It was probably something I ate yesterday.
Had a fitful night’s sleep, and not just because I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. I’m still underemployed, yet excited about some new retraining programs coming up. Then I sold my home of ten years and now need to move.
Like, in a week.
Out in the “real world,” the New York presidential primary went down. More Hillary Show. More Trussed Ted. More Smirking White Billionaire Guy.
Back when I was managing editor of the former Minnesota Law & Politics magazine (God bless ’em), I felt sheepish to admit I’m a lightweight when it comes to political discussion, but generally lean left. Storytelling is my main game, and proselytizing always leads to boring campfire tales. To my mind, politics is something that shouldn’t be taken lightly. It affects public policy decisions — and subsequently the lives and livelihoods of every American.
So I’ve been thinking that, these days, maybe progressive is the way to go.
Don’t get me wrong. My first choice was Hillary Clinton, even with reservations, the details of which I’d rather not get into right now. Maybe in a later post, after I’ve given it more thought. At Minnesota’s March caucus, I voted for Senator Sanders and, at the time, felt pretty solid about that.
— Until last night’s dream, which leads me back to the sleepless night brought on by indigestion, personal problems, or weird national politics.
You see, I awoke around 1:30 a.m., laughing.
In the dream, Bernie Sanders and I were walking together, chatting. The first part of the dream is a little hazy, as most dreams are, but apparently I was meeting with him on campaign business.
Suddenly Bernie rushes off, flinging that speech-making hand of his, saying, “Gosh, we’re missing the rally!”
I hurry after him, but he’s a pretty spry guy for his age and gets to the rally ahead of me, held in a tent-like auditorium. Angry supporters are flooding out the door mumbling “the rally’s canceled!” due to the senator’s absence.
Bernie gets backstage as I’m being jostled by people near the front row, most of whom are vacating their chairs.
Word gets ’round the candidate has finally arrived as I snag a seat at the end of the front row. Another guy anxiously waves to a buddy, “Hey! HEY! Come back! He’s here now!” and points to my seat.
I guiltily shrug as the entire row scowls at me.
I say, “Bernie made me late,” in the hopes I’ll be forgiven for working on the campaign. I look down at some campaign literature, thinking, “These will soon be ancient relics.” Then I wake up.
You know, it was probably was just some bad tuna salad.
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