This Fourth of July I awoke from one of the most powerful dreams of my life.
Elizabeth and I had somehow been invited to work with a beautiful tribe of Native Americans on a new mystery television series. We had both been given an extraordinary creative opportunity that had appeared completely out of nowhere, and we were both genuinely happy. She went off with the women of the tribe to learn their cooking.
I then found myself in a writers’ room was inside an old prison cell beneath a church.
The image has stayed with me all day.
As a writer, that prison cell now feels like the perfect metaphor. Writing can feel like both a sanctuary and a prison. A story won’t let you leave until you’ve found its truth. There is joy in it, but there is also responsibility. Every storyteller knows the feeling of living inside that cell until the work is finished.
The leader of the group was the sheriff from Dark Winds. He was the respected elder, and at first he clearly didn’t want me there. Every idea I offered seemed to be dismissed before I could even finish explaining it.
One idea never made it out of my mouth.
I imagined the heroine arriving in a beautifully restored 1950s automobile—perhaps converted to electric power—a woman who honored tradition while embracing the future. Before I could paint the picture, the sheriff cut me off.
To counter this, I began talking about my own life.
I told him I had once built skyscrapers. In the dream I said several. In waking life I led one skyscraper project while spending years helping shape many others. Dreams don’t always speak in literal facts. Sometimes they speak in emotional truth.
Then I surprised myself.
I invited the sheriff and his young braves to my funeral.
Not because I was dwelling on death, but because I knew we were all going to become dear friends. I told them I was the old man in the room, that they were young, and they would almost certainly outlive me. Someday, years from now, I imagined the tribe gathering to celebrate my life because our friendship had become that deep.
That changed everything.
The room softened.
The sheriff finally listened.
I described my heroine, a Native woman, whose tribe had discovered gold generations earlier, making her extraordinarily wealthy. Suddenly the sheriff and I weren’t competing anymore.
We were collaborating.
Later we were outside together. Tiny little bears wandered among us. I gently tickled one on its belly until it relaxed so completely that it simply rolled over in trust.
The sheriff then offered an idea of his own.
He wanted the villain to be a white man.
I smiled, bumped my fist against his, and told him it was perfect. In the dream I imagined the character as a MAGA figure who would find enlightenment about his racsim limiting his life, but what mattered wasn’t politics. What mattered was that we were no longer protecting our own ideas. We were building something together.
I hurried back toward the writers’ room beneath the church to write everything down before I forgot it.
In my hands I carried a strange object—a light silver-gray gun with ten barrels. It didn’t feel like a weapon. Looking back, I believe it represented my ten best screenplays, five of which Elizabeth has in realm life run through a Swiss based AI called Largo that has having a $2 billion potential box office. Decades of ideas branching into more ideas until they sometimes become so large and complex that they take years to untangle.
As I approached the prison cell, the gun became loose and awkward. I couldn’t carry it anymore.
I set it down.
When I reached the writers’ room, I couldn’t find the doorway.
Inside, however, I could sense an extraordinary spiritual energy. Brilliant sparks danced through the room. It wasn’t frightening. It was magnificent.
I wasn’t frustrated that I couldn’t get in.
I simply stood there in awe.
As I’ve reflected on the dream throughout the day, another realization arrived.
The sheriff wasn’t just the sheriff.
He was Darren Dean. An award winning producer who has worked with Oscar winning director Sean Baker. I am blessed that Dareen is consulting with me on a polish of SECRET INGREDIENTS. I’ve found my tribe.
For thirty years I built a second life as a storyteller after leaving real estate. The architect in me never disappeared. He simply learned to build with characters instead of concrete.
I’m going to finish my life as a storyteller.
I’m going to finish it beside Elizabeth, whose faith in me has never wavered, even when mine has.
And perhaps most importantly, I’m going to create amazing friends.
On this 250th birthday of America, amid all the division, noise, and uncertainty surrounding us, my dream offered a different vision.
