I probably didn’t need that semester in Jungian theory back in college to figure out the dream I woke up to this morning.
In the dream, we were looking for a small house to buy off a rocky coast somewhere, probably Ireland since that part is true.
Our realtor sent us out to this little abandoned clapboard bungalow, down a gravel road right at the water’s edge, at the base of a large green mountain.
While we wait for the realtor to arrive, we have a look around. The house has seen better days and looks like a strong wind could result in a pile of scattered matchsticks. A shutter, hanging from a lone nail off the side of the house, whacks against the window with every wave from the incoming tide. The shack is so close to the sea that the water is now lapping at its edge.
The realtor arrives and he is either Beto O’Rourke or Bobby Kennedy. Beto/Bobby swears the house is sea worthy, reasoning that the seller wouldn’t have placed it for sale if water was an issue. We hope Beto/Bobby has another source of income if this house-selling gig doesn’t work out.
We ask who lives in the house next door, the only other dwelling as far as our eyes could see. Identical to the one we were looking at, but on higher ground. Beto/Bobby says the old man next door is Bernie Sanders and that he’s been living there for years. He rents the place and the owners want to sell, but they can’t get him to leave.
Make of that what you will.
