Apr. 24th, 2020 12:57 pm
Such and such dreams
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muckefuckWe were waiting for my father's funeral procession to start. It was a significant downtown street, but traffic was slow, so it must've been a Sunday morning or something. Spectators were beginning to line up over a three-block area and seeing how scattered they were I began to wonder if we shouldn't have compressed the route to a single block. I saw several coworkers in the crowd, including the Dean of the Library. I left to see what was holding things up.
I went into a building and crossed over an enclosed third-floor skybridge. Where the bridge met the building opposite there was a bank of windows with a view of road that fed into the city street. It snaked through the countryside between hills which hid chunks of it from view. Monshu was there standing on a stool or stepladder and looking out at the route, but there was no sign of the cortège.
My phone rang; it was my personal secretary. I thought she was calling to give me an ETA for the procession but she wanted to talk to me about work. I was a corporate lawyer and this was my office; as we spoke, I went into a conference room with a piece of pizza, squatting awkwardly so I could eat the pizza without getting any on the furnishings or on my shiny blue three-piece suit.
She seemed especially concerned about my relationship with two colleagues, younger folk with South Asian names that I outranked. "But do they love you?" she asked. I said that I'd often asked one of them to stay late--sometimes 15 hours or more--working on a deadline and I'd never heard a word of complaint.
Then I woke up.
Now I've got to write up my self-evaluation for my annual performance review. My two direct reports have already sent me theirs. Sadly this is not a dream; this is my actual life.
I went into a building and crossed over an enclosed third-floor skybridge. Where the bridge met the building opposite there was a bank of windows with a view of road that fed into the city street. It snaked through the countryside between hills which hid chunks of it from view. Monshu was there standing on a stool or stepladder and looking out at the route, but there was no sign of the cortège.
My phone rang; it was my personal secretary. I thought she was calling to give me an ETA for the procession but she wanted to talk to me about work. I was a corporate lawyer and this was my office; as we spoke, I went into a conference room with a piece of pizza, squatting awkwardly so I could eat the pizza without getting any on the furnishings or on my shiny blue three-piece suit.
She seemed especially concerned about my relationship with two colleagues, younger folk with South Asian names that I outranked. "But do they love you?" she asked. I said that I'd often asked one of them to stay late--sometimes 15 hours or more--working on a deadline and I'd never heard a word of complaint.
Then I woke up.
Now I've got to write up my self-evaluation for my annual performance review. My two direct reports have already sent me theirs. Sadly this is not a dream; this is my actual life.