No rest for the wicked

I've had to work some long hours this week, and last night I also dreamed that I had to work really late. In my dream, I was in a high-rise office building, which was mostly dark by the time I got ready to leave. As I stepped off the elevator in the lobby, the only person around was the guy at the security desk, and I could see that it was dark outside. I walked to the car in the pouring rain, turned on the ignition, and pointed Dorian toward the house.

That's when my alarm clock went off, letting me know that it was time to get up and go to work. I feel cheated, like I didn't get to rest at all.

Creative Pause

I've long felt that I do some of my most inspired thinking just after waking in the morning, while in the shower. On those occasions when I share this information with family or coworkers, the listener tends to smirk and imply that my inspirations may not be entirely technical in nature.

Which is why I was interested to find Cameron Moll's posting, “Why thinking in the shower may be an ideal model for ‘creative pause’” – and find comfort in knowing I'm not the only one.

Now… that dream I had last night about Madonna? That, I can't explain. Not that I need to – Turtle dreams of Vin Diesel and can't afford to be judgmental – but why couldn't it have been Jennifer Connelley or Diane Lane?

Welcome to The Matrix

As a consequence of our latest acquisition, we'll be pulling up stakes and moving to a new office again, in a couple months. The facilities manager for our region came and did a presentation a couple weeks ago and did her best to reassure us that the new quarters were going to be “really nice” – but I don't think my subconscious is buying it.

When my alarm went off this morning, I was in the middle of a dream. In that dream, I was being instructed in the use of my new work space, which looked very much like one of those video arcade games where you sit in a 6'x4' (roughly) enclosure and pilot some sort of vehicle. Rows upon rows of these enclosures were packed side to side, back to front with only enough space between to allow some ventilation. The tops were open to allow employees to be lowered from above using a winch that moved freely from the entrance to any point in the room. To exit, the employee summoned the winch by pressing a small red button inside the enclosure. Once the employee's work day began, the button would not become operative until a minimum of 10 hours (less a half-hour lunch break) had passed, or the employee expired.

This enclosure was, the presenter explained, the very latest in ergonomic design:

• Its ‘compact’ design ensured that everything a developer might need was within easy reach.
• The oblong hole in the seat saved time-wasting trips to and from and in the washroom.
• Nourishment and liquid refreshment were provided by means of plastic tubes that extended from the side wall to a convenient position next to the employee's face.
• The sides of the enclosures were open so that the employee would have constant companionship of the employees on either side.
• Telephones were build into the enclosure and were conveniently designed to work only as speaker phones, thus avoiding the inconvenience of having to cradle a handset on one's shoulder to talk while typing. These devices had no volume control, the volume having been pre-set to an optimal level to ensure that any (and every) employee would be able to hear.

Meanwhile…

The large thermos-style coffee pot we have here at the office was empty, so I started a new pot. When it's brewing, the coffee maker turns on the water feed for about two seconds, shuts it off for about four seconds, and repeats. Two on. Four off. Two on. Four off.

It occurred to me that it kind of sounds like a hospital ventilator, which – at this time in the morning – seems entirely appropriate.

Now playing: Jet, Shine On

I have a dream

(I actually began this posting on 2/29 and am only now finding time to get back to it. I hope it's not too dated.)

Last night was another of those nights. You know the kind: you sleep solidly, but your subconscious comes up with such such a full itinerary that by the time the alarm clock goes off, you're ready for a nice nap. On last night's agenda: primary elections.

I dreamed I'd gone down to my precinct's polling place to cast my primary ballot. After standing in line for half an hour or so, it was my turn to vote. A young, earnest-looking Julia Stiles type handed me a booklet the size of a large road atlas.

“What's this?” I asked.

“That's your ballot,” she said with a look that pitied me for being so old and out of it.

Not wanting to appear any less on top of things than I already had, I took my ballot, my No. 2 pencil, and my place at one of the dozen or so long, cafeteria-style tables. I opened my booklet and scanned the first page, which contained a series of statements. Next to each statement were two small ovals, labeled with “Yes” and “No”.

“You like to be engaged in an active and fast-paced job. Yes/No.”

“You usually plan your actions in advance. Yes/No.”

“You are strongly touched by the stories about people's troubles. Yes/No.”

“You prefer to spend your leisure time alone or relaxing in a tranquil family atmosphere. Yes/No.”

Weird, I thought as I began flipping pages and penciling in the ovals.

After a couple dozen pages of this, I reached the back page, expecting to finally have the opportunity to vote for my favored candidate. But instead of a list of candidates, there was only the phrase

THANK YOU FOR VOTING!

centered, bold, in all-caps 48pt Helvetica (or Arial; I'm not sure).

I picked up my booklet, spotted the young woman I'd spoken with earlier, and walked over to hand her my booklet. “I don't understand,” I said. “I couldn't find any place on the ballot where I could mark my choices of candidates.”

She smiled patiently and explained that it had been determined that most of the voting public really weren't capable of making an informed decision. They were easily swayed by campaign rhetoric. They voted one party line or another out of habit or because that's how their parents had always voted. They chose the candidate who looked the most like they did. As a result of this, the election process had gone to a system similar to a Briggs-Myers personality survey so that the voter could be paired more accurately with the candidate whose values and ideology most closely matched his or her own.

I woke up thinking it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever dreamt up, but as I took my shower, I got to thinking. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe some sort of test was the way to go – but only if the candidates were required to take the same test so that they couldn't fake their own beliefs and motivations.

A mare-brained theory

Ever since The Da Vinci Code hit the big screen, The Discovery Channel and The History Channel have been running documentaries purporting to debunk the life of Christ. For years, they've been running UFO programs so chock-full of nuts that they should be sponsored by Snickers, Planters, and Aunt Myrtle's fruitcake.

On occasion, I stumble upon one of these while flipping channels and watch for a while, like a rubbernecking commuter who spots an overturned pickup truck on his way to work—but not recently. Which is why I was a little surprised by the strange burgoo that my subconscious was cooking up when the alarm went off at 5:20 this morning.

The Christmas-themed outlandishness went something like this: Mary, mother of Jesus, remained a virgin not because of anything to do with divinity or miracles but because she didn't give birth to Jesus at all. The whole thing was a bit of legerdemain on the part of benevolent space aliens who implanted baby Jesus in the womb of a mare.*

When Mary and Joseph made the trek to Bethlehem, it was this same mare who carried Mary on her back and Jesus in her belly. Then, once they were all settled away in the manger, the mare gave birth. Mary took all the credit and the presents.

Speaking of presents, it turns out that the star followed by the three magi wasn't actually a star at all. It wasn't even a comet. It was the alien mother ship, decloaked and running with all its exterior lights on, that guided the wise men to Bethlehem.

The views and opinions expressed in this dream do not necessarily state or reflect those of the author.

The holiday trip can't come soon enough. I obviously need some rest.


* The equine in question being a horse, not a donkey. It seems that my dream generator's capacity for blasphemy has its limits.