Thursday, June 2, 2016



By Bob Boldt

The Dream. I was nine years old, visiting New York with my mother on the morning of September 11, 2001. We went to the World Trade Center.
    Somehow I had a premonition that something terrible was about to happen. The top floor I was on was deserted. I began frantically searching around for some clue as to what was about to happen or some way to prevent what I now knew was about to transpire.
    As I said, I was on the completely deserted top floor of World Trade Center One. There was a large expanse of vacant space with a couple of hallways heading off. Along one of the hallways was a door, perhaps the only door on the whole floor besides the elevators. As I moved toward it, a man-in-black type emerged seemingly out of nowhere and told me in a very threatening manner that under no circumstances should I go through that door.
    Just then there was a crash below and I realized we had been hit. I asked him if I could see the roof and he lead me up there. By that time I realized that the other tower had also been hit and all out fates had been sealed. I knew I would never reach the ground via the stairs and I speculated about the possibility of rummaging through the offices on a lower floor for parachute. Even if I could find one, would there be enough distance from the top of the tower to properly deploy it before I hit the ground?
    As I looked out over the Hudson River through the crisp morning air, I noticed with amazing clarity the tiny boats out on the water. The air was littered with scraps of paper and other floating debris wafted up and about in the surging air currents. As I watched the opposite World Trade Tower began its painful descent, a beautiful series of rhyming verses sprung from my throat in a wailing melodic song I screamed into the air.
    I crossed the roof to lie cradled in my mother’s arms, and from high above I watched myself crying there as the end music swelled – a chorus singing: “If We Only Had Love.”

    From far below came a rumbling sound as my tower began its fall, taking me and my mother with it.
    I awoke.

Something connected the dream with the impact of this video:

Copyright © 2016 by Bob Boldt


  1. This is a follow-up comment on my dream of "night June 1-2."

    I don't think I should report my dream about President-Elect Donald J. Trump's first press conference, early on the morning of November 2, 2016, even before President Obama has conceded. It's a raucous event at Trump's campaign headquarters. His followers are jubilating crazily, and The Donald's demeanor has passed from flamboyantly narcissistic to psychotically megalomaniacal. He has no prepared notes, preferring instead to fly over the crowd and the election process that specifies his taking office in January to announce he is immediately launching his Official Presidential Reality Show. A shot rings out. One of the women in the Secret Service has buggered all and blasted Trump in the wave of his carrot hair at the nape of his neck, sending lead into the reptile regions of what his followers and reluctant Republican-Establishment supporters have believed was his brain.
        I don't think I should report that, because it was my dream only in the waking sense of an idea from my muse for a fantasy short story that I might – but probably wouldn't – write.
        There wasn't a sleeping dream last night – at least none that I could detect any of the three times I woke up to pee. And I remembered every time to check. Nada.
        But was I waiting intently enough to check? Was I giving up too soon, no doubt urged to hurry and go relieve my bladder (or whatever of my anatomy it is that wakes me up at night)?

    1. Of course, it wouldn't be President Obama who conceded, but it wasn't clear who Trump's Democratic opponent had turned out to be.

  2. Bob, I'm finding that comments on my dream posted as "Sleeping and waking" have concentrated on conjectures about their meaning or significance for personal insight.
        In the case of your 9/11 dream, I am myself having no ideas to propose for you. Your dream (your dreams, plural) seem somehow of a different order. I think you said your dreams seemed to have become "iconic," which might explain it, but I'm not sure what you meant by "iconic."
        Also, the sheer amount of detail confuses attempts to divine "personal meaning or significance."