Since posting the contents of a dream a day or so ago (see below) I have received correspondence from no less than one Anxious Democrat, casting aspersions or seeking reassurance (I can’t always tell those two apart) on a couple of issues.
First up, I seem to have mentioned that the President of the United States – or my dream version of him, at least – was ‘dressed in red’. This, thinks the Anxious Democrat, reflects poorly on me (or on my sub-conscience). The obvious allusion is, he thinks, either to Communism or (probably by association) to devilry. He backs up the latter claim by explaining that the scene as a whole, ‘taking place, as it does, on a park bench’, has ‘more than a passing resemblance to the opening of a famous Russian novel: Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita’. This ‘almost certainly confirms the connection to Satan’, he writes – something I can hardly verify, as I have never read Bulgakov’s book (and would be surprised if my sub-conscience had done so without my knowing, although it’s true we do differ on some things).
Our Anxious Democrat is also concerned, it seems, by the manner in which the President departs from my dream: falling or flying through a hole in the ground. Again, devilry springs to his over-anxious mind. Of course! It all becomes clear – this dream wasn’t related to my interest in the differences between editions of the same book (as I first thought). It was instead an incontrovertible expression of my facist, racist, paranoid and idiotic mind, filtered through the medium of a book I’ve never read. Silly me for thinking otherwise.
What to make of all this? I cannot say and can barely be bothered to try and wriggle out of a hole that was never there in the first place. Let me simply state that, during the few dream moments I shared with the crimson-suited President, I never once suspected him of being anything other than what he was: The President in a red suit. A nice fellow, so far as my sleepy self could tell. From whence the suit came, I do not know: but I am almost certain that it is not connected to a deep-rooted fear that the most powerful man in the world has a holiday home in the Underworld. Exactly how the President came to creep into my dream I am, again, uncertain.
What I do know is that all this does well to illustrate my wife’s favourite saying (‘Keep your dreams to yourself’) if not her second favourite saying also (‘Don’t drink a whole carton of pineapple juice before going to bed’).