Story & Plot: Ken Sheetz Dialogue & Formatting: Ken Sheetz assisted by ChatGPT
A non-commercial Star Trek fan fiction tribute, complete with tribute commercial breaks. Written with my deep respect for Star Trek, Gene Roddenberry, Lucille Ball, and the original series cast and crew.
TITLE SHOT
XMAS SHORE LEAVE
ACT 1
FADE IN:
EXT. SPACE — THE U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
The Enterprise glides through a shimmering blue-white nebula, her hull catching the soft, prismatic light of 3i/Atlas, sparkling like a giant ornament suspended in space.
KIRK (V.O.) — CAPTAIN’S LOG
Captain’s log, Stardate 1709.3. After a recent transporter malfunction gave me the worst case of split personality any captain could hope to survive… the Enterprise is en route to Earth. Lieutenant Uhura has arranged an unprecedented gathering—families of the crew assembled for a Christmas celebration at Earth’s North Pole. (beat) Starfleet calls it morale. I call it… overdue.
INT. ENTERPRISE — KIRK’S QUARTERS
KIRK stands at his desk, turning an old handmade Earth ornament in his fingers.
WHOOSH. The door opens.
SPOCK enters, rigid, troubled.
SPOCK Captain. I must formally object to attending this sentimental holiday gathering of an outdated ritual.
KIRK Good morning to you too, Mister Spock.
SPOCK I insist on remaining aboard the Enterprise with a skeleton crew while you and the others visit your families for the Xmas party.
Kirk turns, studying him.
KIRK Spock… you’re six months into a five-year mission. And, well—you’re um—
WHOOSH.
MCCOY enters mid-sentence.
MCCOY —I believe the phrase you’re lookin’ for, Jim, is “socially awkward.”
Spock stiffens.
SPOCK Doctor, I fail to see the need to mock my distaste for human’s dependence on familial love.
MCCOY —You never do.
KIRK Bones.
MCCOY What? The man treats Christmas like a communicable disease.
SPOCK That is inaccurate. I merely find the holiday… inefficient.
KIRK Inefficient?
SPOCK An elderly human distributing gifts via non-logical means. A pine tree indoors. And a birth celebration shared by unrelated mythological figures. What does a baby Jesus and a white bearded man in a sleigh have in common?
McCoy points at Spock with his thumb as he gripes to Kirk.
MCCOY See? Already missing the point.
Kirk steps closer, gentler.
KIRK Spock… this isn’t about Santa or theology. It’s about people remembering who they are when they’re not wearing uniforms.
Spock considers.
SPOCK Vulcans do not celebrate—
MCCOY —Joy. We know.
A beat.
KIRK Lieutenant Uhura has arranged a cultural research exhibit.
Spock’s eyebrow lifts.
SPOCK Define “research exhibit.”
KIRK (smiling) A Santa Claus android.
Silence.
SPOCK …I will require direct observation.
MCCOY Hook, line, and mistletoe.
KIRK Pack a parka, gentlemen.
EXT. EARTH — NORTH POLE — DAY
Brightly decorated to respect all faiths we see a Federation installation, half research station, half winter festival. Snow drifts gently. Laughter fills the air.
MONTAGE — “HAPPY HOLIDAYS AMONG THE STARS”
UHURA ice skates through the gathering, greeting families of many religions in many languages.
SULU skates badly with cousins, laughing harder than anyone.
SCOTTY introduces his mother to the transporter room with visible terror.
CHEKOV, no family, sadly watches other crew and families reunite… until MCCOY’S SOUTHERN FAMILY sweeps him in.
MCCOY’S MOTHER You eat. You’re too thin.
CHEKOV …Da?
McCoy watches, softened.
INT. NORTH POLE FESTIVAL — KIRK FAMILY QUARTERS
A modest but warm space. A small tree. Old Earth photographs. Snow taps softly at the window.
GEORGE KIRK (early 60s, steady, thoughtful) pours coffee. WINONA KIRK (warm, perceptive) adjusts decorations. GEORGE SAMUEL KIRK JR. (late 30s, grounded, wry) looks up as the door opens.
KIRK enters with SPOCK.
For a half-beat, Kirk isn’t a captain — he’s a son.
