Dream Logic

Jocelyn Jane Cox

In my nightmares, the ones that play when I’ve just fallen asleep then startle awake again, I sometimes crash into a cement wall. Occasionally I run into a curb. Most often, I slam full-bodied into the barriers of a skating rink. It happens exactly the way it did back when: a loss of control across that slippery surface followed by impact, a thud echoing throughout the arena and reverberating through all 206 bones. The greater the skill, the higher the speed, the bigger the collision. I didn’t enjoy falling, and I certainly don’t miss it, but my subconscious seems determined to randomly serve up these accidents during slumber. “Accidents,” though not entirely unpredictable, because: ice. Because: blades. Where there is danger, there is fear. And where there is fear, there could have been quitting. But, instead, there was more training, just a few more hours of repetition per month, per week, per day since everyone agreed that’s how to achieve expertise.

*

My name is announced, but I haven’t trained in decades. I don’t remember any choreography and the dress no longer fits. The most vivid dreams are lifted directly from my formative years. I stand at center ice, awaiting my music, trapped in the old vortex of pending humiliation, complicated obligation, and possible fame, never daring to question the fundamental tenet: The Show Must Go On.

In my childhood sport, which I loved and hated equally, the failures were often minor missteps—sometimes a matter of millimeters—but they were always public, on display for the judges and audience to witness. Twenty onlookers or thousands. Makeup and sequins couldn’t conceal my stumbles, my taped knee, the brace cinched around my lower back, or the constellation of scars across my skin. And still, more than thirty years later, my brain holds tight to that hopeful naivete, that unrealistic belief right before the music starts, before go-time, when there’s no turning back, that maybe, against all logic. . . things could actually go well.

*

In my daydreams, I wonder about opposite realities. I imagine I’d never set foot on the ice, never cracked any bones, tore any skin, or forced my ligaments to unspeakable limits. Instead of open blisters around my ankles and stitches under my chin, I conjure summers outside resulting in mere bug bites and scraped knees. Instead of ice burn. . . ice cream.

Or I ponder a more joyous flipside in which I am talented and tenacious. I pretend I am perfectly sized and psychologically suited to this unique endeavor. All the movements come easily, and my landing foot makes effortless contact with the ice. The sound it makes is a satisfying and confident thunk, like the snap of the fingers, like the cork of a champagne bottle, pop.

Jocelyn Jane Cox was a competitive figure skater for eleven years and coached the sport for over twenty years. Her work has appeared in Colorado Review, The Offing, HAD, Penn Review, and Roi Faineant Literary Press. Her memoir, MOTION DAZZLE, about losing her mother on her son’s first birthday and drawing strength from lessons she learned on the ice, will be released by Vine Leaves Press in September, 2025. She lives in the Hudson Valley of New York and can be found on Instagram/Threads at @jocelynjanecoxwriter.