Yasser USA

I had a dream that we took a field trip in my biopsych class and rode a bus to Yasser Arafat’s compound somewhere in the USA, I think Boston although it wasn’t really Boston of course and it only took maybe an hour and a half to get there.

We never came under attack although when I was there I was sure I saw Ariel Sharon in the hallway. He was wearing a blue/green plaid collared shirt and a two-buttons-over-the-belly sweater.  He didn’t say anything.

Before I forget I should mention another thread of my dream.  I was going to the airport with a black woman who really knew her way around the airport, e.g. what escalator we needed to take and whatnot.  But when we approached our gate I was wondering if I was doing the right thing; I didn’t know this woman very well at all.

So I called B and asked her what she was doing that weekend.  I was pretty sure she had a Pi Phi meeting.  She said she didn’t have to go, necessarily.  That’s about all I remember of this part.  When we were going down the escalator some airport worker called out from about, “Do you need any help?”  And my friend said very loudly, “No.  Thank you.  We don’t.”

OK, back to the Yasser dream.  It all started when I went to Bio Psych class.  We were watching some cartoon or something in class.  It was raining outside.  The class had started when I got there even though I made it on time I thought. 

Somehow during this class I went from watching the lecture in my seat to lying on a bed—I was the only one on the bed—and watching a cartoon.  Dr. Brown had some sort of assistant, like a lecture DJ that had a diabolical association at some point, maybe between class and Arafat’s compound.

At some point Dr. Brown and his assistant (his sister?) were like, “OK, we’re not getting anything constructive done sitting here/lying here watching cartoons, so let’s do something constructive.”

The Yasser Arafat compound wasn’t the first choice.  We were planning to do something else and somehow Arafat slipped in there.  I remember packing my book bag for the busride; I took my W.B. Yeats book and I have no idea why; [could this be a sign to visit Subterranean today as a study break?]

The compound looked a lot like my apartment of course and somehow my dad was there.  He was distraught over some fantasy baseball trade he had made, trading Mo Vaughn or something but is sounded like he got Matt Morris as part of the return so I don’t know what’d be wrong with that.

I went into a room in the compound that of course was an eerie pseudo-representation of a room in my apartment and two or three Palestinian men were holding these fly-swatter type things—but with bigger, opaque swatter portions—over the face of a man that could only be Yasser Arafat.

But then I wondered what Yasser Arafat would be doing in the USA.


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