Was it war or was

Was it war or was it too much corned beef and cabbage?

I have to admit that there is a part of me that is a little apprehensive about the effects of the war on the homefront. I live in a major metropolitan area, so the likelihood of our being attacked is higher than if we lived in, say, Eli, Minnesota. But, since I would not be able to last a winter in Minnesota, nor a week in just about any small town, we stay in the Bay Area, and we go on about our business. Once in awhile traffic will be particularly bad on the Bay Bridge, and that does trigger an uh-oh feeling, but beyond that one really can’t worry all the time.

Last night, though, I did not sleep well. I wasn’t lying awake, tossing fitfully, but I don’t think I slept for more than an hour and a half in any session. I kept waking up, mostly because of my dreams. To be more precise, it had to do with who was in my dreams.

For some reason I was supposed to be analyzing a poem. I don’t remember much about the poem, but I seem to remember a resemblance to Pound in its style, and it was a challenge explaining certain passages. So far, so good. I like to read poetry, I like to think about poetry, I like to discuss poetry. Nothing is unusual so far.

Where it starts getting ugly is that Pat Buchanan entered. He was interrupting me, telling me what the poem meant. It was about stopping the Mexicans, it was about "jobs, dammit!" He was really belligerent. Someone else said to me, "well, after all Buchanan did write the poem." I was shocked that this person would think that Buchanan wrote this poem. Well someone else, in a way that is a mystery at this point, proved that Buchanan did indeed write the poem. Now I had to confront the fact that maybe, indeed, this was about stopping the Mexicans and jobs. But that wouldn’t do. Obviously Buchanan was receiving Heavenly dictation, and did not even understand the words.

"Well, so you did write the poem, but that doesn’t mean you know anything about it," I told him, mentioning Sartre for some reason (I don’t know which is worse, having to speak to Buchanan or the notion of me quoting Sartre – whatever I would have found relevant from Sartre is beyond me). Anyway, this went on all night.

Bolt upright. Look at the clock. 1:40. Don’t have to get up for another four hours and twenty minutes. Flop back onto pillow. Here comes Pat. Stop Mexicans. About Jobs. No. Sartre. Bolt upright. Look at the clock. 3:12. Repeat.

I have never met Pat Buchanan in real life, but he is as unpleasant in dreams as he is in print and on television. Hell of a poet, though.