AUGUST 18, 2026 – I know from experience that nothing in the Department of Boring beats someone announcing first thing in the morning that they had “the strangest dream last night”—then proceeding to recount it. The person might be excused if he uses fewer than 10 words, as in, “Last night I dreamt I was a bowl of tapioca,” then immediately moves on to, “How’d everyone else sleep?” while pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Somehow a crazy, improbable, technicolor dream featuring a symphony of electric guitar players wearing sunflower hats and flying aboard a 747 retrofitted with playground equipment just doesn’t translate into a coherent verbal portrayal—at least for the unlucky audience cornered the next morning in the kitchen.
But occasionally someone has a dream so bizarre as to warrant at least a cursory description. This would be the case with a dream I experienced last night, which featured a classically “boring” portion (me rehearsing a challenging piece on my violin with a cold, calculating “real” musician performing the piano part) followed by a dream sequence starring . . . drum roll, drum roll . . . none other than Steve Bannon—yes, the Steve Bannon—playing dominoes with Donald Trump.
What was striking about the dream was that both named characters were completely out of character. Mr. Trump was entirely passive. He spoke not a word, and though he was fully awake and alert, his face showed neither emotion nor strain nor his usual hubris. Mr. Bannon was congenial, and though he was apparently an expert at dominoes, he betrayed none of his customary contempt for other human beings. In fact, he was perfectly amiable and constructive in his commentary to me, who filled the role of official observer. After crushing the Donald in the game at hand, Bannon collected the dominoes, which were his—antique pieces, varnished and handsomely decorated with black inscriptions surrounding the black domino dots. Two of the pieces had wound up close to my place at the game table, and with my finger leveraged off my thumb, I flicked them across the tabletop toward Mr. Bannon. They moved with greater force than I’d intended and collided with the group of dominoes that lay passively in the man’s control.
“Oops! Sorry,” I said.
“Oh, that’s okay,” he said, not the least put off by what could’ve been interpreted fairly as my disapproval of him.
Trump remained silent. It was clear he’d been the loser, but he didn’t protest the outcome or offer any excuses. He accepted his status.
I woke up with a start. What had prompted such a dream? And why, specifically, had my mind in its dream state portrayed Trump and Bannon so favorably—or at least not disfavorably—when in my fully conscious state, I detest both individuals with unqualified intensity? Of the two, I think Bannon is the brighter bulb (which isn’t saying a whole lot), and I’ve often assumed that at some stage, Bannon would wind up eating Trump’s lunch. My dream had been consistent with this assessment, but why had I perceived either of the two human wrecking balls with as much tolerance as I had? This fact bothered me well into the day.
I wonder what additional political dreams I’ll experience before the midterms. As long as they continue as dreams, not nightmares, I’ll be content. Subject to that qualification . . . let the drean-movie reel turn.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
