When I don’t drink
my dreams are more vivid
and sometimes that’s not good.
Last night I dreamt I was
workshopping a piece of fiction
with a large group of super smart
writers. I had the manuscript
in front of me and I was supposed
to read a section of it out loud,
but I couldn’t decide what to read
and the pages were all out of order
and none of it made any sense to me
and I couldn’t even remember what
I had written about or even recognize
the words and sentences and paragraphs
on the page as my own. It was
terrifying and I was struck utterly dumb
while this group of people impatiently
and in painful silence waited for me
to get my shit together enough
to give them a reading while
I pointlessly thumbed through pages.
I continued in this torturous
manner until my alarm went off
and I was jarred awake, feeling
like somebody had hit me over the
head with a rubber mallet,
a hangover after not drinking.
I wondered what it meant.
There’s the obvious interpretation,
just fear of failure sneaking in,
or worse, the fear that some day
the things I love and the skills I most
value will be lost to me.
And then I worry: in my waking
life, have I become more forgetful?
Do I more often find myself searching
for a word I know but can’t place?
Do I forget a student’s name when
I see them in the hall, or when I call
on them in class? How long did I spend
this afternoon searching the room
for my copy of the novel we were
studying until I realized that it was there,
right where I left it, almost under my nose?
Why don’t I write more fiction?
Or maybe these images are not at all about
what I fear I may lose, but rather,
substitutes for a feeling or an experience
recently of being out of control,
not having a handle on things,
being unable to use my wits or skill
to solve a problem. Maybe, just maybe
what I was really dreaming about
was my 7th period freshmen,
most of whom won’t or can’t do school
while I feel powerless to help
or motivate them. It’s a similar
feeling, and after almost an entire
career, when one should feel at the top
of one’s game, it’s scary as hell
to feel like you’ve got nothing up your sleeve
but a demoralized resignation. And on
the eve of this nightmare I had trouble
getting to sleep stewing about this
very group of young people. I seethed
for an hour.
They’ve already called a snow day
for tomorrow even before
the stuff comes down.
I think I’ll drink to that:
To a snow day and more pleasant dreams.
michael jarmer 