Archive for the ‘dreams’ Category

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But will he fizz when he pops?

May 10, 2007

I had another one of those hypnopompic microdreams this morning.

It looks like my subconscious and my rational mind have different evaluations of the state of the Purgegate probe. What I think is, since Alberto Gonzales (AGAG) is the only firewall between Karl Rove and the truth, Bush will retain him at all costs. That will last until the Congress sees fit to impeach him, or if the fires have not died down, until late next spring, when the election will be close enough that Congress won’t have time to break down the White House stonewallthat stands behind the firewall.

But my dream was of Rove’s face. On it was plastered the usual smug smile, and he was apparently unaware that there was a large corkscrew planted in his mouth.

So my subconscious believes that Rove will not be able to keep a cork in it much longer. He will somehow be dragged to the Hill to testify. I earnestly hope old SC is smarter about this than I am.

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A revelation at dawn

December 17, 2006

And lo, I dreamed, and in my dream I beheld in my hands the organizational chart of the command structure of the U.S.A. in Iraq. Thereon were displayed the faces, together with both the public and private job descriptions, of each of the principal players.

In the middle were a pair of defense secretaries, one (Don Rumsfeld) flickering out, and one (Robert Gates) flickering in. The former bearing the title “The Derider”, having served for many years as an effective sneerer-in-chief at all critics of the war and the occupation. While the latter, protected from any scrutiny by the contempt universally showered upon the former, was seen to hold the refashioned position of “The Freerider.”

Reporting to these worthies was General Peter Pace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, here simply designated “The Topfighter”. Below him, Nouri al Maliki, somewhat prematurely – but then dreams are allowed a little slippage into the future – named as “The Pushed Asider.”, and further down, a tiny image of a crowd of bearded fellows whose smudged legend might or might not have been “The Suiciders”.

Above Rummy, of course, was George Junior, “The Decider”. But the chart didn’t stop there. Dubya’s boss was a winding path of digestive organs, “The Insider”, none other than the renowned and infinitely wise Gut of the Emperor.

And at the very top of the command chain, ruling the sacred Gut, too ineffable to be pinned down to any name, appeard the brains of the entire operation: a thriving colony of Escherischia coli.

And it came to pass, when I awoke, that I spoke unto the wife of my bosom, saying, “You know, dear, that explains an awful lot.”

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Same old show. More expensive seats.

July 28, 2006

Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, 431 BCE:

The meaning of words had no longer the same relation to things, but was changed by them as they thought proper. Reckless daring was held to be loyal courage; prudent delay was the excuse of a coward; moderation was the disguise of unmanly weakness; to know everything was to do nothing. Frantic energy was the true quality of a man. A conspirator who wanted to be safe was a recreant in disguise. The lover of violence was always trusted, and his opponent suspected.

The weapons grow more terrible, the costs more insupportable. But the ugliness and inhumanity of war never change. And the traits of a nation caught up in war fever never change either.

The country’s growing weary of the Iraq war, so the trusted lovers of violence are in the kitchen cooking up the next one, a fresh new shiny one, with its riveting new cast of scary villains. Their eye on fat juicy ratings, the media will once again pick up their trumpets and join the parade. But maybe, just maybe, it’s a little too soon since the last scam. This time, maybe, just maybe, the rest of us won’t fall into lockstep behind them.

I would like to find an old snapshot of the America I grew up in. A country where even the poorest had a roof over their heads. A country that wasn’t afraid of its own shadow; that did not kidnap and disappear people; that did not run secret torture chambers; that did not eavesdrop on all of its citizens’ conversations; that did not wage bloody Blitzkrieg on nations which posed no threat to it. I’d like to put that snapshot on milk cartons all over the land, asking “Have you seen me?”

Maybe some kind soul would find that strong, generous, friendly country, perhaps sleeping in an alley among the bombed-out and homeless, or sheltering between the pages of a forgotten Constitution, gather her up, give her a square meal of unfiltered information and fortified civil liberties. And bring her back to us.

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It’ll never get as far as YouTube

July 17, 2006


Every few mornings, my subconscious informs me that it’s time to wake up by tossing a brief snippet my way, a phrase or an image too startling to let me go back to sleep. This morning’s minidream was longer than usual, a twenty second political spot.

Night shot of an urban street. Broken porch posts, boarded windows, litter blowing in the rain. Voice over: “Crime. Dirt. Decay.” Somber pause. “It doesn’t have to be this way. There’s one candidate we can count on to clean it up. He’s as fed up as you are with the filth in Springfield’s streets.”

A blur of blazing orange comes barreling forward. It’s a golden retriever. Following behind him saunters a small army of people, carrying brooms, hammers, and saws. “Because it makes the tires taste funny.”

Rapid voice over, as the crowd parts for a delivery truck, and the retriever takes off after it: “Paid for by the Springfield Max For Mayor committee.” Cut to close up of the retriever’s head, barking happily into the camera. At the bottom, the crawl for the canine-impaired reads: “My name is Max, and I approved this ad.”

Update: Photos of the real Max, aka Captain Retardo Dog, from the town of not-Springfield, North Carolina, may be viewed here.

I like his style. He has, however, declined the Committee’s nomination.