A Dream for Modern Times

Coloniescross, Going Postal

In my dream I am sat on the branch of a tree, my arms are incredibly long and can reach to the woodland floor.

On the floor of the wood are countless small but fully formed “creatures”, I can’t tell if they are insects, animals or humans in some other form, their heads are human though. An incessant chattering rises toward me and I can make out the occasional word. The faces look up at me but seem to either not see me or if they do then they completely ignore me. It is as if, even though I am much bigger than them, and my hands hover just over their heads they do not feel threatened by my presence.

Tony and Cherie Blair are there, she in full legal regalia, Jude Law is there, dressed as in the film Cold Mountain but without the beard. The woman who presents the Newswatch programme on the ABBC sits on a large red armchair clothed in the wig and costume that Naga Munchetty had worn on Strictly Come Dancing. This woman is reading from a script that is being handed to her, page by page, by a brown bald headed Hillary Clinton. Ranged behind the armchair, in a Sgt. Pepper type line up are the worlds great and good, I can see Francoise Holland and Christine Lagarde, Bashar Al Assad, Charlotte Church, Bob Geldof, Vladimir Putin, Nelson Mandela, Nigel Farage, The Pope and many others. Behind them, hovering in and out of view I can see Gaddaffi, Anwar Sadat, Sadam Hussain, Shimon Peres and a host of zombie like people, floating just above the ground, some with missing limbs, their clothes hanging bloodied from their bodies.

As I look more closely, focussing in on the red armchair I can see a group leaning into the chair, whispering to the young woman sat in it, she looks terrified but resigned. Among this group are the Camerons, Diane Abbott, Sadiq Khan, Michelle Obama, Viktor Orban, Benedict Cumberbatch, King Salman and George Soros.

Rising above the chatter I begin to pick out certain words, some of these words elicit reaction from the assemble throng and some do not. I hear Alleppo, barrel bomb and Bataclan, I hear 9/11 and 7/7 I hear war crime and Russia I hear Euro and Dollar, I hear global interests and populism, I hear oil, I hear Islam.

Images of a drowned child and boats full of maniacal laughing people flit across my inner consciousness. The Clinton figure morphs into Barak O’Bama; he is wearing a green felt top hat and carries a shillelagh in the shape of an AK-47 in one hand. He rips one piece of paper from the readers hand and replaces it with another and suddenly, without any call for quiet, the woodland floor goes deathly silent.

The mass of faces turn up to me, all wearing the same expectant look, as if, for the first time they have seen me and they are waiting for me to speak. I have no idea what to say, I try to move my arms, because I know that with one sweep I can wipe the whole gathering away as if it had never been there  but I am paralysed with dread of the power they are offering me.

I want to tell them that none of it matters, that life is fleeting and that the death of innocent and guilty alike sits on their shoulders. I want to tell them to stop and think, to look around at themselves and their preening self satisfied grandiose behaviour. Above all I want to tell them that all anyone wants is to live in a world free from religious zealotry and hunger, I want to say that only the will of those invested with power can stop the carnage that is visited daily on some that deserve it and many that don’t. But although to them I am a giant I do not have a mouth or lips.

After what seems like an age the gathering turns back to what it is doing, as if they know that, however big I am I can do nothing to stop the inevitable outcome of their machinations. The young woman in the armchair, now dressed in a grey business suit holds up the piece of paper that she has been given by O’Bama. It is blank.

Coloniescross ©