I woke myself out of a dream this morning. It was just too darned strange, even for me. In the dream, I had just read the front page – having been mysteriously warned by hints in social media that I would find my name there.
And there it was! “Evelyn Brooks” appeared a few paragraphs into the lead story. It named me along with two other women whom Donald Trump had decided deserved execution.
Our capital crime? We had spoken out against him and refused to retract our statements of derision.
That’s right, in the nation founded on inalienable rights that include Free Speech, I was going to be shot (at dawn, I presume), for calling Trump “an unfit president” in my books, blogs and Tweets.
The Tweet Master was pissed.
Having been married for many years to what I thought was the consummate narcissist until Trump came into my horrified awareness when he was selected by the Republicans as their best bright boy to rule the Free World, I knew about the wrath of a narcissist.
It seemed that Trump was enraged by the remarks of a lowly woman, and an avowed, outspoken Democrat at that.
But… I had a champion (in this dream) – Rodney Dangerfield! My late husband was a big fan of his and we had gone to see Dangerfield in person years ago (obviously when both Rodney and my husband were still alive).
Remember Rodney’s trademark line? “I don’t get no respect!”?
So here I was, my life threatened by the biggest bully on the planet: the 45th POTUS. He has the power to annihilate all of us in one fell swoop, a scene of destruction that would far surpass the most horrific of exploding buildings and flying bodies that any Hollywood SFX team could devise, merely by ramming his Tweeting Thumbs on the Red Button in an idle moment, piqued by outraged vanity.
I can still see my dream hands holding that newspaper as I scanned the article, dreading what I would discover. I was, apparently, being accused of … something heinous … the words swam… the way dreams shift from one seemingly logical moment to the next.
It seemed that my capital crime was rescuing a kitten.
As readers of my books know, I am more of a dog person, but I’m also an animal rights activist.
Where did the kitten come from in my dreaming mind? Last night I watched an old Jimmy Stewart movie called “Magic Town” in which the most adorable charcoal kitten — a ball of fluff wobbling on four legs — stayed the same age throughout the weeks the story represented. Magic, indeed.
We all know a kitten might symbolize innocence, helplessness, inability to defend itself against the world.
Much the way the world feels today in these days of Trump’s reckless presidency. Helpless to stop the bullies who pillage and destroy and taunt the helpless… and who tie cans to the tails of freedom.
Reading the paper, seeing I had been sentenced to death, I was… intrigued. After all, I write about the way we can nullify Trump and his ilk by getting into harmony with all that we desire to manifest, and I didn’t think I was going to manifest defeat at his hands. No way, no how.
In this dream, I knew that the moment I stepped outside my door, it would be a dark glasses moment, with all the world watching. I decided on black diamanté sunglasses and my sweetest LBD. After all, it appeared I was going to a funeral: my own.
The behavior of every tyrant – whether on the world stage or at the kitchen table – is driven by that narcissistic compulsion to be adored and feted and respected, without having to do anything to deserve such fealty, while in turn feeling nothing but contempt for everyone in his sphere.
Learn more about Trump’s extreme narcissism in Part Two “Inside the Mind of a Narcissist” in my book America’s New Breed of Freedom Fighters
I knew that Trump was just a man, but he was a man in power, and had decided that I did not have the right to live, and when a tyrant gets an idea he leaps over the process of actually thinking about such piddly things as rights and ramifications, and goes straight into demanding the result he wants: Off with her head!
Narcissists always surround themselves with people who are willing to do their bidding, for their own goals, or deluded by the charming lies a narcissist spins with such ease. Hence the various Puppet Masters who seemingly orbit around Trump’s dark star (they are not the deluded ones). Who are the deluded? The millions of Republican supporters who think it would be a terrific idea to postpone the 2020 elections until they can be positive Trump will be re-elected in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
The stars and stripes in our flag are trembling.
My dream shifted from reading the paper to being in a studio where Dangerfield was on stage. He pointed me out. The crowd yelled in excitement as I stood uncertainly.
But then he beckoned me to join him at the mic, “Come on, young lady.” I was so thrilled at being called a young lady that I flung my arms around him in a huge hug, blessing him for calling me young and whispering my age in his ear.
Rodney morphed into my late husband, who is now a very dear friend of mine since we chat now and then (albeit silently and with no witnesses but my Golden retriever) and have forgiven each other for the unhappiness of our long term marriage. It had started out in the mid-80s with such promise, as loving soul mates, but then deteriorated under the weight of his narcissistic personality disorder.
As the audience cheered, I was no longer in a TV studio. Another of those dream morphs: I was at a massive progressive rally, and I felt the LOVE. I knew that I had nothing to fear… except for fear itself.
I was going to live, to march another day.
And so I woke myself up, and began typing before I even had a piece of chocolate, realizing the friends on my Invisible Writing Team had just handed me a blog in dreamland, and I needed to capture it with digital pen and ink before it faded.
As I was walking Sugar Bear in Central Park before posting this at my site, I also realized the nightmare could have been far, far worse: I could have dreamed I’m a Trump supporter.
No worries, that will NEVER happen.
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