This one is for my co-workers!

I had a fucked up dream. It wasn’t scary, or sad, or anything like that, just utterly ridiculous and fucked up. And as you might have guessed from the title of this post, all about work.

I usually never remember my dreams, but sometimes, when I am sleeping lightly, I remember them. This morning it was my bladder keeping me up with a fake UTI (seriously what the fuck is up with that? I don’t have an infection, but I kept feeling that painful urge to pee absolutely nothing but air? Just not right, bladder! Today I am chugging cranberry juice and lukewarm water.)

The dream played out thus: the entire lab was stuffed into a studio apartment, complete with bed, kitchen, computer, and tv. The studio belonged to Lindsey and her baby. It was night time, and Lindsey and the baby were busy doing baby things, and we were all finishing up on work when the case I was working on fell apart and thousands of radioactive “seeds” went EVERYWHERE. The desk, the carpeted floor, the kitchen, into the soup. Everyone went home, Lindsey and the baby went to bed, and I spent what felt like hours finding and picking seeds off the floor. Everytime I thought I found them all, a geiger sweep would tell me “no, there’s still these five over here, and oh look, there’s more over there!”

I’d wake up, try to pee (air, of course) and I’d go back dreaming where I left off…picking up radioactive seeds out of a shag carpet…three times that night.

I finally woke up for the day wondering what the hell? And certian today is gonna suck a bit. Hopefully not a lot, and hopefully, I won’t lose any seeds, cuz having prophetic powers is NOT what I want for Christmas.

A slight disturbance in the Force.

Early this morning, I had a slightly disturbing dream. I never remember much of my dreams, but I do remember grey-shadowed hills strewn with patches of pale flowers. Two monstrous creatures that looked like hybrids of an emu and a platypus ran down this hill, giving chase to a herd of smaller ball-like creatures that resembled pomeranians with long anteater-like probiscuses. From the crumbling vantage of my window, I witnessed one of the hunters devour its prey with shark-like teeth in its platypus bill.

This ain’t no Xanadu

A couple weeks ago I had a dream. I awoke from it feeling awed and sad, and confused as to why that should be so, since there was nothing in it that was overtly saddening. Indeed my dreaming-self was impressed by the vision I was having, but always in the background was a tint of sorrow, that upon awakening, only grew stronger. So I wrote what I dreamed in my notebook, and as I wrote, the reason for my sorrow became clear. Two nights prior to the dream, I had watched part of a documentary on the plight of polar bears in the face of global warming. I was unable to finish watching it. It was too heartbreaking to see cubs drown in storm-tossed seas that should have been ice; too agonizing to watch a starving mother and her cub digging in rubbish for food when the seals are plentiful. The saddness hit harder than I had thought, for two nights later this is the dream I had, as I recounted it in my book:

The mountian is tall and craggy, dark with iron, massive red against the pale blue sky. The path up to the lake is wide and true, ducking under massive red stone arches winding around the body of the Red Mountian. The lake at the top, at the foot of the summit, is half-frozen and it shimmers a crystaline blue under the shadows of the Peak. A deep, glacially carved gorge at the end of the lake feeds a massive waterfall, where the dark waters of the lake crash onto the broken rocks below the towering summit. On the lake, people play. Some skating, some swimming, some sunning on towels set up on the red shore. And above them all is the rocky finger of the peak, slicing the heavens as if to touch the stars. The mountian had once been covered in ice, and no one could conceive that its stones were red, and now its sticks out like a sore thumb against the green and brown earth below it. The lake was once a glacier; only the vauge skelton of its form remains. And people come to gawk at the red peak, to swim its vanishing waters, to tan their skin under its shadow, while the waterfall pours out melting ice as if the mountian were weeping.