KIRK Mom. Dad. This is Commander Spock… my First Officer.
Spock inclines his head.
SPOCK It is a pleasure to meet you.
George Jr. steps forward first, offering a hand.
GEORGE SAMUEL KIRK JR. Jim’s said a lot about you. (pauses, smiles) Most of it flattering. That’s how I know it must be true.
Spock blinks, surprised, then accepts the handshake.
SPOCK Your assessment is… appreciated.
Winona studies Spock with gentle curiosity.
WINONA KIRK You’re welcome here, Commander. Anyone who keeps my son alive out there… (smiles) …is already family.
Spock stiffens slightly at the word family.
George Kirk watches Jim — proud, quietly.
GEORGE KIRK James always had trouble slowing down. I imagine you help with that.
SPOCK I attempt to mitigate unnecessary risk.
Kirk grins.
KIRK He means he saves my life on a regular basis.
A small, uncomfortable beat.
Winona pours tea for Spock, hands it to him.
WINONA KIRK And your family, Commander? Your mother… is she not joining us today?
The room stills.
Spock straightens, defensive without raising his voice.
SPOCK My mother resides on Vulcan. Her presence here would be… impractical.
Kirk senses it immediately.
KIRK Mom—
Winona gently raises a hand, unoffended.
WINONA KIRK I didn’t mean to pry.
Spock exhales — barely.
SPOCK She is human. (pauses) Her absence is… logical.
George Jr. clocks the tension.
GEORGE SAMUEL KIRK JR. Well, then it’s good you’re here.
Spock looks at him.
GEORGE SAMUEL KIRK JR. (cont.) Nobody should have to explain where they come from… just to belong.
Spock considers this — longer than usual.
SPOCK …That is a generous interpretation.
Winona smiles softly.
WINONA KIRK Christmas tends to bring those out.
She gestures to the tree.
WINONA KIRK (cont.) Sit. All of you. Before the universe needs saving again.
They sit.
For a moment, no ranks. No missions.
Just people.
Kirk catches Spock’s eye — grateful.
Spock gives the smallest nod.
INT. FESTIVAL HALL — SANTA ANDROID DISPLAY
The SANTA ANDROID distributes gifts with flawless precision.
A despondent Spock circles it as Kirk looks on.
SANTA ANDROID
Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas, Officer Spock.
SPOCK Curious. How do you know my name?
SANTA ANDROID
I know when you’ve sleeping. I know when you’re awake. I certainly your name as well as everyone else in the Federation. Merry Christmas, Captain Kirk.
KIRK Ho, ho, ho back at you.
SPOCK I find it deeply disturbing that an Android knows the names of every Federation citizen and their behavior, both good and bad. What if this artificial Santa fell into enemy hands?
SANTA ANDROID
In such a case I am programmed to self destruct!
SPOCK Insufficient.
As if on cue a red alert sounds.
RED ALERT
KLINGON TRANSPORT SIGNATURES FLASH.
KLINGON WARRIORS materialize. Panic.
A KLINGON COMMANDER grabs KIRK’S MOTHER, disruptor raised.
KLINGON COMMANDER James Kirk. Turn over your Santa — disarmed… or your Earth rituals end here.
Kirk freezes.
Spock steps forward.
SPOCK Emotion now would be… inefficient.
MCCOY For once, I agree.
Kirk meets his mother’s eyes. She nods.
KIRK You picked the wrong planet… and the wrong holiday.
FADE OUT.
COMMERCIAL BREAK
CHEVROLET — 1967
Black and white. A Chevy pulls into a snowy driveway.
ANNOUNCER: This Christmas, give your family confidence. Power you can trust. Comfort you can feel. Chevrolet. Putting you on the road… to a brighter tomorrow.
ACT II
INT. FESTIVAL HALL — CONTINUOUS
Klingons hold civilians at disruptor-point.
SPOCK steps forward.
SPOCK Your actions violate Klingon Honor Code, Section Twelve.
KLINGON COMMANDER There is no honor in human weakness.
A frightened CHILD drops a snowball.
