and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

truth be told, 3:20pm on a Monday afternoon isn't exactly the best time to write the next great american novel.. or blog post. it is, afterall, Monday; that most unappreciated of days when millions of people roll over and stare at their alarm clocks in pure horror. this, they have discovered, is the new world. this is the escape we have manufactured from our manufacturing jobs. our escape route out from under the blanket of industrial revolution. this is called middle management. this is the very prey of the Monday morning alarm clock. it stalks the room quietly making a clicking step every minute or so but it's eyes, oh it's eyes, ever glowing brightly in the dim undergrowth of suburban hell that is the master bedroom.

and we wonder, I'm told, about the abjected faces of millions of these management types, these office jockies swinging through the turnstiles of life almost as if they were not even their, eyes grey and ashen, faces pale with a fresh morning shave. we wonder why they aren't happy, having been sold this american dream. this american wonder of nine-to-five and two fifteen-minute government mandated breaks.

is this so surprising? did we not see this coming? Monday is a human invention. time, the precious wonderbread of our minds, is completely concocted to solve life's little oddities we observe around us - each one of us living in our own tiny little world yet strung together like pieces of wrapped construction paper in a christmas tree garland, spun around a fir tree: the universe! everything we can possibly conceive, out there, among the many tiny worlds.

it is through these new connections that we found there were weird, interesting, great, naive, and depraved ideas out there in this universe. the passing of time took on new meaning, connections were built and lost, the sun rose and set as usual but it was no longer the main focus of the solar system - board meetings and connector flights ruled us now.

perhaps the signs of neo-modernism can already tell us our story of the future, if we look hard enough. no longer tied to the days or hours will we be like confused monkeys trying to count foreward from nine to five and always, always, loosing. instant on here-now connections and a global economy that is, at one time, thrown both into darkness and into the light will conspire to kill the white-collar workweek. the process is already happening. rush hour.

we look light-heartedly on this progress like a child looks at a bike being built by her father on christmas morning, the pieces coming together to form an image of advancement. no work hours? a brilliant idea. instant-on connections with the entire world will, no doubt, make our lives easier breezier. we fail to see, however, the dark side; the heinous bonds of servitude that the corporation, the enterprise, the federation slowly tighten around our limbs. once upon a time it was just our legs and then our arms. now it is each finger tacked to the keyboard of production. eventually, even in the quiet darkness of our coffin-style beds stacked neatly one on top of another on top of another on top of another rising highly, magnificently, beautifully advanced, one on top of another, our heads, minds, and brains will be plugged into the assembly line. figuratively or literally is neither here nor there, the power of economic necessity will drive your thoughts through the night, you will solve supply-chain problems in your dreams. there is not a minute to lose, hurry up now. every second counts.

you're on the clock.