Tag: work

The Startup Dream

Overall, this was a fun dream. Very colorful, sharp, and energetic. Young, I was with a tech startup company. There were about twenty of us, but we were having success and hiring to expand. None of them were recognized as people from my real life.

The atmosphere was jubilant, almost giddy. Then one male co-worker came in and told the CEO, “I know it’s not appropriate, but that woman you hired has a great ass.” I was mortified that he said that, but also intrigued: I wanted to see this ‘great ass’.

We launched a new product variation. It went well. A marketing campaign was initiated that involved people pretending to trash the office. That didn’t sit well with me, leaving me shaking my head and telling them that I didn’t agree with it, that I didn’t see the purpose, and that I was thought it was wrong and misleading. I watched several hirees going through breaking things as part of the campaign. When they were done, I was given a list of things to fix but discovered they hadn’t broken anything that I was tasked to fix.

A group of us left to go out on the town and celebrate. First there was the matter of changing clothes. I had some new garments and put them on, including shorts and sandals. I was with the others when I put my sandals on. Several people complimented me on me leg muscles. I answered, “Thanks, I walk ten to twelve miles a day.” I took special care about fastening my sandals, as the straps were different and unusual.

Then we left to find a place to eat and go dancing. End dream.

0

The Three Cats Dream

I was in a field behind apartments or buildings, not sure which. I looked across and saw a small cat. The cat seemed about six months old. Mostly white, it had a black tail, black spots on its head, and black. It was watching me. I thought it homeless. A stray. So, I moved toward it to help it. See if it was alright. As I did, I saw a second one. Identical markings and pose. It was toward my left. There’s two, I thought, then saw a third further left. They were situated like they sat at first, second, and third base on a ball field. I thought, how odd, and, they seemed healthy. But, I wanted to pet them and ensure they were okay. I didn’t see a mother cat. I also wondered why they were on this field.

While dealing with the cats, which didn’t avoid me but nor did they hurry to me, I ended up by a parking lot. Men with cars were there. One, young, white, with a black beard, began chatting with me. I decided to forestall where the conversation was going. I told him, “I don’t have employment for you. I’m sorry. I feel for you. I appreciate your situation. I don’t know the particulars but I know that you want to work. I know you’re eager to work but you can’t find work. And I’m sorry, but I don’t have any work for you.”

He told me that he appreciated my honesty but wanted to know how I’d made it. I told him I was lucky. Entered the military, stayed with it twenty years, and had some success with a combination of intelligence, work, and luck. I thought most of it was luck. But what did I do after that? Again, I was lucky. Joined startups, was promoted, ended up with IBM, kept on for fifteen years. Some hard work but a a lot of luck. Wasn’t trying to humbrag or nothing; trying to be straight with them. So, my advice, he wanted to know? “Find a toehold. Work hard. Hope to create separation from others but stay kind. Friendly. Positive. And just keep at it. Keep your fingers crossed that you’ll be lucky.”

Then, one of the cats came to me. I picked it up.

Dream end.

0

The Sick Dream

I was at work. Tired. Becoming more tired. Then, sleepy. Eyes were falling shut. Body slumping over. Nothing I could do.

A friendly co-worker, male, was trying to take care of me. Help me. But he was helpless. My work shift ended. He tried helping me leave. I couldn’t. Everything was a strain. He was telling me, “Come on, I’ll get you help.” I was replying, “I’m okay, I just want to sleep.”

Became separated from him. Found myself on a cement sidewalk by an asphalt road. An intersection. Naked. Crawling. Barely awake. Cars passing me. One, a black Chevy Suburban, stopped. The driver asked, “Are you alright? Do you need help?”

I kept going. Found clothes. Blue jeans. Pale tee shirt. Boots. Managed to dress. Get on my feet. Walked, swaying and stumbling. Eyes barely open. Brain coddled in thick pudding. Thoughts almost non-existent. Had garbage in a small white bag. Began looking to dispose of it. Saw a booth. Constructed of plywood. Took it there.

Food booth. The man behind the booth counter asked, “What do you want to order?”

I handed him the bag of garbage. He took it. Tossed it away behind him. “What do you want?”

Mute, I shook my head. Moved on. Thinking, sick. Still sick. But getting better. I was walking. On my feet. Swaying less. People began speaking to me. I began comprehending them. Interacting with them. Answering questions. Two young women joined me. They asked me if I need help. No, I was okay. Then, could I help them? They needed information.

