The prompt for today was to write a monologue from the p.o.v. of a deceased person, in the style, say, or at least inspired by, Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology. That’s a pretty good idea. But my heart’s not in it–my computer was shut down and I was trapped in the study with dogs while my partner taught a piano lesson in the living room. Away from the prompt and finding myself going back to a physical notebook, I picked up a pen and wrote about last night’s dream. It’s rare that I remember dreams vividly–especially all through the next day, so I thought this one might be worth recording.
Poem on April 8
Last night I dreamed
I was drinking a beer.
I was fully aware
that I was five days shy
of my goal of 100 days
without alcohol
and part of me
was ashamed
and another part
of me just
didn’t care.
I want to be high
on something,
I said, and, not
being one for smoking
or other kinds of
chemical amusement,
I was drinking a beer.
It wasn’t even a good beer.
And something else
was wrong. I was at
a writer’s conference
at which no one
was writing. The people
I met there didn’t know
the first thing about it.
I was in the wrong place
or in the wrong time
and I was drinking a beer.
I think the dream was
a sign that I should go
the full 100 days
without alcohol.
Before that day arrives,
on the eve of that day,
I will dream of a tumbler
of whiskey, and I will
be some place, any place,
really, where people know
who they are and
exactly why they’re
writing or drinking
and it might even be
the same reason.
michael jarmer 