Good morning Gatherland, (Look, change one letter and that becomes 'Fatherland', O what ominous overtones.)
Anyhow, guess I wandered momentarily, I usually do not journal my dreams and have never written of one publicly. Until now. The dream was fleeting so there's not enough material for a novel or even a modest one page essay but there was just enough in it, just enough weird, that I feel compel to share. I have never been to Iraq. I do disagree with the war which is merely a principled disagreement; we invaded under lies and innuendo. I think "Little Bush" just wanted to show "Big Bush" he could accomplish the job that "Big Bush" started. Relax Georges, this is not a tirade; I happen to be Republican and I happen to have been born and raised just a little northwest of Kennebunkport. I don't know if my view on Iraq and the war prompted last night's dream or not. I only know that a couple of times a week I will sleep on the sofa in the livingroom specifically for the purpose of being entertained by dreams. I have found that my dreams are much more vivid, much more interesting when I opt for the couch. There's never an exception.
Middle of a desert night. Baghdad. In the livingroom of the sitting Iraqi president. Several men are present including the president. Hushed foreign voices to my ears talking about the American, insurgents, bombs, death and future plans I think. I can hear them all because I am standing there. I am about half-way up the stairs leading to the upper rooms. No one is paying me any attention so I pretty much am accepted as no more than an apparition but I am not vapor. My arms are leaning against the rail and I can feel the smoothness of very expensive, very polished wood. The president is more or less facing the stairs because I can see the pupils of his eyes. He is dressed in red while his motley crew are all dressed in black and white. There is a sound of a door being slammed open and shut but I think I am the only one who noticed. These men keep on conversing without a clue of the hell about to break loose.
Saddam Hussein comes around the corner at the foot of the stairs. I remember his hanging so I have no idea how he is now standing in this room, eyes wild but focused and a menacing-looking machine gun cradled in his hands. Perhaps Beezazelbub has given him a temporary release just for this night. In any case, almost imperceptibly, Saddam gives me a quick glance. Where the other men in the room had never noticed me for as long as I've been overlooking them from my perch, Saddam notices me almost immediately and registering me as a non-threat, ignores me almost as quick. He turns to the rest of the room and sprays the occupants with a hundred rounds of fine crafted bullets. The president is ripped open at the torso. The presidents legs and feet can still be seen as they were stretching from the chair to the floor but his upper torso is now lying backwards, pratically severed from his lower body, held in place by a few meager strands of intestines. The rest of the men are also succumbing to death's knock or writhing among the blood-soaked carpet in desperate pain. Within twleve seconds the shooting stops and with a calm and quiet demeanor, Saddam turns his eyes to mine and asks "can you get me out of here". "I have a car" is my only response as we run towards the courtyard.
The car is a black and silver Mercedes. Of course. It would be. This is a dream. Bullets begin cascading towards the auto even before my charge and I are fully inside. I scream for Saddam to buckle up like I was actually concerned with his safety. I fire up that big beautiful, roaring engine and we take a direct route down a grassy knoll and through the presidential gardens. By the time we hit the tarmac, that Mercedes is well on it's way to triple digits in speed. "Where to?" I inquire, noticing wherever the destination was going to be we were going to be leading a parade of other vehicles, all shooting at our taillights. In the same tone as suggesting we were going to the corner store for milk, "Damascus" is Saddam's reply. I'm not even sure how to get out of Baghdad, seeing I've never been there before, and my fleeing passenger picks Syria, like I am going to know where that is.
I exit Baghdad and hit the open desert road, careening into the night. To my wonderment, the chase has dwindled to about three pursuing vehicles. But they are all still firing automatic weapons and a few rounds are finding their marks. The Mercedes has several new holes in her and my left arm is bleeding just below my elbow. My passenger is sitting there, simply humming. I steal a glance at him and notice, the man isn't even sweating. It's 115 degrees, we are driving into pitch black at 135 miles per hour, he has just massacred a room full of people, bullets are buzzing by and the man is not even sweating. I am pratically crying out for my dear departed mother and he's humming along as though it's a Sunday afternoon drive to see the ladies. And as we cross the great desert expanse of Iraq, then Iran (geography buffs, don't correct me, this is a dream), Saddam begins to speak. Most is unremembered, the remaining majority of his comments are incoherrent. But a few of Saddam remarks come through.
"What I want to explain is that if anything changes, anything at all, in the Iraqi government, it will not be of the Iraqi people or for the Iraqi people. It is just a political dispute, absolutely nothing more, absolutely nothing less. The Iraqi people will be oppressed, they will live in fear, they will hunger, they will cry and they will die. It is the role Mohammed has prepared them to play." Saddam's words trail off for a second as he remembers the next verse in his humming. I may be mistaken about the humming, it could possibly be chanting instead. Looking straight at me and ignoring all the chaos of the moment, Saddam continues, "Imagine, my American friend, you are an American indeed? Imagine that every, every single person in the Iraqi political structure is patriotic and willing to take thenecessary stand against all this massacre; then what about the insurgents, the militants, thieves, thugs and terrorists; will they stop? Of course not. They will always remain".
As the sun was coming up we could see it's reflection from the not-too-distant skyscrapers of Damascus. The phone rings, it is my lady friend Marian. I awake from my dream.