Kirk scoops one up—THUMP—into a Klingon’s chest.
MCCOY Jim… please tell me you have a plan.
A snowball flies back.
Suddenly— A SNOWBALL FIGHT ERUPTS.
Laughter. Shock.
A snowball hits Spock.
He looks at it… then throws one back. Perfect.
The room ROARS.
The Commander raises his blade.
KLINGON COMMANDER Enough!
Silence.
KIRK I give you a choice.
SPOCK Klingon tradition permits contests of skill in place of bloodshed.
KIRK A race. Rocket sleds. To the true North Pole. No weapons. No hostages.
KLINGON COMMANDER And the prize?
KIRK You win—you get what you came for. We win—you leave Earth. Forever.
A beat.
KLINGON COMMANDER Prepare your sleds.
FADE TO BLACK
COMMERCIAL BREAK
PEPSI — “COME ALIVE!”
Fast cuts. Laughter. Bottles popping.
ANNOUNCER: This holiday season… come alive with Pepsi.
ACT III
EXT. ARCTIC EXPANSE — DAY
Two ROCKET SLEDS idle at the start line.
MCCOY (O.S.) If you die on Christmas, I am never forgiving you!
KIRK Fair.
KLINGON COMMANDER Begin!
The sleds LAUNCH.
THE RACE
The Klingon sled surges ahead, engines screaming.
SPOCK Their engines are operating beyond safe parameters.
KIRK They like to win loud.
A massive ICE RIDGE looms ahead.
The Klingons veer around it the long way.
Spock studies the ice… then Kirk.
SPOCK The challenge prohibits weapons against opponents. It does not prohibit… terrain modification.
Kirk grins.
KIRK How fast can you make a door?
Spock raises his PHASER.
SPOCK Approximately three seconds.
A precise PHASER BEAM carves a glowing TUNNEL THROUGH THE ICEBERG.
Steam. Blue light.
Kirk steers straight in.
INT. ICE TUNNEL — CONTINUOUS
The sled rockets through shimmering ice walls.
KIRK Remind me never to play chess with you again.
SPOCK Noted.
They burst out the far side—
EXT. TRUE NORTH POLE — MOMENTS LATER
Kirk stops at precise coordinates.
Spock steps off, plants a FEDERATION MARKER.
SPOCK Position confirmed. True geomagnetic North.
The Klingons arrive moments later, stunned.
KLINGON COMMANDER You cheated.
SPOCK Negative. We innovated.
Kirk steps forward.
KIRK You challenged us to reach the Pole. We did. First.
The Commander exhales.
KLINGON COMMANDER …Victory without combat.
(beat)
KLINGON COMMANDER You understand honor… dangerously well.
The Klingons TRANSPORT OUT.
EXT. NORTH POLE — LATER
The party resumes.
Chekov eats with McCoy’s family.
Spock studies the Santa android again.
SPOCK Generosity appears to strengthen group cohesion.
KIRK That’s the secret.
The android hands Spock a gift.
A ROCKET SLED ORNAMENT.
Spock pockets it.
MCCOY I told you. Contagious.
BUTTON
INT. ENTERPRISE — BRIDGE
Stars stretch.
KIRK (V.O.) — CAPTAIN’S LOG Stardate 1709.9. Christmas reminded us that strength is not what we take… but what we protect.
Kirk notices the ornament hanging discreetly near Spock’s console.
KIRK Mister Spock… how was your first Christmas?
Spock considers.
SPOCK Illogical. (beat) But… satisfactory.
MCCOY Great. Next year he’ll be caroling.
Kirk leans back, smiling.
KIRK Merry Christmas, gentlemen.
FADE OUT.
END
FINAL CARD
With Deep Gratitude
This tribute honors Lucille Ball, whose courage and vision helped bring Star Trek to life— a future where racism, sexism, and greed no longer define humanity, and where cooperation, curiosity, and compassion lead the way.
Live long and prosper in whatever way you celebrate the holidays.
