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breeden
ursulav

Dream Labor

I had a great idea for a quick, pithy blog post. In the time it took me to get here, I have forgotten it utterly.

It might have had something to do with gardening—been reading about the jardin de cure or “priest’s garden” which is France’s answer to cottage gardening. Or possibly it was about Nanowrimo, or maybe about the new deli that is supposed to be opening in town (everyone says it is “fancy” but since it’s not open, I don’t know where they are getting their information) or about the fact that I had a really complicated dream about slaying a dragon the other night and I woke up before the dragon was dead and it was incredibly frustrating, because damnit, I was supposed to slay that dragon! What was I doing with the prince and the big iron cages and the lance mounted on the front of the Buick if not to slay the dragon?

And of course since I woke up, the dragon is presumably not slain, which leads me to wonder if there is some place somewhere where dreaming people are drafted into doing all the crappy dangerous jobs, or even just the really boring ones, since presumably dreamers will accept anything you tell them to do as part of the dream. Useful way to run the nasty bits of the economy, and unlike zombies, you don’t have the feeding and storage issues. Maybe all those moving dreams I have aren’t actually deep-seated displacement anxiety, but me being recruited as unpaid labor to schlep boxes between apartments in another dimension.

No wonder I’m always pissed off in those dreams…

 

 

Wordcount: 26100

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.