Before I created this blog, I was in the habit of writing a lot of scattered and disconnected bits all over the various computers I used. Things like “notes to self,” lists of goals, and journals of lessons learned.
Unfortunately, I never really found a good way to keep that stuff organized, plus I didn’t do it with any kind of regularity. At some point I migrated it my current desktop computer, but it’s spread around various directores, in text files, Word files, and note-taking applications. Now and then I poke around and find interesting things, such as the following observation I made in 1996 after dealing with a number of different colleagues who were Hell-bent on letting policies and procedures define how they did everything:
When I think of M___’s and B___’s need to have all procedures mapped out and to do everything by formula, I can’t help but see it as compensation for a lack of talent.
Nice. Sadly, I still encounter that phenomenon on a pretty regular basis, but I had forgotten that particular analysis; or at least that articulation of the analysis.
On a lighter note, I also recently uncovered a few notes I made about my dreams. Wait, don’t run away yet; they’re very brief! What struck me was not only that my dreams back then were particularly nutty, but that I rarely have such dreams now. Too bad. I miss them.
Here are a few samples:
There is a very aggressive wasp buzzing around in the room. I keep swatting at it, and when I hit it, I distinctly and memorably feel its weight against the palm of my hand. I realize that it is a particularly large wasp with the head of a human. The head is that of a Japanese doctor. He wears glasses, but cannot speak. He produces tiny sheets of waxy transparent paper and writes small messages on them. It turns out he was in love with J___ (my then-girlfriend). I am afraid to tell the wasp that J___ and I are involved, because doing so might initiate some kind of attack.
I am in hiding, being sheltered by an Indian family. They insisted I change clothes and give me a pair of pink sweat pants.
(Not long after seeing “Alien Resurrection.”) Sigourney Weaver is tied up (very elegantly) in my bed. She is naked and covered in clear slime. All of my senses (touch, smell, etc.) are very vivid. I start licking the slime, and then I realize that she doesn’t actually want to be tied up. I untie her and she punches me in the head.
S___ (colleague at work) is dead and about to be buried. I am observing from a distance, and I see that his coffin is being carried by six small people, including B___ (one of the aforementioned by-the-formula talentless people). I am concerned that they will drop the coffin, as S___ is a very big guy. Sure enough, B___ fumbles and the coffin falls through a doorway, busting open just before it goes out of sight.