Last night I had an extraordinary dream about my estranged daughter, Janelle — the second powerful dream of her I’ve had recently. This one left me overflowing with joy and a quiet, astonishing hope. It felt important to record it here, for myself and for readers who might be navigating similar family fractures or longing for reconciliation.
For context: Janelle was only ten when her mother and I went our separate ways. Becoming a weekend Disneyland Dad was the hardest transition of my life. I did my best, but the distance that forms in those situations — physical, emotional, spiritual — is real and it takes its toll.
Our final break came much later, when she was 31, during a difficult time for my family. My brother was hospitalized, and I became angry when Janelle didn’t want to visit him. In hindsight, my anger was misplaced. He had behaved horribly to her once, on her eighth birthday, and she owed him nothing. My reaction created a rift neither of us has bridged for fourteen years.
All that is the past. Last night’s dream felt like a glimpse of a possible future — one filled with warmth, forgiveness, and the spark of reconnection.
The Dream
I was hiking through a vast parking lot at dusk, the last light of the sun melting behind the horizon. Ahead of me sat a convertible semi-truck cab — top down — with a cosmic paint job swirling like a living galaxy.
From my low angle, I recognized someone in the back seat.
“Janelle?” I called softly.
She hesitated — torn — before her husband Jason asked, “Who’s asking?”
“Her father,” I replied.
Before he could say another word, Janelle answered, “It’s me. I’m coming down.”
She stepped from the truck with a wistful smile, years of distance and love braided together on her face. When she opened her arms, I stepped into an embrace I’ve waited fourteen years for.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I whispered.
“Me too,” she said — a sigh that carried healing.
“Any kids?” I asked.
“A son. Marty.” She pointed toward a seven-year-old playing with other children. He had an unusual hook-shaped nose with a yellow-green tip, but I didn’t comment — only thought maybe that was something I could help her fix someday.
He looked up at me curiously. “Who are you?”
“Your grandfather,” I said proudly.
“What’s a grandfather?” he asked.
“The father before your father,” I told him. “A grand one.”
Janelle chuckled — and just hearing her laugh again, even in a dream, was a gift.
When I woke, the clock glowed 3:30 AM — my old Antarctica alarm clock still ticking faithfully after all these years. Elizabeth was sound asleep. I held the dream to my heart for an hour before sharing it with her at dawn.
ChatGPT Dream Analysis
To gain some distance I asked ChatGPT to explore the deeper meaning of this dream. What follows is its interpretation, which resonated with me:
1. Dusk and the Parking Lot — A Liminal Space
Dusk is the threshold between clarity and mystery. A parking lot is a place of pause, not permanence.
Together they signal: You are in a transitional moment with Janelle. A chapter where something new can begin.
2. The Cosmic Convertible Semi — A Vehicle of Destiny
A semi truck symbolizes strength, endurance, and long-haul journeys. A convertible symbolizes openness. The cosmic paint job symbolizes DreamShield energy — guidance, timing, alignment.
This suggests that your reconnection may not come from force, but from timing and openness guided by something larger than both of you.
3. Janelle’s Hesitation — And Her Choice
Her torn look reflects her real internal conflict — longing mixed with fear.
Jason’s protective “Who’s asking?” embodies past boundaries and old wounds.
But grace enters here:
Janelle overrides him. She chooses connection.
“I’m coming down” symbolizes stepping down from emotional distance into equal ground.
4. The Embrace — Pure Heart
Dream embraces bypass ego entirely. They are emotional truth.
Her sighing “Me too” is your psyche showing you the possibility — and desire — for reconciliation.
5. Marty — The Lineage Reawakening
His unusual nose is symbolic, not literal:
Yellow-green: healing, growth, renewal
Hook shape: something catching and pulling you into family again
Your instinct to “help fix it’’ reflects your desire to heal the generational storyline.
His innocence — “What’s a grandfather?” — gives you the chance to reclaim your role with humor and warmth.
6. Waking at 3:30 AM — The Hour of Intuition
This is when the subconscious speaks loudest.
Your Antarctic clock links this dream to the spiritual clarity you gained on 12.12.12 — the sense that the universe sometimes speaks in symbols, timing, and dreams.
