Wednesday, April 05, 2006

A Tale of the Tired

I rarely dream in narratives (that I know of), but as I sit here on the "Vortex", my sofa of infinite comfort, barely an hour awake, I am still at the line between waking and sleep.

I dreamed I was in "Rasta Town", an area of the city only 10 blocks long, situated in between the Black and Hispanic part of town. For the record, there is no Rasta Town in St. Louis. There, in Rasta Town, was it's own culture of Rastafarian restaurants, stores and hang outs. I, for some reason I had gone there, perhaps to work for the local paper, and while I was there, I over heard someone complaining that no white people ever came into Rasta Town. What followed was a weird story, the details which escape me now in the daylight, that revolved around me looking at the Rastas (many of them either Mulatto, or White Rasta Wookies), sitting around complaining about their lot in life, yet making no effort to get off their asses and do anything about it. I convinced a young man that education was not a thing to be feared, and was not a tool of Imperialist Whitey, and his restaurant owning mother (with only one tired chicken who only laid one egg), admitted to me that she was a secret drinker because she didn't believe in herself and needed someone else to blame.

There was a happy ending of sorts, and I lay in bed dancing between consciousness and this new world, cozy under the sheets.

At the time, all of an hour ago, I put no meaning into the dream, but as I sit here still obviously exhausted and half asleep, I wonder about the deeper meanings of Learned Helplessness and placing the blame for ones perceived failures in life on outside sources.

It was just a dream right?

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