Every week or so, I have a dream involving the JFK assassination. It’s never realistic. I’m not in Dealey Plaza as it actually looks. I often don’t even see Kennedy. It’s much more abstract. I’m running through some generic city streets that are sort of stand ins for Dallas (I guess), and I’m aware that the shots are about to be fired, but I don’t know where. Or I’m watching something on television about the assassination, and suddenly I’m sucked through the screen and I’m somewhere unfamiliar and unrecognizable, and I’m scared I’m about to see something horrific, and then I hear the rifle shots.
I don’t know why this has become a recurring motif of my dreams. I wasn’t alive when it happened, so it’s something more indirect than reliving a traumatic experience—something metaphorical. If forced to guess, I suppose it has probably has something to do with fear of my own death, the threat of violence, dealing with loss, or just the fragility of life in general.
In the early 1990s, around the time of the 30th anniversary of the assassination, I became interested in exploring the assassination and read a few books. Stone’s JFK had just come out, so that was probably the catalyst for my interest. What became more fascinating to me than issues of bullet trajectories or missing autopsy reports or the time Oswald spent in the Soviet Union was the passion with which people held their opinions on the event. Single bullet or magic bullet. CIA or the Cubans. Grassy knoll or sixth floor. Whatever people thought about the assassination, they seemed to hold like a religious belief. I became aware that whatever the actual facts were didn’t matter. Any fact could be molded to fit a preconceived narrative. The question was then why did people choose certain narratives over others? What was at stake for them? Clearly, it had to be something, given my increasing conviction that rational argumentation had little to do with people’s thoughts.