NEW YORK — Wednesday, part of a wing from 9/11 was dug up and hoisted from an alleyway to media fanfare as it was “taken into police custody,” reported Shimon Prokupecz of NBC New York. This shard of wing was exhumed, quite importantly, on the same block as the controversial “ground-zero mosque.” Thursday, Workers at the “Freedom Tower,” which is now officially named One World Trade Center, ceremoniously hoisted the final part of the building, which will not be installed for many months as they must first hoist all the other parts.
All this glorious hoisting of phallic objects and shards of cthonic airframe comes on the heels of a magnificent and vivid dream recounted now by this author.
Swimming through a shallow lake with a group of people including my suppressed femininity (anima), my child-self, and my shadow, my scattered-self reached a sacred cave inscribed with golden runes. “What does this all mean?” I asked the shadow, who looked around this place with a knowledge that made me suspect he was an alien. “It turns all who swim here into dogs.” I was frightened for a moment, but then realized this was a joke, a ridiculous superstition, and laughed with the shadow. Now across the lake and without these others, I approached an abandoned maintenance hut for the lake which once housed a dusty bandsaw I wanted to take. The bandsaw was now outside on the ground, rusted and broken. “What had it been for?” I asked the shadow. He merely gestured at rotting beams in the nearby cliffside which had once been used for hoisting something which was, only upon reflection, conspicuously missing from the dream. In a pagoda I nervously disassembled and reassembled a bullet, and when I fumbled and spilled its gunpowder there were small computer chips inside. At this time authority figures approached in the form of Chumlee and Big Hoss from Pawn Stars. I didn’t hang around to greet them but soon returned to the pagoda out of curiosity. They looked worn out and tired, and didn’t care to chastise us for the discovery of the computer chips. My child-self discovered scraps from the beam-making and tapped them, producing musical notes like a Hang Drum.
We have plucked the last shard from America’s wounded soil and brought it to a great new unshakable height (1776 feet, precisely). It relieved me of some stress to see the bandsaw rusted, and the Pawn Stars may have looked awfully tired, but they also seemed relieved. They had abandoned their hoisting. I have felt a great peace since having this dream and I believe it symbolizes the resolution of some internal struggle.
The Boston Marathon Bombing has been beaten to death like any other media event and now exists in some sphere subsumed by more present memories of 9/11. It is now an extension of 9/11, part of a chain of events which has only brought greater glory upon “America” through many fantastic opportunities to hoist symbols of triumph.
