Twentieth Century Nightmare

William Wordsworth went to bed

With an aching pain all over his head.

Hoping to sleep for sweet relief, he

Was shocked to have a nightmare so real.

 

Waking up to the sound of an airplane flying into the nearby Lindbergh

Field, William Wordsworth was nearly petrified. He sat up, his eyes

darting around the hotel room, and panicked. Instead of the simple

hand-crafted furniture and decorations of his countryside cottage, he saw

the complex assembly-line electronic devices of the twentieth century. On

a counter, there was a cubical object with rectangular spots of different

colors and a springing door. Across from that was a larger

three-dimensional object with a rectangular front and a pyramidal back.

There were rectangular panels in the ceiling that were strikingly

different from the rest of the ceiling. And there were small plastic

levers protruding out of almost every wall.

 

Out of curiosity, he began to investigate each of these objects. After

finding the microwave oven fairly harmless, he studied the television set.

When a talking picture appeared on this inanimate box, he jumped back and

almost fell over a coffee table. Regaining his balance, he cautiously

began flipping the levers on the walls and was startled when lights

flickered on and off.

 

Just as he was about to lie back down to recover from dizziness and

nausea, he noticed another strange object. Sitting on a table in front of

a mirror was a box with buttons and what appeared to be dog ears and a dog

tail. He hesitated a minute before picking up the "dog ears"; and he was

shocked when he heard them buzzing at him. He started pushing buttons and

panicked when one of the ears started speaking to him.

 

This was such a terrible, horrid, foreign prison world. "I must be

dreaming. Would that I could wake up and get on with my life," cried this

natural poet as he laid down to rid himself of a headache.

Wordsworth awoke to the sound of a ringing telephone and, still longing

for a way to calm his nerves, walked outside for fresh air. But when he

opened the door he was blown back by the even more outrageous metropolitan scene outside.

 

Enclosed wagons of various shapes, sizes and colors were moving in all

different directions faster than any Roman chariots ever could. Horns

were honking. Smoke was rising. Massive roads crossed each other and

stretched endlessly in every direction. Buildings reached sky-high with

almost no space between them. There was almost no room to walk any where.

And, when he looked toward the sky, hoping to see some robins and

bluejays, he could only see the booming, man-made birds descending into

Lindbergh Field.

 

In desperation, Wordsworth pulled aside the first person he approached

when he headed away from the airport. "Sir, I beg of you. Tell me, what

strange city is this?"

 

"What's wrong with you, man? You're the one who's strange!" And the man

ran off.

 

"No. Wait, Sir!" Wordsworth shouted, chasing him into an alley.

"Get away from me, man! Back off!"

 

"But you don't seem to understand, Sir. I am quite lost. I've never

been to this city, and I . . . I don't understand the reason for so many tall

buildings."

 

"So Superman has something to practice on. Get away from me, man!"

 

"Superman?"

 

"Yeah, you know. He can leap tall buildings in a single bound."

 

"Hm. I shall try to remember that. What is the reason for these smoking

wagons and booming birds?"

 

"Smoking wagons? Booming birds? What planet are you from?"

 

"Why, from Earth, of course. I am not aware of any other planet that can

be safely inhabited. Um, I'm from England, uh, from Grasmere in the Lake

District."

 

"Yeah, sure you are. I don't think so. Even in England, they know what

cars and planes are. Really . . . who are you?"

 

"Wordsworth. William Wordsworth. Uh--"

 

"Yeah, sure, man. You need to check into County Mental Health. They

have a room reserved just for you."

 

Left alone, once again, in this nightmarish world, Wordsworth continued

to approach people, asking for information about his surroundings and how to

escape back into reality. Each stranger shoved him away, and two or three

even threatened to have him arrested.

 

"Where am I? What happened?" the poet asked. He was regaining

consciousness after collapsing and bumping his head on a bus bench.

 

"You fell and bumped your head on a bench. I decided to bring you to the

park to aid in your recovery, as you seemed a little overwhelmed by the

crowded conditions of the streets," replied his college-age rescuer,

sitting next to him under a tree.

 

"Thank you. Who are you?"

 

"My name is Leona. What's your name?"

 

"Well, uh, I--I'm not quite sure that you'll believe me."

 

"Go ahead and tell me. I might actually believe you."

 

"Well, uh, um. Wordsworth. My name is Wordsworth."

 

"William Wordsworth? The poet?"

 

"Why, yes. Yes. You believe me?"

 

"I don't see any reason not to."

 

"Oh, thank heavens. Every one else seems to think me mad for claiming to

be . . . myself."

 

"Well, I can't blame them. You were supposed to have died in 1850."

 

"Good heavens! What year is it?"

 

"1999. March 15, 1999."

"1999? 1999?? . . . Is that why there are so many smoking wagons and

booming birds?"

 

"Oh, you mean cars and airplanes?"

 

"Well, I suppose so. Is that what they are called?"

 

"Yes. They are the most common forms of transportation. The highest

speed limit for cars is 114.4 km per hour. And planes can travel safely

up to 792 km per hour. There's really nothing to be afraid of."

 

"I suppose. But where are the robins and the bluejays, the nightingales,

the blackbirds, and the eagles? Are there any left? Or have these

man-made birds pushed them completely out of life? Are there any horses?

Where are the meadows and the forests? What ever happened to nature?"

 

"Well, we do still have both wild and domesticated animals. We do

occasionally allow horseback riding--in horse races. There are still some

meadows and state historical parks and even one forest in San Diego.

There are even a few wildlife and ecological reservations where no

littering or vandalism is allowed," the young lady replied.

 

"That's--that's horrible. Is it to be supposed that a community can push

nature into prisons? Let there be freedom for all the animals! Let them

roam free once again! Do away with all these destructive machines. There

is no life without nature," replied Wordsworth, astonished almost beyond

belief.

 

"Sir, we can't do that. We have to have a safe place to live and work.

If we allow too much freedom for the animals, we won't survive. They will

destroy us and our property. They'll destroy all of our technology, and

we can't survive without that," she argued.

 

"What ignorance! Mankind has survived for centuries without all of these

monstrous machines. What we need is nature. Revive nature, if that is

still possible. Revive what you have nearly killed, and then you will

live far longer and in better health with greater fulfillment. Good day,

Madam." And the pastoral poet walked off.

 

"Wait. Where are you going?"

 

"Back home. To eighteenth-century Grasmere. Back to a sane Grasmere,

England, where nature is free to be nature."

 

Mr. Wordsworth awoke and was relieved to find himself in his familiar

country cottage. Dorothy was bending over him, wondering what had

happened and why he was so shaken up. So her brother reluctantly relayed

the details of his nightmare.

 

Copyright (c) Lissa R. Hayes

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Copyright © 1996 Adaptive Computer Empowerment Services
Last modified: 05/07/08