Brain Washed

I've been having a lot of strange dreams as of late.  Maybe it's the stress of a new job and trying to impress the higher ups that I can perform my duties the way they intend them to be or maybe it's the overall exhaustion I've been experiencing in the last few weeks.  I can't say for sure, but the dream I had in the wee hours of the morning, today, unlocked a memory that was otherwise forgotten because of the TBI that I had a few years ago.

Many many years ago, and we're talking decades, now, I had a job with a local company called GM Marketing.  It's a company that is long since gone and, probably, for good reason.  On the surface, it was an advertising company that sold $20 discount cards for different businesses.  We did cards for Petro-Canada, Wendy's, Subway, Blockbuster Video (when that was still a thing) and even did a campaign for the Saskatchewan Roughriders.  The discount card was usually $20, $21.40 with tax and offered savings upwards of $200 to $500, if used to completion.  They were a great savings, if you were prone to eating out a lot or renting movies or taking in a ballgame or two.  "Use it just once," we say as part of our pitch, "And you'll already earn your money back."

We'd go door-to-door, ringing doorbells and pitching people our schtick.  Some would take us up on it, some wouldn't.  Some would even get violent, as opposed to simply passing on our offer. 

It was all good fun, on the surface, but looking back now, it was actually a cult or cult-like experience.  From the initial meeting for your job interview, the con was in.  They'd greet you with a series of smoke and mirrors and it wasn't until you were neck deep in the shit, that you realized that you were f*cked.

Initially, you'd meet the owner/manager of the company, in this case, Wade.  Wade was a gregarious twenty-something year old man with an expensive suit, a gold ring and necklace and a flashy red sports car, like the one pictured here, parked by the front door of the business.  He'd tell you that YOU, TOO could be a success at an early age.  That you could be driving an expensive sports car, too. He'd give you all the bells and whistles and to a vulnerable young person, they believe that bullshit.  I believed that bullshit.

Once in their clutches, they'd have morning meetings to build up your self esteem.  Tell stories about Pandora's Box and other tales that were designed to make you more successful.  They'd tell you shit like, people who worked 9-to-5, 40-hour a week jobs, were just sheep.  They were following the herd and putting in the motions to make little or no money, while we were going to make up to $200 per day, and get paid daily as opposed to every two weeks.  Blah, blah, blah, lots of money, lots of opportunity, lots of blah, blah, blah.  And I believed that bullshit.  When my parents would tell me to quit, I was convinced that they didn't know what the f*ck they were talking about, because they were the mindless sheep that I was told about at work.

Wade mostly stayed in his office, rarely coming out to mingle with the workers who were lining his pockets with cash, but once in awhile, Wade would grace us with his presence and he'd joke and toss out a few bucks here and there to show his "appreciation", but it was all just a ruse.  A way to show-off a big wad of cash that "we could also have some day".

We were expected to be in the office by 7:30am, every morning.  Out of the office by eight and in the field long before 9am, knocking on doors and pitching our wares.  We would have to work the entire day, until about 7:30pm or 8 o'clock, then return to cash out our daily earnings.  Then, instead of being paid daily, like we were told, we were encouraged to "bank" our money, with the office, rather than keep it all to ourselves.  The money would be safe in their "bank", and you could get it whenever you wanted it, although when you'd attempt to get your money, they'd put up a helluva fight to give it up.  Not to mention, that the money you left in "the bank" never earned any f*cking interest.

They convinced us that our parents and society were mindless drones forced to work 40-hour work weeks, but in reality, it was us, working many more hours per day, six days a week.  Our families worked for a paycheck every two weeks and received the full amount earned, while we, the mindless brain-washed drones, easily worked roughly sixty hours per week, sometimes not earning anything more than a few bucks per day.  If you were working in the city, it was one thing, but if you were working out of town, that $7 that you earned that day, had to go towards paying for your hotel room, food and gas.  It shows how f*cking brain-washed we were, to accept these terms.

My breaking point was having a car accident.  The car I was driving, was rear ended on a road trip to Regina.  The drive home, I had to sit sideways in my seat, because I had severe whiplash and my head was stuck looking to the right.  I saw a doctor who recommended that I take some time off to heal, but when I went to the office to request the time off, they threatened to fire me, instead.  I beat them to the punch, telling them to "GO F*CK YOURSELVES, THEN!!"

I was in pain, but truthfully, I never felt better in my life.  I'd go on to get one of those mindless 40-hour a week jobs and when I received my first check, I kissed it and wanted to frame it.

I can't recall what the dream was, that I had this morning, regarding this terrible chapter of my life, but it reminded me of how good I have it now.  Things could have been a f*ck of a lot worse.

Profligation

Dreams.  What could they mean?  Merely products of an overactive mind?  Or do they provide a glimpse into an uncertain future?  It's difficult to say for sure, but for decades, there has loads of science investigating the unconscious state of dreaming.  The causes, the need and/or the necessity of dreaming.  That's not what this is about.

