A dream of my bedroom (2 of 2): Staircase.

The other week I dreamt -

I'm lying in bed, and as I slowly come to, there's a man hanging out of the open staircase that's in the corner of my room, and that's partially blocked off by two-by-fours and goes up to the upstairs apartment.

He's very round yet somewhat tall and has dark clothing and maybe a fedora, and he's just leaning over through the boards and watching me, and I'm just waking up and I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and I can't really see his face, and I'm disturbed that he was there watching me while I was sleeping.

Then, that disturbing feeling makes me wake up.

. . .

(In real life, the staircase to the upstairs apartment passes over to the left of my bed where I lay my head down.  It's entirely covered, though, and is just this diagonal jut covered over with smooth and nicely painted white drywall; I'm thinking I maybe heard someone go upstairs in my sleep, and it provoked that dream.)

A dream of my bedroom (1 of 2): Mountain top.

The other week I dreamt -

I'm lying in my bed, and I'm going in and out of sleep.

Leaning against my bed is my tiny dustman's broom with its red-and-white plastic handle.

As I'm going in and out of sleep, I translate that into a metal pole built into the very top of a mountain, and I'm holding that and revolving around on the crag and looking in every direction, and I'm afraid for my safety.

That fear gets very heightened and suddenly makes me wake up, in my dream.

Then, I wake up for real (and there's no tiny dustman's broom leaning against my bed; that was my dreamworld bed, since I was dreaming that I was dreaming!).

My new thought on shitty jobs:

We outlaw regular pollution, so why not part-time and contract and gig jobs that create "social pollution"?

Effectively, there's a tremendous amount of social harm that occurs through precarious work (e.g. strains on family, mental illness, substance abuse), so we should provide protections against precarious work and even financially penalize it (much like a carbon tax).

I found it such a great talking point when I was talking with that one (Latina) HR woman who was asking me if I thought someone working a low-skills job *really* deserved $15 an hour, and I was like, "Of course, because if they're not getting paid that, their employer is creating a tremendous amount of social pollution."

So I saw "Stalker" the other week...

...with my one (Asian-Canadian) friend with a mohawk.

A couple of his friends joined us, too, one art-y and the other science-y but nerdy cool-seeming.

Right before the film started, the science-y but nerdy cool-seeming guy was like, "Want some weed chocolate?".

Then, he added, "I just got back from Washington."

Him and my one (Asian-Canadian) friend with a mohawk popped it, and later after the film got out they were asking each other how the movie was.

Since I was talking with the art-y friend, I didn't hear if they thought that the weed chocolate affected their experience somehow.

A dream of nail-painting.

The other week, I dreamnt -

I'm sitting behind a nondescript table, and I'm slowly painting the nails of my left hand a dull, pale yellow.

Then, I have to go somewhere, and I realize that I'll go with only my left nails painted.

Also, for some reason my hand looks really really broad and my fingernails are stubby, but it's my hand, and I don't even think that my hand looks different from normal or isn't my hand, in my dream.

And then, I wake up.

. . .

(Like three of the [young] [white] [male] undergrads who work at the library around campus paint their nails, I've noticed; my hunch is that it's an edgy virtue-signalling gender thing for progressive men to do, and not tied to gayness or anything.)

Odd library sight.

The other week when I was working shelving books at the library, the automated shelving just stopped abruptly.

I went to the aisle where it had stalled out, expecting to see a stool left in there and getting crushed.

Instead, there was a Snickers bar wrapper, just sitting on the treadway where one of the wheels go.

It wasn't even crushed underfoot it or anything, but I picked it up anyway, crumpled it, and put it in my back pocket.

When I tried the shelving again, it worked that time.

Convo with my mother (2 of 2): Can't blame the boomers.

Later, I was saying that I had been reading up on the Heaven's Gate cult.

"That guy had weird eyes," she was like.

So, I told her that a number of people had also observed that.

Then, she asked how old they were.

"I think around your age," I was like, then I was like, "Wait, let me look," and I picked up and flipped through the book, since I had it right in front of me.

"Oh wait," I was like, "They were actually born in twenty-seven and thirty-four."

"That's ten and fifteen years older than me!", my mom was like.

"Sorry, my mistake, I thought they were your generation," I was like.

Then, I was like, "I guess that's one thing you can't blame the Boomers for, they didn't go and start the Heaven's Gate UFO cult."

"True," my mom was like.  "Though, people say we did everything else, and they'd be right."

. . .

(Like a lot of my friends, sometimes I bitch about the world that the Baby Boomers left us.)