide anyone who disturbed her when she decided that it was time for her to take a break. Two nights ago Glenn Lall pontificated that he was the boss in his home until I reminded him of the time he got a phone call.
There he was having a drink. It was late and a time when most people were in their bed. The man left his drink and headed home so fast that I swear I saw smoke in his wake. The next day I learnt that his wife called and demanded that he get his tail home. Well if he was the boss the wife was the bigger boss.
But it was the sex that interested me most. I dreamed of lying in bed with my wife all day, making love at the drop of a hat. I was not aware of the physical limitations nor was I aware that if that happened to be the case, unless I was very rich I would starve.
I still daydream about my younger days that have long passed. I did achieve some of the things I once dreamt about. Sadly enough, I have to watch what I eat. Age could be a bitch. I could go where I want but there are not too many places that I want to go. Sex? I am dreaming.
This brings me to the story about the pastor who allowed his congregation to sing about a word he called. He said ‘river’ and the choir burst into the hymn ‘Shall we go down to the river.’ He then said ‘joy’ and the congregation erupted, ‘There is joy in my heart.’ ‘Sex’. There was a long pause then a wobbly voice burst out, “Precious memories. Oh how sweet”.

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