My dreams tend to air on the side of strange.  I know this much about my unconscious state.  My dreams tend to be something as stupid as white water rafting with the likes of WWE superstars, The Undertaker,  Hunter Hearst Helmsley (Triple H) and Stephanie McMahon or I've dreamt murder/mystery stories that could be blockbuster films if ever realized on the silver screen.  Most of the really good stuff, quickly disappears once I awaken and I can't remember the finite details.  (Plus, I can barely write this blog that no one reads, let alone pen the next Hollywood hit.)

This morning, I awoke about a half dozen times, from the time of 5am all the way up to the present (8:30am).  Normally when I wake up this often, my head is plagued with a number of images and stories, but not on this day.  I woke up every time, wondering..;  Is trounce a multiple of bounce?

Now before the one reader who mistakenly wandered onto this site and decided "What the hell?" and read it anyway, saw this statement and has declared me a f**king moron, keep in mind, I've already Googled the meaning of both and know that bounce doesn't restrict an item to hitting the ground twice and trounce doesn't refer to three rebounds or more.  If I continued down the path of trying to declare this to be the case would be shear idiocy. This is simply an example of how my brain works.

       

In the back of my mind, I knew there was a difference.  That the explanation wasn't as simple as bi meaning two and tri meaning three.  The English language can be a little f**ked up, but it makes more sense than this.  Again, my brain works differently than other people's.  Always has, even before I had my accident.

I had a dream once, where I was at a Agriculture show with two people of whom I was familiar with (in the dream, but in real life, I hadn't met them yet).  The reason this dream was so memorable was the three of us were speaking to a farmer about emu's.  Up to this point, I had never heard of an Emu, and when I awoke, I had to investigate whether or not this was a real thing.  It is.  Many months later, I was attending a class at SIAST and our class was sent to the local Agribition, where I hung out with classmates, Christine and Derek.  Two people who I hadn't known when I had the initial dream, but whom I was familiar with that day and... Yes!  We stopped and spoke with a farmer who raised... [dramatic pause] ... Emus.  F**king weird, right?

I could fill volumes about the strange dreams I've had and have been able to remember.  Who the hell knows about all the shit I've forgotten?  I'm willing to bet that I probably did have a few million dollar ideas in the mix.  However, I believe this blog has strayed far enough off the initial subject that I had hoped to address in this blog, this morning.  I'm like Hulk Hogan, by which I mean, I can't seem to stay on one subject and am distracted by all the shiny shit that accompanies said subject.  (If you're one of the sorry souls who read Hulk Hogan's book from way back, you'll understand that reference.  It was a painful read, to say the least.)

Bounce: (verb) (of an object, especially a ball) Move quickly up, back, or away from a surface after hitting it; rebound (once or repeatedly).

(noun) Rebound of a ball or other object.

Trounce: (verb) To defeat heavily in a contest; To rebuke or punish severely.

Emu: The emu is the second-largest living bird by height, after its ratite relative, the ostrich. It is endemic to Australia where it is the largest native bird and the only extant member of the genus Dromaius.

Profligate: recklessly extravagant or wasteful in the use of resources. (Or this edition of Brain Matter.)

I don't really have an out for this blog, so I will leave you with this.  If you've made it this far into this blog and liked it?  You're my audience and you may enjoy previous entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them are pretty good.  If you begrudgingly made it this far and haven't liked a single word, except maybe Emu (because it is a fun word to say), you have my apologies.  However, you may want to check out past entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them actually are pretty good.

In closing, everyone have a Merry Christmas! 🎅

Five Year Plan

When I was a child, it was called "Baby Steps", indicating the series of stages required to achieve a life's ambition.  "If I do this to acquire that, I can then move on to this, doing the other, which will eventually get me to this point, where upon then, I will reach euphoria."  Perhaps, I am being too cynical, but the whole lot seems a little too presumptuous.  As in, how do I know (now) I'd be happy doing that for the rest of my life?  I'm just a dumb kid, after all.

I've never been one for goal-setting, and given my lot in life, the assumption has probably been proven false a dozen times over, but realistically, I've never put much weight in wishful thinking. The same goes for vision boards.  A sorry excuse to cut and glue pictures of other people's shit onto particle board, with crossed fingers that we'll one day own them.  Absolute silliness, in my opinion.

For some reason, though, the Five Year Plan seems to be a serious mainstay in our culture, a factor that I balk at and shudder over, every time it is mentioned in a serious conversation.  It's such a preposterous premise that I've never seriously considered concocting a response, believable enough, to blow smoke up the ass of a potential employer.  How the Hell am I supposed to know where I'm going to want to maneuver myself within your company, if I've not been associated with your company?  Wanting to sound ambitious without being overzealous to the point of being offensive.  "Well, I'd like to be your boss..."

I was posed this question, on Friday, in an over-the-phone interview.  Thankfully, my potential employer was unable to see me flinch at the stupid question and I was able to respond quickly. "Being unfamiliar with your organization, I couldn't make an honest and organized guess as to where I would like to be in five years.  If you decide that I'm a good fit for _____, I'd prefer to look at the opportunities available in order to decide where I'd like to go.  If I'm content in the position that I'm hired for, I don't see why I'd need to move beyond that.  As long as I'm happy, I don't see why change is necessarily a good thing."

