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Believe in Something

by Dr David, Editor / Publisher

Hartford, where I'm from, is like Avis to New York's Hertz; "We try harder." Not New York, but still in the neighborhood, Hartford has something to prove. This particularly applied to my father's generation. Children of immigrants growing up during the Depression, they were a tough crowd. We, their children, brought up in wealthy, suburban West Hartford, are a lot softer.

Last night I had a dream about one of us suburban "children," a man I knew back up in West Hartford, George by name. Our fathers grew up in the same neighborhood. His father, Sam, was a friend of Dad's youngest brother, my slightly daffy Uncle Joe. Dad told me that when there wasn't enough food in Sam's house to feed everyone in the family, Sam's father would take it into the bedroom and eat it there himself.

Sam told George that he had almost married Dad's baby sister, my Aunt Esther. Dad laughed when I mentioned this to him and told me, "I said to my sister, 'You know why this guy keeps coming by the house, don't you?' She exclaimed, 'Ewwww!'"


In the dream my friend George and I are together in a comfortable, homey, smallish community center. George was the owner of the facility. It was big enough to house two thermal pools, a small theater, a dining area and a large multi-purpose recreation room, just in what I saw of it, as he was showing me around.

We pass five festive folks eating and drinking vodka at a poolside table. In their bathing attire, it has the air of a picnic. They are Russian immigrants (common in West Hartford)..

We arrive in a large recreation room, where there is another group of festive people; this time 15 or so. Everyone sure is having a good time. Everything is welcoming and entertaining, especially George. Everything he does is magnanimous. The perfect host, charming, graceful, attentive, he really has it together.

Taking it all in while seated on the couch, I notice that the show playing on the television set is cataloging the secrets of existence. Right there on the tube esoteric and scientific mysteries, everything I've always wanted to know is being clearly, leisurely presented "in living color." I'm sure that there is even a rewind function.

L. Ron Hubbard

Looking down I notice a thick book on a coffee table in front of me. It is an illustrated guide to the spiritual cosmology of the universe, by L. Ron Hubbard. I open the book to a section revealing the two master codes of the universe. These are written like the hashtags people use on social media (the search tags we are using, in waking reality, on my Lokkal project, see below this article), phrases, words without spaces between them and with a hashtag before them, #verymuchlikethis.

Coming back from making his rounds, George lets me know that it is time to leave, then interrupts himself to suggest that we have a meal first. Could I be any happier?

Later, outside the building (now morphed into a farmhouse) it is a pleasant summer night. The property is large, several acres at least, a homestead from an earlier epoch with suburbia grown up around it. This George has inherited from his father. There are stately old trees, lawn and gardens. In the shadows I can see that the yard is a very homey space.

Then, George is driving us slowly down the driveway. Close to the gate is something blocking our way. George declines my offer to get out and move it, assuring me that we can get by. There is very little room for maneuvering, but the car moves nimbly around the obstacle, as if steered with both its front and back wheels.

End of dream

In real life George and I never spent a lot of time together. Still, our interactions were always meaningful. Ours was an easy communication, culturally, familially and personally. We laughed a lot; what should we do, cry?

We have a lot in common, and while he's not my twin, in a dream, he's an excellent stand-in for me. I follow the school of dream interpretation where everything in the dream is you. If someone is chasing you with a knife, you are also that someone and the knife.

When Sam died, George and his brother, fully took over their father's money-lending business. They lowered interest rates and generally acted more humanely than Sam had. The greater autonomy and responsibility added to George's self-respect. Being free of his father's physical presence and having more money didn't hurt, either.


I also struggle to come to terms with my paternal influence. My father was a wiseguy. He had the lines, the banter, the repartee. Think of one of those Film noir anti-heroes types, independent to a fault. Like Humphrey Bogart, Dad had his softer side, but, as with Bogie, you didn't very often get to see it. He was a good provider. My sense of Dad taking care of things has remained with me. But then, in a more neurotic way, so too has my sense of Dad screwing things up.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." - Santayana

Much of my emotional life has been blindly suffering or trying to improve what I inherited from my family; a process of discovering and repairing my feelings. Childishly I still fantasize about someone coming along and taking care of me, doing what needs to be done. (Most recently this has focused on getting a sponsor to help with my Lokkal project, see below.) Almost always I find that I have to do it myself.

I understand now that, back in West Hartford, I didn't cultivate a friendship with George, because I wasn't a good enough friend to myself. I interpret the dream to mean that now, having learned to take better care of myself, I am better able to receive the assistance of others. Friendlier to myself, I can now accept the friendship of others.

Looking back on the dream, I don't remember a time, awake or asleep, when I have been so content, except maybe for a moment a few days before when I just had to stop my bicycle in a sun-filled, hillside alleyway in Colonia Allende, because the moment was so beautiful.

L. Ron Hubbard, who wrote the coffee-table book on the mysteries of life in my dream, was the founder of Scientology, the much maligned movement. His masterwork, Dianetics, propounds a highly detailed spiritual cosmology that is strange, to say the least. His appearance in my dream reminds me of another perhaps strange idea:

The interpretation of a dream is at least as important as the dream itself. How you interpret your experience creates (all you know about) your experience. The act of interpreting is of chief importance, conferring significance on what we are interpreting.

Yesterday I was listening to Noam Chomsky asserting that we are programmed for language: a two year old, with their very minimal exposure already has a masterful understanding of the way language functions. He suggested that we might also be programmed for morality. To this short list I would add belief. We are believing beings.

I don't think we can get away from belief. Much of what is going on in US politics has a sense of religion: fervor, dogma, obscurantism, liturgy, canceling of heretics... Many Woke protesters are trying to fill what has been referred to as a "God-like hole." "When you don't believe in God, you will believe anything."

Others elevate science to fill the hole. But Chomsky (a much better scientist than he is a politician) is clear about the extreme limitations of our ability to know anything beyond the quantitative phenomenon of life, and beyond that is where most of our life and everything really interesting lies.

Adhering to things we cannot prove scientifically is what we do. Poetry and dream interpretation are ways of approaching the Great Irrational, that which lies beyond our ability to know, that which we cannot grasp with our thoughts.

I might not agree with the worldviews of L. Ron Hubbard or religion X, but I might agree that the worldviews of L. Ron Hubbard or religion X are adding meaning to the lives of their adherents.

Believe in something.



Lokkal is San Miguel's digital town square.
It is the local internet channel where you can find everything, businesses, people, rentals, clubs, schools...

There is local TV and local radio. There are local newspapers.
Lokkal is local internet.


Lokkal is a social network, like Facebook, where you can make a profile, pages, posts and comment on posts; except Lokkal is geographically-specific (just for the city) and it is easy to search.

On Lokkal it is easy to find what interests you and to reach everyone who is interested in you.

Choose tags for your content (profile, page, post, event listing) and when users search for those tags they find your content.

(This is an innovative search technology; no one has it, yet. Hashtags do not work this way on Instagram or anywhere else, yet.)

Global search engines (Google) and global social networks (Facebook, Instagram) do not work locally.

Local search on Google yields a mountain of irrelevant results.
On Facebook or Instagram only a small percentage of a local business' uploaded content reaches to the local audience, whom the local business owner wants to reach.

Everyone is shouting "Global. Global." Lokkal shouts "Local."

Lokkal is an economic platform, organizing and empowering the local economy, keeping the money flowing locally.

A digital mall, connecting the community, Lokkal is the one place to go for everything SMA.

If you would like to help or learn more, please email at the address below.

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