Last night I dreamed that Obama came to our neck of the woods. He was seated at a row of tables with a lot of other notables in a large room. Across the room was another row of tables behind which people from around were seated.

I was walking around the room, chit chatting away, like I do and finally settled down in a row of stuffed chairs with folks I knew. Being one of the last to seat myself, the only seat open was a low ottoman. I noticed there was some animal hair on it, probably dog.

The hubbub was hushed by a signal from the emcee and Obama, at the table to my left, cleared his throat and asked for input from the group. I raised my hand and spoke. “With all due respect, president Obama” I started out, “I cannot support you until you end the war in Iraq.”

The room was stunned and then a huge round of cheers and applause erupted from the far end of the room. Someone that I could not identify jumped up from the table to my right and ran over to me, jabbed a tiny needle with some kind of plastic handle – like a tack, only much sharper – jabbed it into my face, then ran over and dropped it into a container on Obama’s table and went and sat back down.

The meeting quickly descended into chaos. People had gotten out of their seats and were talking with each other again. I walked over to the table to my right and asked a woman if she had taken my DNA sample, not even sure if it was the woman who had jabbed my face and she said, “Yes.”

In a subsequent dream, I was with my mother and she started telling me why we couldn’t just end the war, that we needed to make sure the region was stabilized first. I disagreed, feeling like a rebellious teenager and laid down the gauntlet. “I’m moving to Baghdad until this war is over!” I announced and of course, my mother didn’t believe me which made me all the more determined.

Later on, I find myself in Baghdad, wondering where I’m going to sleep and what I’m going to eat, trying not to attract attention to myself and I’m hiding in a war torn building when someone comes along to harvest the copper tubing in the closet I’ve targeted for my bedroom…

By Camille Armantrout

Camille lives with her soul mate Bob in the back woods of central North Carolina where she hikes, gardens, cooks, and writes.

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