The Deeper Meaning
According to the interpretation, this dream reflects:
your readiness for forgiveness
your longing to heal generational wounds
your hope for reconnection
Janelle’s place returning to the center of your inner world
the possibility — not fantasy — of real-world reunion
It is a dream not of memory, but of potential.
The message beneath it:
“Prepare your heart. The story with Janelle is not over.”
From Personal Healing to National Healing
And I’m back. As I sat with this dream, I realized something deeper: the reconnection I hope for with my daughter mirrors the reconnection hope of many of us our country.
We are a nation estranged from ourselves. MAGA and liberal America have become like family members who no longer speak, who assume the worst, who carry old wounds in silence.
But if a father and daughter separated for fourteen years can find their way back to one another — even in the symbolic landscape of a dream — then maybe a country can too.
Dreams show what the heart still believes is possible.
And my heart believes reconciliation — personal and political — is still within reach.
May we all find our way back to each other. One embrace at a time.
Especially for me and Janelle who is an amazing huger and who I badly want Elizabeth to meet.
Last night at AFM — presenting my SUMMER RULES before 250 film indistry people — reminded me why filmmaking is never a solo sport.
Elizabeth and I were rolling into our SUMMER RULES presentation, with Elizabeth sharing how Largo AI, host of the AFM event, projects our tender romantic adventure that takes place the summer of 2002 about a couple who meet in group therapy for dealing with losing a spouse on 9/121 looks to gross $723 million with 83% confidence — a stat so wild and wonderful the audience actually gasped.
And just as I repeated the amazing $723 blockbuster data discovery, right on that gasp — BAM — the hall doors blew open at the back of the gathering and a cluster of young peeps tumbled in giggling like they’d wandered into the wrong universe.
It threw me off just enough that my next line evaporated mid-air. I’d joked to Elizabeth the night before that the Largo number was all we needed to say… and maybe I jinxed myself by planting that seed, because that’s exactly where everything went sideways.
But this is where the magic of partnership kicked in.
Before the moment could tip awkward, I turned to Elizabeth with a shrug and said, “Babe, I got nothing.” Without skipping a beat Elizabeth stepped up with total grace, caught the flow of the pitch, “Summer Rules is a tender romantic adventure set in the summer of 2002…” and handed it back to me next line like we’d rehearsed the interruption. Finding my footing again I went back on script with how pleased I was that Largo confirmed what the great Ed Asner multiple Golden Globe and Emmy winner once told that Summer Rule was one of best screenplays he’d ever read.
One smooth save leading to a smooth recovery — the kind that only happens when you’ve done life and art together long enough to read each other’s energy in real time.
We finished strong. Stronger than if the moment had gone flawlessly. Because the room didn’t just see two filmmakers pitching a movie. They saw a team.
At the after-party, people kept coming up to say it: the stumble and $723 million discovery wasn’t what stood out — the recovery did. The way Elizabeth caught the beat. The way we kept going. The way we supported each other. That, they said, told them everything they needed to know about what kind of filmmakers we are.
So today, I’m grateful. Grateful for AFM. Grateful for a room full of good energy. Grateful that even a rogue door explosion couldn’t shake us. And especially grateful for Elizabeth — my producing partner, my cosmic co-captain, and the steady hand that turns chaos into story, my wife
In 2020, during the lonely, chaotic depths of Covid, so many friends lost to the psyop that is still running on social media, Elizabeth I did what I we always do when the world goes sideways — we meditated.
Here on DreamShieldPlanetaryMeditations.com, I was deep into my Meditations on Trump series, trying to decode the karmic madness of America’s orange wrecking ball. Then something cracked open.
A vision. A fever dream. A feral alternate reality where satire, sci-fi, and spiritual justice collided in glorious chaos.
Too vivid to ignore. Too funny. Too true.
For two years, I tried to contain it here — until it outgrew the meditation rug. On May 21, 2022, on the amazing new site built by Elizabeth, we launched TrumpsFeverDream.com, and the beast took flight.
