During the past few days, several times I've been advised, in essays I have stumbled upon, in dreams, and even on a fortune cookie, to wait. Well, I hate waiting.
But no matter what I hate, the past couple weeks I have spent waiting. For what, I'm not sure. Anyway, all this waiting has prompted me to address projects I would prefer to avoid, like weed-whacking and making some sense out the many dozens of blog posts I have written and posted one place or the other. And there's the rub: I have posted them on four different web sites.
After much deliberation, which is surely less painful and probably less dangerous than weed-whacking, I have removed the posts from my own book website and from the one I manage for Perelandra College and will gradually be posting those, depending upon the subject matter, on the ones now called Novelist Ken Kuhlken's Blog and The Church at Perelandra College.
On my blog, I reveal, reason, and rant about Living As a Writer, Other People's Books, and (occasionally) Politics.
At the college, I address decidedly un-churchy stuff like Hope and Bob Dylan, why "Purple Rain" is a spiritual song, and Soren Kierkegaard's opinion of Jesus Christ Superstar.
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Can Dreams Come True?
I have a friend, Jane, an extremely bright Christian, a former medical doctor who quit that profession to raise her kids and write. Her first book contains a rather dubious argument about dreams: she claims that if we remember them, they are from God.
Last night I dreamed this:
I’m back in college and doing quite well except failing a math class because I haven’t attended in many weeks. So I go to the prof, apologize and vow to attend next semester.
Now it’s next semester, and he’s teaching pre-calculus. Most students are young, but a certain woman who catches my eye looks older.
I study the young students and decide their whispering means they are conspiring to unionize. Then comes lunch break. We all disperse into a nearby neighborhood. On a street-corner beside a savings and loan, I run into the certain woman and ask if she knows any union songs.
She nods and sings “Go Tell it on the Mountain” with the refrain “let my people go” while we walk together back to class, which is somewhat in chaos, like a middle school class might be when the teacher steps outside.
Then the prof appears and reads aloud a report, in Shakespearian language, of mob action just off campus. I’m reminded of the death of Julius Cesar. And suddenly we all are watching what the report described. In a parking lot beside a warehouse, Donald Trump is wielding a sword, trying to hold off a ferocious mob.
A police car arrives with four officers
The leader of the mob approaches the police car. The cop in charge is in the back seat. The leader of the mob asks him what they should do. The cop in charge thinks for a spell then replies, “Isn’t he dead yet?”
The mob kills Trump. As he’s carted away in an ambulance, the mob disperses, I reach out to take the certain woman’s hand. We walk off holding hands.
Then I woke up and made coffee and opened my laptop and started reading, in the New York Times, an article about Trump wrongly accusing people at the Mexican border of having forged birth certificates. The reporter wondered if this might be the turning point toward impeachment. The next article I read opened with a quote from Shakespeare.
I thought about Jane’s dream theory, because though I remember a lot of dreams, very few do I recall in such detail as last night’s. So, who knows, maybe she’s right and this dream was prophetic.
Dare I hope that Trump will fall from power, that news commentators will become more literary, that I will connect with a certain woman who is smart and sings well and belongs to a union, and that I might once again attempt to learn math beyond algebra.
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