I Was a Landscape in Your Dream, and All My Mountains Were on Fire
In 2009, you slept. You remember waking one morning with the light filtering in to that white bedroom down from the Boardwalk. It had high ceilings and pale wooden floors. You remember being at ease, feeling rested.
The closer you try to get to that memory, the more it eludes you. Three years later, you can't remember what that is--to feel rested--and you must finally come to terms with the fact that this morning didn't happen at all. That what is slipping through your fingers from that day is not the memory itself, but a memory of the memory. That it has, in fact, been three years since you remembered what it was like to wake and feel rested. The memory happened there, near the sand and the beach, and even that has escaped from your grasp.
Your doctor tells you, First you must sleep. Everything else is secondary. With sleep will come energy. Do not take medicine for energy; it will only exhaust you more. And so you swallow, night after night. A litany whose names even seem a placebo. Soma. Halcion. You think, someone should just sell Sleep. Sleep in a bottle. You've reached the end of the line, the end of cheaper and cheapest, safer and safest. Now you move on to the ones with strange warning stickers, no longer in the realm of operating heavy machinery or drinking alcohol. Do not eat grapefruit or grapefruit juice. One pill and you are sorry you didn't go to the bathroom first. Stumbling into walls like some kind of Frankenstein. Your body is no longer your own.
The dreams you have are different from nightmares. You close your eyes and open them on the side of the road. Up to your left is a highway, deserted. It's night but there's just enough light to walk through. Maybe you were in a car at some point, abandoned, broke down before you got here. But now it is just you, and a fire that's quickly consuming everything in your vision to the left. You start running. It angles from the periphery into your foreground. You veer right as it comes closer and closer. You think there is no wind, except for what your running creates against your shins, your ankles, your arms moving faster. But something invisible is carrying it. Your friend is next to you, running. You both stumble sometimes in the darkness but keep moving. When it is so close you feel the heat and it swallows your vision, you move forward trying to get to a low wet area. It's not so vast as to be a marsh, but it is water. Water over grass. And you both leap toward the water, lie face down as the fire passes over you. When you wake, you know you've survived but are terrified no matter.
It takes time for your fear to recede enough to relax into sleep again. In your friend's apartment, the ceilings are high with rafters and milk-glass windows running along the top of the long wall. You know as soon as you've stepped inside just by the look on her face that she's pregnant. In fact, she says nothing until you've pronounced it, made it true. And it is. She is.
The third dream, the two of you are out for dinner and margaritas with a friend and an ex of yours. You talk about the fire. There is an understanding. He lost everything he owned in a fire. You are relieved that the two of you can hang out. You say he must bring his wife next time, and you mean it. Your friend isn't drinking.
In the last dream, the trajectory is the same. You're driving and your friend is still with you. The past dreams are memories that carry over. You're talking about dinner, your ex. You lose focus for a moment on your driving and correct. A cop car pulls behind you, and you know you're in trouble. Although you're not drunk, you are a little buzzed. And buzzed driving is drunk driving. You say you only had 1 1/2 margaritas, but then don't attempt to argue further, and the cop takes out a small piece of plastic that you put in your mouth. It seems more like a whistle than a breathalizer, but you have no first-hand experience and Alias might be supplementing your subconscious's arsenal. He reads you no rights, but puts handcuffs on you, and you begin to cry. You are horrified. Now you won't be able to teach. Teachers can't have DUI's. Your job offer will be revoked.
In the patrol car, the cop is unfazed. This is just another day for him. He asks what you do and you try to stop sobbing, tell him you write poetry. He's excited about this conversation and begins to tell you who he reads. He quotes a poem from a dead white poet that has vaguely spiritual and naturalistic overtones. You realize that even though you haven't heard this poem before, it sounds familiar. And you realize that it is too similar to Maurice Manning's poetry, tethered to the Biblical. And you know that Manning has stolen his poems from this other poet. And you think, everything really is taken from everyone else. Nothing is original. They take you to jail. It is all very friendly. After a few hours, the cop releases you. And you realize you were never really processed, your life can still go on.
When you wake, your mind is reeling. You are relieved it wasn't real life. But you are no more rested. And it is only 5 o'clock.
Your doctor tells you, First you must sleep. Everything else is secondary. With sleep will come energy. Do not take medicine for energy; it will only exhaust you more. And so you swallow, night after night. A litany whose names even seem a placebo. Soma. Halcion. You think, someone should just sell Sleep. Sleep in a bottle. You've reached the end of the line, the end of cheaper and cheapest, safer and safest. Now you move on to the ones with strange warning stickers, no longer in the realm of operating heavy machinery or drinking alcohol. Do not eat grapefruit or grapefruit juice. One pill and you are sorry you didn't go to the bathroom first. Stumbling into walls like some kind of Frankenstein. Your body is no longer your own.
The third dream, the two of you are out for dinner and margaritas with a friend and an ex of yours. You talk about the fire. There is an understanding. He lost everything he owned in a fire. You are relieved that the two of you can hang out. You say he must bring his wife next time, and you mean it. Your friend isn't drinking.
In the last dream, the trajectory is the same. You're driving and your friend is still with you. The past dreams are memories that carry over. You're talking about dinner, your ex. You lose focus for a moment on your driving and correct. A cop car pulls behind you, and you know you're in trouble. Although you're not drunk, you are a little buzzed. And buzzed driving is drunk driving. You say you only had 1 1/2 margaritas, but then don't attempt to argue further, and the cop takes out a small piece of plastic that you put in your mouth. It seems more like a whistle than a breathalizer, but you have no first-hand experience and Alias might be supplementing your subconscious's arsenal. He reads you no rights, but puts handcuffs on you, and you begin to cry. You are horrified. Now you won't be able to teach. Teachers can't have DUI's. Your job offer will be revoked.
In the patrol car, the cop is unfazed. This is just another day for him. He asks what you do and you try to stop sobbing, tell him you write poetry. He's excited about this conversation and begins to tell you who he reads. He quotes a poem from a dead white poet that has vaguely spiritual and naturalistic overtones. You realize that even though you haven't heard this poem before, it sounds familiar. And you realize that it is too similar to Maurice Manning's poetry, tethered to the Biblical. And you know that Manning has stolen his poems from this other poet. And you think, everything really is taken from everyone else. Nothing is original. They take you to jail. It is all very friendly. After a few hours, the cop releases you. And you realize you were never really processed, your life can still go on.
When you wake, your mind is reeling. You are relieved it wasn't real life. But you are no more rested. And it is only 5 o'clock.