What started as a metaphysical impulse became a 19-chapter, two-year creative odyssey. And in 2023, when I began writing the fictional premise that Trump would cheat and win the 2024 election, I thought I was being wildly imaginative.
Then Trump pulled off wins in seven swing states in real life.
And I looked at Elizabeth and said, “Holy shit. A hack, like I predicted? ” As usual she got me grounded with some yoga. Afterward, like a man possessed, I kept writing and writing and writing. Hoping against hope that my prediction Biden would — as I wrote fictionally, lock Trump up and pass the baton to Kamala — come true.
All this tuning into a Trump of another universe, though fictional, an orange dude far too much like our own, a fiendish cad who became overconfident and rejected Musk — his fatal mistake in our tale — was taking a toll on my beautiful relationship Elizabeth and our film and tech businesses. I pleaded for the time. And lucky for fans, she agreed on one condition. She would narrate the story to share the fever dream with me even it made also her a target for potential haters. Her bravery and love inspired me in ways I can’t describe. And we both hope there’s enough of a sense of humor and wonder out there for this story to find a publisher, maybe for a TV series, but even if it’s just been the blog we’re happy and proud of our work together.
As she narrated every chapter I cranked out, on grueling schedule of one new chapter per week, launching J6 until June 14th King’s Day, Elizabeth kept pushing me to channel my fury into purpose. Together we co-created an end to the Trump fever dream, at least at least in this fictional alternate reality. And on we pushed as fascism, tariff wars, ICE raids and threats WW3 rose and fell on waves of palpable fear, on we shaped the Mar-a-Lago Prison arc, set between the hacked election and the 2025 inauguration.
And what a final act it became.
The story introduces Trump’s caretakers in Mar-a-Lago Prison, where the stress being Biden’s captive has caused a rapid onset of dementia. Robert Tulsa, Trump’s Black bodyman with secrets and a quiet dignity. He turns over the evidence that solves Trump’s murder. Then there’s Special Agent Rogers, stoic, injured, loyal to the Constitution, and maybe just a bit heartbroken underneath it all. Last, Maria the Mexican maid/spy destined to save America…but not herself.
Let’s not forget our alternate universe Ron DeSantis, driven to madness by not being chosen as VP in Trump’s humiliating reality TV-style “Veep-a-Thon.” His bitterness festers into a sinister plot to become VP and invoke the 25th Amendment — not out of duty, but revenge for Trump humiliating him on reality TV. This Ron becomes Shakespearean in the worst Florida-man way.
And through all of it: An alternate reality Kamala Harris rises.
Not a cameo. Not a meme. But a president — calm, fierce, centered, powerful. The Kamala I wrote and Elizabeth voices is the kind of leader we wanted to believe in. And we’re damn proud of how good and strong a president she became in this universe.
Then there’s Arnold Schwarzenegger, who in this world is a man’s man we can still root for. He’s integrity with abs. And me, well, minus the abs. He’s flawed, stubborn, super annoying at times, but tries to do the right thing — a not-so-subtle stand-in for yours truly. Masculinity with heart. Strength in service of good.
This wasn’t just parody. This was exorcism. A soul-level purge of a shared American nightmare. And proof of the power meditation to create amazing stories.
And yes — I did the unthinkable. I ended both Trump’s and Biden’s stories.
Universe 48B25 — stands for.
48, for Trump declared the 48th president-elect not the 47th as in our reality.
B, for Biden’s final grace in stepping aside for Kamala as he should have in our own realioty.
25, for the year the fever finally breaks.
In this dreamed of reality, the left and right finally reunite. Not in unity, but in shared grief. Fascism falls. Truth rises. And maybe… humanity finds its footing again.
It’s the wildest, weirdest, most audacious Trump satire on Earth — bigger than Colbert, Meyers, Kimmel, and Fallon by the power of ten. “Not kidding around here” to quote Biden. Because TFD doesn’t just mock — it heals. And the popularity of SOUTH PARK shows there is willing and ready audience.