Initially, I balked. Wasn’t my area. Didn’t know anything about it. Then I told them I would help. I would find the answers to their questions and get back to them. Trotted from one place to another, seeking answers. Inadvertently stumbled through someone’s garden while attempting a short cut. They’d just set it up. Planted it. Nothing was growing. Backing out, I fixed the damages. Then ran down to the other end of town. Thinking, anyone seeing me would think he runs everywhere.

I was running everywhere through a busy, hilly city. Felt good. The sickness was gone. I stopped running. Looked around to see where I was. Thought, where do I want to go?

Dream end.

0

Old Computer Dream

I’m at a work station. One those stands with a big tan CRT monitor on top, tower PC, keyboard on sliding tray. Something from the 1990s. Whole thing is just wide enough for the monitor. I’m one of many at such computer work stations. Large room. Wide and tall. I’m in the last row, on the end. Fourth one in line. This gives me space to my right. It’s open there and behind me.

Everyone is doing through thing. It’s a hubbub of clicking, clacking, talking, laughing. I’m doing my thing, reviewing files for a dead friend. The computer files on the screen on red. They fill the screen. When I print things out, the paper and folders are red. I suppose, when I’m wondering about the red while I’m dreaming, that the red is supposed to be symbolic of something. I don’t get it. Urgency? Warning? Don’t know. I’m also wondering why I’m going through folders about a dead guy. He’d been a friend but he died a while ago. My rational side intrudes: it’s your birthday. You’re sixty-five. Dead guy was a year older than you. Never lived to be sixty-five. Collect the dots.

Aha, dots probably collected. My wife is pestering me for specific information. This annoys me. She flits in to demand I look at something, sure that it’s important. I already looked and moved on while she wasn’t there. But she keeps coming back, asking to see specific files that I already read and closed.

Many others are behind me. Two women and a man are among them. The women are attractive. I gather that they’re foreigners. Maybe British and Scottish. They’re friends. I think one is with the guy. He seems American. He comes and goes. I keep catching snatches of the women’s conversation. They’re speaking of going someplace, doing something. I’m familiar with the areas and offer some unrequested advice, which they shun.

“Keep yourself to yourself,” I tell myself, sorting files on the computer. I’m testy with my wife as she comes and asks for information on a specific date and event. Without responding to her verbally, I search for the appropriate document, drilling down through information. She doesn’t realize what I’m doing and hectors me. I snap back with an explanation. She then goes away.

Meanwhile, the British and Scottish women have become friendlier. As if they sensed they rebuffed me and now want my friendship — or something — they step closer. I’m aware that they’re surreptitiously attempting to see what I’m doing. They make a subtle show of patting me on my shoulder, touching my arm.

It all confused and wearied me. I move off the dead man’s files. Why should I be involved with them? I find myself instead working on the files for another who worked for me. Investigating this person makes no more sense than checking the dead man’s files.

I understand it all when I awaken. The sense of dissatisfaction, frustration. The searching in myself for answers about directions and desires.

0

Monday’s Theme Music

5:42 AM came, bringing the sun — or did the sun bring the time? These are the things that are pondered when you awaken at an unexpected moment, along with the name of a favorite restaurant that you ate at one time in 1997, and obscure information, such as, what is the capitol of Paraguay, and other lines from Billy Collins’ poem, “Forgetfulness”. Then you find yourself trying to remember “What Dogs Think” and “A Dog on His Master” by Billy Collins, and then wonder, is Billy Collins still alive? Before you know it, it’s already 8:36 PM, and the sun is setting…

Unless you have pets, who remind you of your obligations to feed, love, and honor them, especially that feeding part, forcing you out of bed. My cats didn’t remind me of the day — who cares if it’s Monday, when you’re a cat doing the same thing every day? — and didn’t remind me of the date, May 24, 2021, because animals use a completely different calendar system. My cats assure me that their system is better. Every year is a floof year. They won’t explain what that means.

I was painting inside the house yesterday, attacking this year’s project, the great room. The great room is not great IMO. It’s just okay. It’s the living-dining-kitchen room, no walls between them, just one high ceiling. I painted the kitchen part last year after doing the foyer and front hall. I’d done the bathrooms and guest room the year before. You see the progression. I’d planned more painting last year, but then broke my arm after a poor dismount from the kitchen counter, which I was standing on to reinstall the kitchen blinds. The broken arm — two bones, at the wrist, and a buncha collateral damage — got me out of work, but I don’t recommend it. Just tell them that your cats stole the paint or something, if you don’t want to paint.

Anyway, while painting, I had Rihanna’s song, “Work”, going through my head for a while. You know, “work, work, work, work, work.” But Huey Lewis and the News took over the neurons with their 1982 song, “Workin’ for A Livin'”, and managed to stay there. Now I need to get rid of it, so I’m postin’ it here.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Cheers

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