Dreams and Infamous Nightmares Which Pass For Them

THE MISAPPROPRIATION OF LITTLE WHITE LIES CAN MAIM AND EVEN KILL - Jonathan Swift

Most Famous Dreams Of Assigned Obscurity: When The Ought-To's Love The All About Winning Stuff

Before your minuscule little worlds start in on you today, let me tell you about wonderful experiences which helped me out of traumatic reenactment.  

When I moved into this apartment complex--an area long neglected by three abutting cities (Dallas, Garland, Richardson)--to tell the truth in a world where experiences sans facts are always--always--outright (outlawed) lies--a field atop the hill outside became a lovely place to enjoy all kinds of wildflowers.  

Lovely. Beautiful.  Tall Sunflowers, amazing flowers casually called Mexican Hats, and even huge and blossoming weeds.  Birds, despite the hilltop's proximity to the LBJ Freeway, constantly sang and danced.  

I'd walk up simply to sit among the flowers.  Something about life tends to restore lives.  Something called Nature does not obey the badly misunderstood idiocy of Natural Law as reinterpreted by people whose only collective goal is to instrumentalize a concept into yet another Great Big Cash Cow. 

Whatever. While it felt as if my heart had been locked-down before I found a lingering refugee from concretion and Joe Barton's very own graftworthy cash cow called Midlothian cement refineries, the small burst of nature on the top of a hill near the light rail station, I began to feel my psyche reopening.  A little like a flower.  

Blossom! the field seemed to be telling me.  

Not long after, however, in came bulldozers, noise, furious clouds of limestone dust, those "totally impressive" beep-beep-beep warning signs that, while mandatory, always seem to only warn the ghosts of the Kiowa, who used to range in the area, "Watch your step!" 

BAM!  One day, as I traveled by bus to reach the light rail station, the field had been plowed.  What replaced it?  A wasteland.  Nothing but dirt and dust and armies of construction equipment.  

The big goal?  The expansion of the freeway, supposedly to alleviate gridlock without disturbing the region's residences with suggestions like, "Get out of your flippin' cars you lazy old dogs!", has continued for eight solid years.  

The gridlock?  When I ride by rail northwards near five o'clock rush hour, the gridlock, now a fact of life for people who actually believe they are in complete control of technology, has barely changed at all.  

Apparently widening a so-called freeway was nothing, really, than a thing hell-bent to satisfy in reciprocity huge federal grants.  The people who live in the Five Points neighborhood? 

No reciprocity at all.  

Of course!  Most of us are relatively poor around here.  There is nothing absolutely wrong about one's life lived in relative--relative--poverty.  Many families and individuals, after nearly 160 years of bigotry lock-down, of white supremacy, of the denial of civil and even human rights, are slowly climbing out of the hole dug "just for them" by billious fat cats with designs to get vengeance for losing.  

Thus, they call the lockdown "winning".  

Of course, there really is heritage to be eaten.  The area is home to the location of awarded and lauded Dallas Cowboys running back Pete Gent's famous novel about the Dallas Cowboys, the one titled "North Dallas 40".

Gone.  Heritage?  The Dallas Cowboys once lived in and all around North Dallas.  Where did the heritage go?  

Run back, run back to nowhere!  There.  All the pabulum about heritage is nothing but hype.  Clearly, Dallas doesn't give one fat crap about heritage.  

Need an example?  Currently, the Dallas City Council is weighing the option of a potential and future tear-down: City Hall itself.  Yep.  Someone wants City Hall completely out of his (and her) way.  Why so?  

BAM!  Another pointless real estate prospect.  The barons of barren dirt have "big designs" in never-made-public plans to "expand" the downtown Dallas business district.  Where to?  

Into historic South Dallas. 

In fact, the dirt emperors also want a brand new convention center.  Why?  Who in God's name knows?  People who do not even pay much in the name of federal income taxes want to use, indeed and bad thinking, what libertarians always complain about: other people's money.  

Why is that an anti-taxation battle-cry against the very concept of taxation--while clearly, private interests are "to be immune" of culpability as if private interests are five-year-olds playing tag in their neighbors' front yards, ready to conveniently yell "KING'S X!" at the top of their lungs when about to be tagged?  

Games.  Infantile.  But very powerful.  

The land eaters many years ago, managed to eat a historic area--State-Thomas--a once beloved freeman's town as an expression of "heritage".  Sure.  We could reinterpret and holler with one of those grand hog-cries that plowing down a historically valuable area is "honoring the people pushed into ghettoized areas because someone could".  And sure.  The longterm residents, many of those celebrating "family values" and "personal liberties" did get paid.  If they actually owned the land.  

Most certainly, the federal government did step in to buy houses and reciprocate for the destruction of heritage--for "lotsa" condominiums, and what one North Dallas and suburbanite-raised woman once celebrated: "This neighborhood's gonna be POSH!"  

Shoot.  Someone on the planet does have to do the chore of discovering the etymology of the word, posh.  While many word-historians, then, suggest "posh" may be a nautical term for "port out, starboard home", some etymologists have also found ancient Romani ancestry in the word.

