"He was old but had more fight in him than you would think. It took all my strength."
Have you had a Trump dream recently? Le'ts hear it.
I’m working on the post about all the different ways my readers are doing marriage — their nontraditional alternatives to simply ending it (or gritting through something that they know isn’t right). Thank you for the honest responses to my call in the chat, they are wonderful.
In the meantime, perhaps because my co-parent and I stood in the rain last night and protested for our child’s right to receive gender afirming care (in California! In a Sanctuary City!) I wanted to do another call, this time for your Trump dreams. I had my first one the other night; I dreamt I killed him. I remember when everyone was dreaming about Obama (I think they were mostly sex dreams) and during the pandemic everyone deamed about bugs and animals (I remember having one about a parrot pickled in a jar).
I’m curious what we’re dreaming in this moment, when there is strategically more horror than we can process each day and such cartoon-like villians. It is so much like a nightmare that we walk around stunned, saying Is this really happening? And we know this is idiotic, we have to wake up! and act! save ourselves! but the dream keeps pulling us back in.
So post your (2nd term) Trump dreams below for all of us to read (Elon also acceptable); this archive might prove useful, either now or in retrospect.
And in closing:
“I was in a train car or van with Trump and 2 other women and I realized he was outnumbered and gestured to them with my fingers: 3 against 1. That we could kill him right then, we had a chance. I knew that I would have to mostly do it and I basically did, it was very physical, he was old but had more fight in him than you would think. It took all my strength. He didn't die then but a few minutes later he was walking down the street, presumably for help, and died. Now everyone knew the president had dropped dead and no one knew what we had done, mostly me, and I couldn't tell anyone because not only me but the other two women, who were largely innocent, would be jailed for life or executed. I was not ok. I was all fucked up from what I had just done but mostly because of not being able to tell anyone. I was in a kind of school or program for kids and tried to join in but had to excuse myself to use the bathroom. I stayed in there a long time. I shit and pissed an incredible amount, I realized I hadn't remembered to do that since before all this started. I looked in the mirror and was surprised my hair was to my shoulders and that I was wearing clothes I didn't recognize, slightly more sexy or revealing than I had thought. And all the stuff from my purse was out, I didn't even remember taking everything out. This was bad, I was losing touch with reality and couldn't tell anyone why. I was supposed to pick up Emma H at the airport. She would have to get to me herself. Did I even have my phone? I did. I told Emma I was so desperate to tell her something but I couldn't say it on the phone. I could barely wait but it had to be in person, for security reasons.”
It’s Friday. Maybe do something fun.
x
mj
I recently had a dream in which Trump and I collaborated on an improvised experimental music performance on Christmas Eve, using a combination of sample pads and fax machines. The sample pads were loaded with an array of laughter—some joyful, some eerie, some mechanical in their repetition—while the fax machines played a dual role: producing a constant, droning hum that underpinned the sonic landscape we were creating while simultaneously spitting out cryptic messages, as if channeling transmissions from another realm. The dream carried a distinct—what I could only describe as—"Wall Street Santa" energy: a mechanical opulence infused with an uncanny sort of inner-child magic. The fax machines, acting almost like Santa’s letter-writing apparatus, conjured this feeling—but where were the messages going? They seemed to blend capitalism and holiday mythos into something both absurd and strangely enchanting. In the midst of the sonic experiment, as it became more and more playful, Trump began to cry. His features softened, his body shrank, and before my eyes, he regressed into an infant—a raw and unguarded being. The fax machines continued to hum, but the laughter samples transformed into the sound of birds. The whole dream had a peculiar mix of comedy and horror, where the ridiculous and the unsettling were inseparable.
Basically unedited from my dream journal: S was interrogating me for Trump, it was like this performance of a trial we had to put on and he was stalking around the whole time, physically overpowering, sort of like he did with Hillary at that debate. But S and I were telepathically making jokes and conspiring and spent the whole time sort of internally laughing and playing with the questions and answers to make sure I was Scot free. The whole trial was about my gayness and gayness somehow being a threat to democracy, but S was protecting me, and we were having a really gay old time using our powers to subtly mock him and the proceedings while remaining outwardly innocent and giving the appearance of the trial he wanted.
The weirdest part for me was how much I liked him before the trial started. Before he became a menace, he was actually interesting and funny and kind, and then as soon as the public proceedings started, he became his glowering foul dicksmack self, like it was all an act for the press, for the cameras.