The Eastern New Mexico News - Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities

By Wendel Sloan

'Bama Senate candidate a nightmare


November 19, 2017

Outsiders watching Alabama Senate candidate Roy Moore waving a pistol at a rally must have thought they were dreaming — or nightmaring.

Ignoring past transgressions with his younger pistol, his lack of empathy for Dreamers and women needing health services from Planned Parenthood, being suspended from the State Supreme Court twice for flouting judicial rulings about religious symbols on taxpayer property and same-sex marriage, and colloquializing about “blacks and whites fighting, reds and yellows fighting” disqualifies him for this non-Alabamian.

But, then, I remembered nothing disqualifies anyone anymore.

So, I’m chucking my original idea of writing about the absurdity of his candidacy in favor of actual dreams — possibly nightmares.

Although self-indulgent, the only dreams I know intimately enough to recount are my own. Since recently being under anesthesia, then taking a few pain pills (I have many left, but don’t hint), I’ve experienced perplexing dreams.

My twin sister and I were in our 20s and riding on a blacktop at night in a road-warrior garbage truck, driven by my dad — who died prematurely from steel-mill asbestos — with a scary churning wheel with sharp blades on top.

We came to a small helicopter and he wanted me to go up with him. When I declined out of fear, he flew up, then clipped power lines coming down and crash-landed. When we ran to check on him, he’d turned into a small, injured bird.

Being the tough but cool old bird he was, my dad insisted on going up again.

In another dream I entered a dilapidated barn with dirt floors in a pasture serving as a medical clinic. A man with a fishing pole kept spilling hooks.

Employees were batting a volleyball around. When instinct kicked in and I slammed it back to them — while avoiding the fishhooks in my bare feet — they asked me to join their team for an upcoming match against a medical clinic that always dominated them.

In the third dream an agricultural research university wanted me to head a project to restore fields flooded by the ocean. As I walked backward while surveying a flooding highway, identical, almost completely submerged tractors were at each crossroads.

As increasingly powerful waves from the encroaching ocean buffeted me above the disappearing road, I frantically searched for higher ground to save myself.

Then, I was whisked to the east Texas countryside where I grew up and came upon a pond. A dear friend who had died too young in real life a few years ago was floating face down with her arms outstretched in shallow water.

Finally, there was a dream about hometown friends not saving me a seat — as I would for them — in a church for a funeral.

Despite being slightly irked, after finding a seat in front of them next to a former teacher (now deceased), I asked them if they wanted food from a nearby fundraising table. They nodded yes.

Despite a master’s in counseling in a previous life, I remember nothing about decoding dreams.

I only have them — not interpret them.

The only nightmare I comprehend makes me fear having Moore.

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