I dreamed about my grandparents’ house in the Bay Area, a place that my subconscious often makes use of to represent a sense of shelter or escapism, occasionally obligation. The internal landscape is evolving however, and I find the dream-house is becoming less stable, less secure of late. That is to say its meaning is changing.
I dreamed that the house had been acquired by the RNC and the MAGA agenda, and so it was being systematically disassembled and purged of its sentimental contents to make way for their tokens of nationalism, narcissism, racism, and fear-mongering.
Specifically I watched as a pair of aides, white guys in suits, set to removing all the various wall-hangings and curios from where they hung in the stairwell, which in the dream consisted of seemingly dozens of unfamiliar children’s drawings pinned haphazardly. And something about these scraps of paper flapping in the air displaced by the men’s flurried action struck me with a sense of acute loss.
I made some effort to try to stop them or to try to rescue some of the items, but eventually dissolving into purest wrath, yelling at Paul Ryan in his stupid navy blue suit with its American flag lapel pin. But no reaction from him. It was like yelling at a wall, no effect, and knowing they’d just continue dismantling.
Deconstruction was a gleefully automatic process at this point.
I was left with the feeling that this wasn’t the way to go about it anyway. My making noise or flying into a rage wasn’t the way to be heard by them, let alone change their decided course.
I retreated from the stairwell.
The MAGA officials were busy collecting and consolidating their power upstairs in the livingroom, the diningroom and kitchen. But downstairs the lack of lights said that they were neglecting the ground floor.
Downstairs, just bedrooms and storage, where I never liked to spend much time. Downstairs, with the cool, latent readiness of its darkness, the restless multitudes waiting within.