Good morning, everybody.
I was at my family's house. I had just finished taking care of some task, possibly with my brother-in-law. Now we were heading back into the living room. It may have been night. The living room was cluttered. The only light in the room was an incandescent light bulb somewhere, maybe on a shadeless lamp on a table.
My mom and possibly a couple other family members all sat in a cirlce amid the piles and piles of clutter. My brother-in-law and I sat down with everybody. I think my mom was having us get ready to move a couple of heavy objects for her. We were ready to do this.
But now my mom said, "I'm glad you guys are here. Because we have a lot of stuff to go through and clean out. In fact, we could be here for days and days, cleaning out the stuff I have."
I got angry. I stood up and said, "Well, it's fine that you want us to help you clean stuff and move stuff. But I can't devote all my time to cleaning your stuff. I didn't just come here to do that. I came here to study, too."
I stood up to move something that needed to be moved. I felt bad after having been so angry with my mom. I had actually come back to my hometown because I was out of money. My mom had helped me get back home. Now I was telling her I couldn't help her with things?
As I walked over to the object I was supposed to move, an air hockey table, my mom told me, "We used to live on an Air Force base. When we lived out on the base, everything was a lot easier, and you had a lot better outlook on life. Do you remember that?"
I lifted up the air hockey table and shifted it either to the left or the right, about the length of the table. As soon as I shifted it, daylight flooded into the living room. The living room looked a lot bigger, almost as if it were a workshop or a warehouse. I turned around and walked through the living room. I probably walked past my mom, even though I was still probably talking to her and probably helping her out with things.
An ornate room, like a room in a palace. Every surface of the room had a blue marble kind of texture, like either a cream color or a light blue color veined with a darker blue. Everything was also edged or lined with gold in ornate designs. But some of the furniture seemed to be attached to the walls and the ceiling, so that I could see the tops of stools or dressers facing me from the wall before me and the ceiling.
I was in some big room like a big garage. But the walls seemed to be covered in a billowing, white fabric, like something out of a photographer's studio, and the light was a very suffused, gentle incandescent. There were rows of tall metal tables, like tables in a workshop. There were probably three or four rows, divided into two aisles. Each table had two computers on it. These computers were workstations for specific people.
I went to my workstation. But my computer wasn't working. A tall, pale, skinny, white man walked up to my workstation. The man told me that it was bad news that my computer wasn't working. I was doing something of some importance to the government. Somebody knew what kind of work I was doing. So if my computer wasn't working, it was likely that the people trying to stop my work hacked into my system and shut the system down. But I needed to keep doing the work. It couldn't stop now.
The man got onto my workstation. He may have told me that the problem was with an energy level in my workstation. Because something was weird with the energy level, I was no longer being given access to my workstation.
But the man had managed to set me up on some kind of a backdoor system. The regular system, I believe, required me to have a certain amount of energy so I could run all the programs on my workstation. This system, on the other hand, allowed me to log in to single programs. The system was just a list of the programs I would usually run. I would click on the program name. A drop down menu would appear. I would go from there to run my program.
Something didn't seem entirely good about this. I felt like I needed to have the regular system back up and running as soon as possible. I felt like if I continued using the setup I was currently using, whatever network my workstation was linked into would identify my activity in a strange way, destroying my regular system as I knew it, or else that I would eventually be denied access to this backdoor system as well.
My cell phone told me that I could no longer put any additional items onto the memory. The memory was so close to full that the phone could no longer even run the functions of programs that would store things in its memory. I really couldn't do anything on my phone. The phone didn't have enough memory to run any processes.
I was possibly in a bowling alley. I was with a large group of people, mostly kids. It may have been like we had taken these kids on a field trip. But now we were getting ready to leave.
As people were milling around, maybe doing stuff like putting on their jackets (it must have been winter), my sister stood before me. Behind her was a little partition, like she was standing before some segment of wall cornering off from a hallway. We stood in a greenish grey fluorescent light. Behind my sister, I could see the bowling alleys and all the kids.
My sister said, "I have a feeling you're having trouble with money. And I want to let you know that if you need help with money, all you have to do is ask. We're willing to help you."
I had a feeling I was in trouble with money, too. But I didn't want to bother my sister with the details. So I just told my sister thanks, and that I was alright.
We were all now walking down a hallway kind of like an office hallway, except that it was really dim. The only light was natural light coming from a front window wall in the far distance. We stopped so a group of people could do something, I'm not sure what, possibly use the restroom.
I stood in the hallway with a twelve-year-old girl. The girl had golden tan skin, blue eyes, and shoulder-length, brown-blonde hair. She only came up to the middle of my chest. She wore a big, puffy black jacket that made her look overweight. On the wall behind the girl was some framed photo, probably an Impressionist-style painting, in heavy browns, blacks, and greens, of a figure who looked kind of like Emile Zola.
The girl was kind of flirting with me. I liked it. I was flattered. The girl flirtatiously asked me something about what our relationship might be like in five years, when she was seventeen. In one sense, she may just have been implying that she was hoping she'd be able to take care of my by that time. In another sense, she was just wondering whether I would let her get romantic with me.
I tried to steer her off from worrying about that argument. I flattened my hand on the crown of her head, then lifted the flattened hand up in the air until it went about two or three inches above the crown of my head. This was supposed to illustrate to the girl how, in five years, she would be taller than I. She might still like me, but she wouldn't think I was attractive. So she shouldn't worry right now about whether she thought I was attractive.
We all started walking again. We headed toward the exit of this building, which was now definitely like an office building. In fact, we had all come here for some reason almost totally related to me. It was like I had come here to interview for a job or to find assistance regarding a job that I had or was looking for. Others in the group may have been doing the same thing here. Everything had been taken care of. So we were leaving.
But as almost everybody else had gone out the front door -- a big, heavy, wooden door, kind of like for a Mexican restaurant with a mission-like decor -- a woman came into the foyer and stopped me. She was a bit taller than I, olive skinned, with frizzy, black hair and brown eyes with a lot of mascara.
The woman told me, "I'm friends with SG, someone you used to work for. I called him up to tell him you were here. I was really excited you were here. But SG told me that you need to tell both me and him everything that made you leave your last job. We want to know what made the situation so bad that you couldn't stay there anymore. You're too valuable to us, SG said, and we can't afford to lose you."
The woman also said that SG had told her that I have a bad habit of not speaking up when things are going bad at the workplace. He'd said that I needed to talk to him whenever something bad started happening, so he could figure out how to take care of things for me.
My view faded out of the building, as if I had looked out the door -- not walked out of it -- and into a blinding white light. The view now changed into a yellow slip with computer-printed writing on it, almost like the copy portion of a bill or a deposit slip. But it was a letter, or, actually, something more like an email (in telegram form?) from SG.
SG's message said something like, "There is a point when you can have too much politeness. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be polite." This was in reference to my bad habit of always acting like things were going well when they really weren't. SG was telling me that I needed to tell him about the bad things, as soon as they happened, from now on.