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.

On April 15, 2013, The Tsarnaev brothers placed two bombs at the Boston Marathon which detonated at 2:49 PM, injuring 282 people and killing three. Despite a proliferation of surveillance imagery of the brothers, they were not identified by Boston police, or if they had been identified, the Boston police did not share their images with the public. Wild speculation on social media pinned the blame on Sunil Tripathi, and the New York Post seemed to confirm this with a front-page photograph implying his guilt. Tripathi, a complete innocent, was soon found dead in the Providence River.

After three days, the FBI took over the investigation and held a press conference to release images of the actual bombers, hoping the public could identify the pair since they could not. The elder brother, Tamerlan, had of course been placed on the terror watch list after visiting Chechnya and professing a belief in the prophet Muhammad, a banality which in no way aided the investigation.

The Tsarnaevs were accosted several hours after the FBI press conference by an MIT officer, but a shootout ensued and the campus cop was shot dead. The brothers carjacked a vehicle and led police on a wild chase which ended in Tamerlan’s death. The younger brother, Dzhokhar, escaped to a nearby boat where he laid critically injured for a whole day, while battalions of stormtroopers fruitlessly raided every house within twenty blocks and authorities completely shut down Boston. Media lavished praise on this costly, ineffective, paranoid, and altogether insane reaction which had little purpose in reality yet made perfect sense to a public gleefully re-enacting the trauma of 9/11.

Those who had their houses raided, of course, were most smitten with the allergic police reaction because it made them feel safe in the midst of uncertainty. Alas, for all the methodical effort and overwhelming force, none thought to look in the small, uncovered boat where the bleeding culprit lay dying. This interagency stormtrooper circus had been planned since 9/11, and all good Americans saw the large-scale home invasion and day-long desertification of Boston as emblematic of strength and courage in the face of evil.