A Dream: Hemingway’s Son

October 24, 2012

in blowg

I was Hemingway’s son.

We were on a boat and wrecked it on this forest island and were trying to survive while waiting for rescue. Hemingway was teaching me so much about survival, handing me books that inspired him, but I couldn’t understand them. The ones I did read, the authors a mumble of words, nothing distinct in the pages I flipped through. I finally was able to grasp a few poems but I wasn’t impressed. I ripped the authors apart and thought to myself how much better I am then them.

The important part was Hemingway acted like a father to me. He was tender and consistently told me that I would follow in his footsteps, which is why I needed to understand his influences. It was a strange feeling being in the presence of a literary giant, a household name, a brilliant and tormented mind. I didn’t feel like I could ever amount to him and the pressure to do so was stronger than the pressure to survive.

Eventually, we were rescued. A few weeks later, I was shooting some deer illegally and a cop started chasing me. He tackled me to the ground and I wrestled with him, eventually snagging his gun and holding him up. I tied the officer to a tree and then ran down the road until I made it back to my father’s house.

Hemingway was raking the yard, acting like we hadn’t just survived a great, overtly masculine adventure. I explained my situation to him and he sighed, saying now I’d have to go on the lam. He’d give me some money to help me run from the police and I was scared, but he just said, “Think of all the great literature you’ll get from this.” And he handed me that book I still couldn’t understand and sent me on my way.

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