I'm getting a slow start today.
I had set today aside to work on an editorial for Labor Day—something about how everyone has a role to play, and even though Labor Day was started by labor unions to acknowledge "the working man," I think it's fair to say we can all be called "the working man," everyone but a schmuck like Bernie Madoff, that is.
Anyway, normally I would have finished with breakfast an hour ago and already been seated at the worky computer ready to sort out some ideas, but this morning I'm sluggish.
Last night, I dreamed I was imprisoned in a concentration camp. It was a cleaned up variety so it wasn't quite as hellish as images I've seen from World War II. But still, it was a bad place, and me and my fellow prisoners were plotting a coup. We were gathering in the cold snow and ready to attack in what I was sure would be a successful battle, but then I woke up. I was so disappointed to find myself awake because I really did want to see it all play out. I tried to coax my subconscious into slipping back into character and tell me the rest of the story, but it had another idea.
Instead, I found myself manning a booth at a farmers' market. A grower had produce to sell but couldn't be there to sell it, so I agreed to work his booth for him. He specialized in broccoli and cauliflower, but when I opened up the crates, I discovered assorted sweet papers and a big plastic bag full of raw bacon. He processed his own pigs, evidently, but didn't provide a cooler. I was trying to figure out how to sell bacon at room temperature when the guy at the next booth informed me he had an exclusive agreement with the market managers to sell peppers, and I would not be allowed to sell the ones I had on display. We worked out the disagreement, and all was well at the market.
But then I found myself sitting on a bench watching the market shoppers when a massive spider on a floating web made his way toward me. He was moving so quickly, that I was frozen in place and couldn't prevent him from landing on my left shoulder. I called out for help, realized I was actually calling out loud, and woke myself up. Again.
Then my stomach hurt. Then Big Mike the Cat came in with his pathetic meowing asking for breakfast even though it wasn't even 7:00 a.m. I couldn't ignore him because his vet said that his morning feeding would be very important—the big guy gets an insulin shot around 5:00 every evening, so he really needs to eat in the morning.
So, I got up, exhausted from an active night of dreaming and physical discomfort and hungry cats. I'm ready for a nap already, and I haven't typed a word of my editorial.
I had set today aside to work on an editorial for Labor Day—something about how everyone has a role to play, and even though Labor Day was started by labor unions to acknowledge "the working man," I think it's fair to say we can all be called "the working man," everyone but a schmuck like Bernie Madoff, that is.
Anyway, normally I would have finished with breakfast an hour ago and already been seated at the worky computer ready to sort out some ideas, but this morning I'm sluggish.
Last night, I dreamed I was imprisoned in a concentration camp. It was a cleaned up variety so it wasn't quite as hellish as images I've seen from World War II. But still, it was a bad place, and me and my fellow prisoners were plotting a coup. We were gathering in the cold snow and ready to attack in what I was sure would be a successful battle, but then I woke up. I was so disappointed to find myself awake because I really did want to see it all play out. I tried to coax my subconscious into slipping back into character and tell me the rest of the story, but it had another idea.
Instead, I found myself manning a booth at a farmers' market. A grower had produce to sell but couldn't be there to sell it, so I agreed to work his booth for him. He specialized in broccoli and cauliflower, but when I opened up the crates, I discovered assorted sweet papers and a big plastic bag full of raw bacon. He processed his own pigs, evidently, but didn't provide a cooler. I was trying to figure out how to sell bacon at room temperature when the guy at the next booth informed me he had an exclusive agreement with the market managers to sell peppers, and I would not be allowed to sell the ones I had on display. We worked out the disagreement, and all was well at the market.
But then I found myself sitting on a bench watching the market shoppers when a massive spider on a floating web made his way toward me. He was moving so quickly, that I was frozen in place and couldn't prevent him from landing on my left shoulder. I called out for help, realized I was actually calling out loud, and woke myself up. Again.
Then my stomach hurt. Then Big Mike the Cat came in with his pathetic meowing asking for breakfast even though it wasn't even 7:00 a.m. I couldn't ignore him because his vet said that his morning feeding would be very important—the big guy gets an insulin shot around 5:00 every evening, so he really needs to eat in the morning.
So, I got up, exhausted from an active night of dreaming and physical discomfort and hungry cats. I'm ready for a nap already, and I haven't typed a word of my editorial.
Comments
I love dreams that seem like clever movies but don't they ALWAYS seem to get interrupted somehow and not finished. It is nearly impossible to return to those types of dream but a sure thing if you are stuck in a boring one that just keeps looping. ;)
I like that lukewarm bacon was your personal challenge at the market. Bahaha
And poor Mikey....and his "parents" having to give him shots and worry. It's hard enough communicating your feelings as human diabetic. All he has is meows. :)
And Mike doesn't have two parents. Husband does not claim him in any sense. I'm a single mother when it comes to the cats.
Er … Can I have some of your drugs, Robyn?