The Commie Habanera

Never dismiss a dream as a weightless fancy.

I was back in Los Angeles and had set up a grill in my little yard.  I put some burgers on to cook and some ears of corn in a pot to boil.  I went inside my home and when I came back out a fellow with black dreadlocks, and wearing clamdiggers and a white shirt that was unbuttoned to his navel, had taken over my outdoor cookery.  I told him to return it and he refused. I called the police and while I was waiting for them to show up, I physically took back my grill and burgers and corn.  The dreadlocked guy loudly protested but, finally, had to leave my place empty-handed.  Apparently several of his friends were unhappy with the fact that he had been caught and punished.  They showed up in my yard as a sort of Americorps/Chinese People’s Revolution hybrid.  There were about twelve of them and they had taken over a large sector of my already picayune property.  They were digging in the dirt and putting in vegetable plants. I asked them what the heck they were doing.  They explained that, in an apparent act of retribution for their friend having been driven away, that they had claimed my garden and were planting food to feed the poor.  I raged and trampled through the upturned soil, pulling out plants and hurling implements, screaming, “This belongs to me! You cannot take over MY yard.”

Well, you know how dreams go, they are full of gaps and hiccups and unexplained transitions, but somehow the Americorps People’s Army, adorned attractively in their gray pajama uniforms, ended up in my living room.  I ordered them to sit down, and they did. I walked around the room, gesticulating wildly, and reiterated that they could not dig up my yard because it belonged to me.  I instructed them that whether or not my goods would be spent to care for the poor would be determined by me, and me alone!  Then the music came up.  It was the music to the “Habanera” from Carmen.  And so I sang to the commie-frocked assemblage in my living room. Imagine the music of “Habanera” set to these words:

This home is mine,    You can’t be here,    you cannot dig in my garden dear.    You have to leave,     I’m sure you know,   take your things because you have to go.   (And then it gets good with the next verse)   You’re communists,     this is not right,     if you want my land,     you’ll have to fight.    You’re commie pinkos,     you’ll understand,    I will not let you take away my land.

I paced in a circle at the center of my captive crowd.  There was a comely young woman sitting on my couch who, underneath her drab socialist-issue clothing, was clearly pregnant.  The music paused momentarily.  I poked her chest lightly with my finger.  “Do you want your baby to grown up in a good country?” I asked.  “Of course.” She replied.  “Then you can’t do this!” I admonished, “this is not what good people do!”

The orchestration resumed, and this time the commie pinko work crew joined in the singing.  Their stern faces softened, and as the music swelled as their voices interfused with mine.  I moved, like Carmen through a tavern full of soldiers, whipping up a thoughtful and patriotic fervor.  And by the time the song came to its climax, the music was full, the voices were lush and exhilarated, and I had won over a cabal of commie pinko carrot pickers.  At that very moment my kitten attacked my face, just like she always does at 5:15 a.m., and woke me up.

Dreams are like the Smooties of the psyche.  A lot of stuff goes in-not random stuff, but the events, thoughts, and sensory experiences that make up our days.  It gets chopped up and blended and it all comes out in an unrecognizable, frothy mix.  My dreams tend to be heavy with symbolism, because I wish them so to be.  The “Commie Habanera” dream is one of the least cryptic dreams I’ve ever enjoyed.  The messages were clear and there may be something in this dream that is a portent of things as they should be.


The garden and my property: An encroachment on my physical space and possessions is a violation of the most fundamental, God-given impulse to acquire, build and maintain the works of one’s own hands.

The pregnant young woman: Freedom is not merely a pretty word or a conceptual abstraction, but is a tool for creating one’s own destiny and it is the responsibility of parents to teach their children how to use that tool and wield it with skill and wisdom.

Music and joining in song: Unity occurred because I did not attack the commie kids on a personal level, but I educated them about what it means to be a free people.

This dream has something of value to offer the to people and the ideals who have captured my heart, namely Constitutional Conservatism and the organizations who can be considered to be Friends of the Constitution. Education, The Message of Freedom, and Unity.  These are the bananas, strawberries, and milk of our collective consciousness Smoothie:  Take that, drink it up, and get a good night’s sleep.

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