Last night I had two recurring dreams, not really all that exciting, the exciting ones are hard to remember, although I do have them, all night long. I am taking a mild opiate at bedtime these days, which really kicks the dreams into overdrive.
Recurring dream number one is the going back to high school dream. One thing I may not have mentioned is that in March, 1970, I ran away from home after a fight with my father, and dropped out of high school - it was my senior year and I only had three months to go. And when I turned 18, then I could take the GED, and got an equivalency diploma, and went to college, eventually getting my BA, then JD, and then LLM (Master of Laws). In the dream, I have gone back to high school at night to try to get a real high school diploma, not an equivalency diploma, only because I am working and have a family, I have to take one course a semester. And the teacher last night told me I had to repeat the class because I hadn't turned in all my homework. So I said, well, I don't really need it anyway, because I already have a BA, a JD, and an LLM, and I stood up and walked out.
Recurring dream number two is working in the stripping department in a printing plant. I have stripped a weekly newspaper that the company has been printing for decades, it's one of the best customers, in the sense of having been a customer for the longest, and when the company started, it was one of the mainstays that helped the company survive and grow. And I am having the devil of a time getting a commitment from the press foreman to print the paper on time. He says they have other jobs they are working on and it will not be printed until a day or two later. We're talking on the phone, so I decide to walk out on the press room floor to talk to him face to face, for that extra bit of communication you get face to face. When I open the door from the stripping department to the printing plant, I see that it is huge, much bigger than I remember, the web presses are huge, like you'd see in the New York Times or a major magazine publisher. There are several, they are all running at top speed, and huge stacks of printed material are being pulled off the cutter and put on conveyor belts to be shipped. The people who are running them look like ants in comparison. I stand there, holding the flats for the little tabloid that has always asked for a few thousand copies, and realize it's just not that important to the company anymore. So I hand the flats to the press foreman and tell him to do it when they have a chance.
I think it's sort of the same dream, but I don't really know what it means. |