Etymology Online:  More likely it is from slang posh "a dandy" (1890), from thieves' slang meaning "money" (1830), originally "coin of small value, halfpenny," possibly from Romany posh "half".

Now. Let's play a game:  Let's add Romani (gypsies) to port out, starboard home, and then throw in the thieves slang  of "money".  

What adds up?  Let's gyp historic preservation and push "starboard" or "left" out, all in order to bring "port" or "right" home.  

Way cool, eh?  I don't know why finer journalists refuse to use etymological information in order to delve into the meaning of all the words we use on a daily basis.  Looking up history in verbiage and nounishness does take time,  

I think my deep research took all of two minutes.  

"Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children," a man named Martin Luther King, speaking from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial (Remember? That's in Washington D.C.!) on August 28, 1963.  

MLK finalizes the speech with long remembered lines: "I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today."

One passage from the speech stands out as quite pertinent to November, 2025:

"The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny."

Only days ago (let's call-out the "ref-call" as a botched swing in an attempt to return "heritage" to the United States), Samuel Alito proclaimed a convenient delay to challenges to the State of Texas' (which apparently is a state that does not include all of us citizens, only groundhogs and bitch-slappers of holiness, gospel slingers and drunken dopes on podiums) RedMap inspired gambit to segregate the living out of their right to vote.  

To Alito?  MLK's stirring speech amounts to this: Blah, blah, blah.  It's possible he has a dream: bring a republic down, and then send in some total wizards to fix it all and thus perpetuate another dumb version of the same old theocracy.  

The currrent U.S. Supreme Court's big dreams are the nightmares of the vast majority of the U.S. citizenry.  Must be love to be so tin-eared and tone-deaf.  To them, MLK's speech is no longer "I have a dream".  Nah.  To them, it's the "Some dude had a dream" speech.  

Blah-blah-blah.  Let's pay attention to only the little words we want and leave out all the other words, and most especially, the connotations and "spirit of the law" for the convenience of maybe saving capitalism by destroying its political and legal foundations.  

Thus, I'll get on with a nightmare for them:  

I had a dream.  A terrible dream.  All of us, whoever we were in our unconsciousness, were on a big ship.  No problem, goblin.  We were in international waters where the law and the political reach of the Republic don't have a choke-hold on us to inhibit our wanty-wants.  

Yes, we were totally way out.  In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.  That's when a storm with all sorts of ironically named white-caps began to rock the ship.  But something was wrong.  

You see, our ship had an entire zoo encaged in the hold.  Days prior to the storm, however, those feeding the glorious elephant accurately named Dumbo, discovered a huge corpse.  Dumbo had been murdered.  The poor elephant had been stabbed by silver blades, hundreds of them, a veritable tattoo of blood.  And the blood?  It had seeped throughout the hold. 

A murder.  Of a zooed animal. In a big ship. In the middle of the ocean.  

The wild currents came.  The wild currents did not relent.  Back and forth, at least until the wildness of a huge tempest grappled the ship like an ashen stick.  

Then, as the big ship began to rock in what the captain said over the loudspeaker (he had a twang in his voice, and vocal fry too!) that everything is OK.  People believed him.  But that's when the old "Houston, we have a problem...." line came into the sleepy dreamers either rocked to sleep or stoned to death: 

The hold's clean-up crew.  In order to follow orders to mop up elephant blood, blood and offal that had begun to stink so badly, people atop in officer's quarters were themselves complaining, "I can't breathe!"  

The unknown mistake: To get elephant blood off the floor, the "janitorial services" had slid nearly all of the ship's cargo distinctly to the right, the starboard side, of the ship.

Another naturally wild wave plowed sideways at the ship...

And the huge ship rolled over--to the right. Port out, starboard home.  

"Hold my beer!" one awfully snarky ship's mate intoned.  Every sailor laughed at it.  "We'll fix it!"

This "we'll" could not have been well at all.  The shop suddenly turtled.  This is an old nautical word for "rolled completely over".  

Capsized, all the valuable stuff in the hold plunged off the floor, which had become a ceiling, and some of it crashed through the upper decks like a horror from a top-selling movie. 

While the capsized or turtled ship still floated for a minute, it did sort of look like a sort of church, an ark, as it sank below the sea.  

No one was saved.  No one rescued anyone.  Even the old saw of "every man for himself!" did no good.  

Some people's dreams are everyone else's nightmares.  Every single occupant died. 

* For Thanksiving,2025, from the looks of it, I'm holding on alone this year. I simply do not have the energy to sit around like some object "to be saved" by a bunch white-assed hillbilly know-nothings who believe that eating raw shrimp on Turkey Day is "intentionally meaningful". Sick of troglodytism in the U.S. A quiet meal with a chicken cold cut sandwich would be more rewarding for that scorpion's nest of oblivious complacency.

Who's ever thankful to be absolutely ignored? Or teased by promises of Heaven--when intelligent people know Heaven is right here, right now, whether the disenchanted fools know that or like that or not.

*