I must have provided an adequate amount of smoke to be blown up her ass, as I was commended on such a good and honest answer, comparing it to a stream of water poured from a glass: You never know what the resulting path will be, but it always makes it to the end.

Honestly.  If the truth be revealed, I've always had one goal for a Five Year Plan.  It seems foolish, comparative more to a pipe dream or fantasy than anything based in reality, but it's no more far-fetched than constructing a vision board.  Where would I like to be in five years, you ask?  The same place as I'd like to find myself come this Tuesday.  Posing in front of a camera, with a giant check in my hand, and a congratulations on being the newest lottery winner in Saskatchewan. 

A Dream Is But A Life

In the past I've had dreams that felt real and sometimes waking up from them was a real disappointment.  Not that I was really unhappy with my life, but the dream life was really really great!

Some of the dreams I'd had, were quite adventurous.  There were even some dreams where I was deeply involved in the pro wrestling world and waking up from that to face my humdrum life, was a complete let down.

My life isn't what I'd call adventurous, nor would I say it's super-fantastic, but I am quite content in the little world that exists today.  I have a nice home, a pretty sweet job, and a beautiful little boy (aka. my cat, Monkey).  That being said, I still have, on a rare occasion, those realistic dreams, so real in my mind that it takes a few moments when I awaken, to realize that it was just a dream.  Last night / this morning, was just one of those occasions.

I'd gotten to bed really really really late.  I'd been slumbering on my sofa, as I often do after a long hard day's work.  My back was bothering me all day long, so once my ass hit the couch, it didn't take very long for my eyes to close.  So roughly around 4 or 5 am, I moved myself from downstairs to my comfy bed, where I quickly resumed a restful sleep.  It was about this time that I began dreaming the real dream.

In part, I think what makes these dreams seem so real to my subconscious, is the fact that the passage of time feels like the actual passage of time.  One minute equals one minute.  Even if I'm only asleep for a couple of hours, as in the case of this morning, shutting my eyes at around 5 am and waking up again at 8 am on the nose.  The time inside my dream felt like about a day and a half, or so.

In my dream, I recall living where I live.  Driving what I drive.  Working where I work.  Everything was exactly the same, except for the fact that I was also attending school.  It wasn't a tech college or university, but it was a grade school.  In some kind of "Billy Madison*" universe, all 6 feet of me, was going to school with children.  Either that or I was teaching.  That part of my dream wasn't very clear.

The ground was snow covered, which these days isn't a surprise (late spring), and I'd left the school for the day.  I was half way home, when I realized that I'd left something back at school, so turned to go back.  The school was located right downtown, which for anyone familiar with Saskatoon, knows that there's no public schools downtown, especially one that would allow a grown adult to attend.  But the Saskatoon, in my dream was far different from the Saskatoon that is our harsh reality.  Perhaps, like the premise of my education, the city's location was different too, despite my living in my same house and driving my same vehicle.

As I neared the school, I had one more turn to make.  A right turn which I, uncharacteristically, cut too sharply, catching a snow drift piled at the street corner, causing my beautiful Honda Ridgeline to rollover onto it's side.  I experienced the rollover from a first-person perspective and like in life, it seemed to pass in slow motion.  I recall the truck tipping.  I remember the shocked looks on people's faces, standing across the street witnessing my accident.  I could hear the metal twisting and the glass breaking.  I could, and still can, feel the sharp pain running through my back as the vehicle came to rest on it's side.  Feeling the cool breeze blow into the cabin of my truck, and being warmed by the blood trickling down my face.  Every facet that could possibly exist in those few fleeting moments, I experienced in real time.

I remember hearing the sirens of the emergency vehicles and watching the flashing red lights as they drew closer and closer.  Admittedly, I vaguely recall being admitted, checked over and stitched up; and released from the hospital.  Instead of going home, I returned to the school.  Whatever I'd left was very important, but I would forget what it was I sought, once I would arrive at the school.  Forgoing whatever it was, I now needed a ride home, and received one from my only option, which was a van filled with homeless people.  F*cking strange, huh?

Instead of taking me home for some much needed bed rest, I was instead escorted to a subterranean terminal of sorts, where I bumped into friends, friends-of-friends, and my brother-in-law, Bryan, who subsequently gave me a ride, but not to my home, but instead to his house, clear across this strange thriving metropolis that did not resemble Saskatoon, my home, in the least.  I grew more and more frustrated with not being allowed to go home and it was around this time that I woke up.

During the time it took for the cobwebs to clear in my foggy mind, I seriously thought about the toll it would take on me at the expense that replacing my truck.  The truck is five years old, and as in real life, it had less than fifty thousand kilometers on the odometer at the time of the rollover.  Insurance should give me a fair price on it, but it would still pale in comparison to the selling price of a 2013 model.  I was more than relieved when I looked around and realized that I was back in my real life.