Barack Obama’s Dream During the First Night in the White House.
The Dream began: Barack Obama stormed slowly through the House offices and a basement areas, apparently from one crisis meeting to another. He wore a huge flowing robe striped in the colors of kente cloth, rich green, red, orange and black. He wore a cap reflecting that found in any number of secret brotherhoods to the west of his father’s land.
No American aides were anywhere to be found. Obama did not carry any technology but his taller stronger self. His stride was confident enough to make even the most radical pan-africanist scared for him. He was history manifested. He was unstrict genetics become.
He never looked down, but the bones and teeth of dead slaves that other slaves, the ancestors, had tucked secretly in the House’s foundation lit up his steps: guided his path through the House.
He continued through hallways. Obama was beyond the system error he had had to believe was un-quitable. Was he alone in the House? No. He was air’place and air’day. He knew that he could no longer exist as a believer that how he felt was what made America happen. How did he know this? Things like this become easy in dream-time; especially for a one-time multiple immigrant who had lost a friend: an elder friend with a black heart at that. The more offices he passed, the more overstanding added to him. He knew the strange people would not keep him. He knew they, not he, would write his memoir.
So he turned a corridor and entered a big room filled with forgotten ancestors. He walked round the outside of the gathering and took a place behind Mandela’s people. He listened eyes closed to all the ancestors who spoke and he did not classify the teachments for future use. He let the 40+ vibrations add to him as he closed the door and moved on.
Suddenly he was outside. In a New England court yard on a royal colonial esstate. Obama smiled as he watched the enslaved and the White ‘Election Day’ crowds eat, dance and ‘put on’. He at once overstood what it meant to have America support him & made a mental decree to ban all future travel on it’s behalf. His smile grew because he knew Michelle would say two things: one, he was good trouble for real white folk and two, he, (as a process?), was a heart pill for other concerned white folks: copy and paste style. Michelle. Where was she? No where. Which made him think. Made him think what? Made him think things would change.
The dream ended: Obama slowed his trod and stopped before the White House bedroom he had learned to find. He stood still forgetting his prior steps, lost in the newest idea to his mind: the world was 100% right in him being necessary but for 100% of the wrong reason. Looking at the back of his hand, he looked at some nearby American thing, looked away again and awoke...in crisis.
~
Livicated to the missing 5th wheel of NWG January 25, 2009