The DreamShield blog was born from a life-changing vision I experienced in Italy on May 10th, 2010. That date—5/10/2010—translates numerologically to 5+5+1+2+1 = 14, which reduces to 5. For the first time since that powerful experience, I looked up the meaning of the number 5 on Numerology.com. I was stunned by how precisely it captured the impact of that day on my life.
A key trait of the number 5 is curiosity and a deep need for a variety of exciting experiences to feel fulfilled. It craves freedom and adventure and isn’t afraid to let the wind carry it where it may. For the 5, life is not about setting goals and making plans—it’s about getting out there and experimenting. Anything that stirs the senses piques the 5’s interest, and it can’t wait to dive in.
That spirit perfectly captures the wild, unexpected detour my life took that day.
I had traveled to Santa Maria del Sole, a lush retreat in southern Italy, to film a workshop led by Connie Miller, founder of SoulDrama.com. During a group healing session led by a gifted healer named Guilia, I was simply a fly on the wall—no filming was allowed during the healing. So, I laid on my yoga mat and closed my eyes.
And then… it happened.
In a deep trance, I found myself soaring through Earth’s atmosphere at incredible speed, escorted by benevolent 8-foot-tall, blue-skinned extraterrestrials. Together, we formed two immense energy rings encircling the planet—one east-to-west, the other north-to-south. The two rings intersected right through the yoga hall. It was beautiful. Profound. Unforgettable.
And it shook me to my core.
When the session ended and I came out of the trance, I turned to Connie and asked softly, “Did you see them?” She smiled kindly and said no, but was glad I had. I hadn’t expected any of this—I was there to make a film. Yet, I had just witnessed something that felt more real than anything I had ever filmed.
Later, walking the idyllic grounds of Santa Maria del Sole, I felt… violated. Angry. Confused. The vision was so vivid, so overpowering, I feared I’d suffered a psychotic break. I kept the experience to myself and finished filming. I tried to find Guilia to tell her, but she was unavailable.
That night, I checked into a modest hotel in Puglia, my next stop before heading back to L.A., with a layover in Venice. My room, shaped like the inside of a beehive, was basic. Too exhausted to undress, I collapsed onto a narrow bed covered in a thin black bedspread.
Then the voice came.
Loud. Clear. Impossible to ignore.
“Do not be afraid. You have been chosen to help save humanity by building a dream shield around the Earth.”
I sat up, heart pounding, expecting to see an alien sitting in the desk chair. But I was alone.
“Who are you?” I asked aloud.
“Friends,” the voice replied. “And we want you to host meditation events to strengthen the DreamShield on 10.10.10, 11.11.11, and 12.12.12—to bring about a gentle end to the Mayan calendar.”
I didn’t speak aloud again, only internally.
“No one will come. I’m no meditation expert.”
Silence. Then tears welled in my eyes. Was I going crazy?
Feeling deeply unsettled, I got out of bed and called Santa Maria del Sole. This time, Guilia answered. She listened with fascination and encouraged me to return and record our conversation. I caught a taxi back that night and, with camera in hand, interviewed her in a breathless exchange where I broke my cardinal rule as a documentarian—I did most of the talking.
Sharing the vision out loud was healing. It grounded me. As the taxi drove back through the golden hills of Puglia and the sun dipped beneath the horizon, I felt calm. That night, I began to dream again—this time not with fear, but with awe.
Since that day in 2010, through all the storms and chaos that have followed, my connection with those blue-skinned travelers has only grown deeper. They are now, whether real or a product of my powerful creative imagination, part of my spiritual life. Guides. Allies. Friends.
I owe thanks to so many: to Guilia, for grounding me in that moment of crisis; to Connie Miller, for inviting me on this unexpected path; to my late friend Bradley Quick, who gifted me the trip to Italy in his place and to every one of you who has supported and shared in the DreamShield experience here and with your purchase of the finest in bio-hacking products my wife and partner Elizabeth offer at CoolestTechEver.com.
Here’s to dreaming together—boldly, curiously, and with the courage of a number 5 spirit. Happy 15th anniversary to the DreamShield!
Media, Meditations & Musings 