JANUARY 26, 2025 – Despite a concerted effort to divert myself from politics, politics tracks me down—even when I’m in a deep sleep.
As I’ve previously divulged in several of my posts over the years, every night I dream up a storm. For me, sleep is like going to the movies—and I do mean plural. Every session is at least a double feature. Regular themes are work, skiing, music, family, and very strange aircraft, though occasionally I’ll travel in my dreams, winding up in exotic places such as Tiranë (Albania) during Hoxa’s reign, Cuba during Castro, and North Korea under Kim Jong Il (the bloated fellow’s father). Once I found myself working in the Middle East section of the West Wing of the White House (albeit in the basement), and on another occasion I had quite a night as an astronaut in outer space. When I reported he latter dream to my wife, she said it was no dream, since quite often I’m a “space shot” right down here on earth.
My ski dreams take me all over the world—without the expense of a plane or lift ticket. Invariably the ski ventures are very satisfying. Rarely do they involve any kind of snafu or frustration.
Music dreams are fraught with multiple challenges—I can’t find my music; I’m signed up to play a recital that’s about to get underway, except I’ve forgotten my violin; I’m floundering around in a makeshift ensemble conducted by an ogre; et cetera.
The work dreams involve many complications and frustrations. Most often I’m in a large law office in a high rise downtown building. In many of these dreams I’ve just joined the firm and am playing catch-up. Now and again, though, I’m in a courtroom—totally unprepared. In the final moments before matters get underway, I’m scrambling feverishly to pull things together. So far, I’ve never had a case dismissed for lack of preparation.
Family dreams are always satisfying. I seem to be on good terms with everyone—in the dreams, anyway—which I like to interpret as reflective of my real-life relationships with relations.
Every so often I dream that I’m back in church (after a nearly 20-year absence in reality), and several times a year I’m back in college at final exam time after having skipped classes for the entire semester and not having read any of the course books or turned in any papers.
But last night, what started off as a work dream exploded into a political blockbuster, for which I had not bought enough popcorn or Red Hots (my favorite candy at the Anoka Theater when I was a kid) to see myself through. Speaking of Red Hots . . . But I’m getting ahead of myself.
In the opening scene, the assistant city administrator of a small town beyond the western suburbs of Minneapolis called me for some guidance. The town was a client—a good client—and I was motivated to provide prompt, competent service. The question of the day—uh, dream—was to advise on what kind of signage was required by law to designate an LGBTQ+ rest room in the provincial city hall. I had two reactions. First, off the top of my head, I had no idea beyond, perhaps, “LGBTQ+”; I’d have to do research about what else besides the letters might be mandated. Second, I was a bit surprised, since I knew that as are most small towns outside the Twin Cities Metro Area, my client-town was in the middle of Trumpland. Yet, nonetheless, city government, at least, intended to comply with the law as it pertained to what was a central “red meat” issue in Trumpland.
After the call, I was distracted by other work issues and wound up delaying my investigation of the signage question. Several days past, and suddenly the dream went rogue, went “political.”
I realized that it was the day of huge, nationwide Trump rallies. I knew people would be pouring into my client-town’s city hall for food and drinks as part of the local hoopla. Yet, in my dereliction, I’d failed to get back to the assistant city administrator about how to mark the LGBTQ+ restroom. I pride myself in giving clients prompt service, and I was disappointed in myself. On the other hand, I reasoned, maybe in Trumpland the LGBTQ+ signage wasn’t exactly high on the town’s list of priorities. Perhaps I could skate, as it were, until after the Trump rallies.
In any event, in the very next scene, I’d been transported out to the town and plopped down at the center of the local version of the nationwide “Trump Rally Day.” Here’s where things went crazy. The place was jammed with huge signs, banners, posters, ribbons, all emblazoned with “USA” and “TRUMP.” Moreover, everything was of the most radical red, woo-hoo! white and brightest blue I’d ever seen in my life. And the noise! The people—themselves festooned in red, white and blue bunting—were screaming their heads off. In that instant I decided I didn’t need to worry about my slow call-back on the signage issue.
Before I knew it, I was driving away from the center of town and vortex of the rally. Traffic, however, was bumper-to-bumper, and I inched ever so slowly toward . . . what, I didn’t know. The vehicle immediately ahead of me was a white pickup truck with a back topper. The topper window and tailgate were open, allowing a clear view of what the occupants had stuffed into the cargo bed: more red, white and blue Trump signs. And stuck into the back on a thick wooden pole was the American flag, the brightest thing in the whole dream. When the traffic came to a complete standstill, I alighted from my car and strode up to the driver’s side of the pickup. I was curious who was behind the wheel. It was a white guy in his 60s; clean-shaven and wearing eyeglasses. He looked perfect normal, but I wondered, given the contents of his truck.
By the time I was back behind the wheel of my car, the slow parade of vehicles had resumed its forward creep. We were about to cross a bridge over a river into another town. I could see the main street where another huge crowd had gathered, pumping their MAGA signs up and down, and yelling and screaming, “We want Trump! We want Trump!”
If the crowd sizes, remarkably bright signs, etc. and nationwide “Trump Day” were unsettling to me in the dream, I wasn’t afraid; not in the moment, anyway. I told myself to chill, “keep calm,” hang in there.
Just then, a guilt pang returned. How would I restore my reputation with my town-client? I found this dilemma far more troubling than signs—and amazingly bright ones at that—that the country had lost control of itself. I could remove myself from the MAGA mania, but how would I restore my standing with the client?
At that precise moment, the answer appeared—in the form of daylight. I was saved by the simple act of . . . waking up.
Having solved the problem so easily, I was then badgered by the fact that in my dream I’d wandered into Trumpland. I decided that that venture—even though it was entirely in the form of a dream—was a sign that politics has sunk its claws deep into my psyche. In response, I skied extra long today, hoping tonight’s “movies” will feature my happy place in more ways than one right now: Switzerland.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
