On Friday, I saw a picture of conservative journalist Michael Kelly, the first American reporter to die in Iraq.
That night, I had a dream. I was involved in a scheme to sneak into a heavily secured department store to obtain supplier lists for its Thanksgiving extravaganza. I recognized all of my goof-ball dream-mates, except the smallish quiet man with a mop of black hair who was always at my left side. Hours after waking up I realized that the silent partner in crime was Mr. Kelly. His obit photo had actually embedded itself into my head.
I confessed this to my husband, who in turn confided that in his dream, we took a wrong left turn on a roadtrip to Florida. We ended up in the Iraqi desert. In a minivan.
I cannot say why I dreamt of guards and espionage at Neiman Marcus. I dont want to know how ridiculous I must have looked in my husband's dream, squinting in the Iraqi sun, in sandals, a Minnie Mouse ring tube around my waist and zinc oxide on my nose, cursing the AAA Triptik. I feel certain, however, that despite (1) my fury at the constant pounding we take from the numbers driven news and (2) the fact that Mr. Kelly so actively supported the machinations of his death, all I have the heart to do is mumble that war coverage should not be confused with sweeps week, and that Mike's kids will miss him tonight and on through their next Unitarian Christmas Hanukah.
Cross-posted at Berlin Blog