Mister Sandman, Can I Bring You Anything?
(This post is a part of the Amish Tech Support Blog A Day Tour.)
Yeah, I know the Sandman. He brings you your dreams. Guy works his ass off bringing you your dreams, and do you ever stop to thank him?
Hell no.
It used to be easy for him to bring you your dreams because he had a whole team of dream-bringing Sandmen to work with. Dreams die hard now, and cutbacks and layoffs have reduced that team to a select few of die-hand dreamcasters.
You think that you've got your own sandman to bring you your dreams? Hah! Every sandman has to bring the dreams for hundreds and thousands of people every night, all by a pre-assigned territory so as to deal with the rolling-duskline that falls across the earth as it turns.
Despite that plan, they don't get any rest, considering that you've got your night watchmen, your narcoleptics, your terminally-ill, and your kindergartners punking out after milk and cookies during Nap Time. Assistants used to help with that, filling in the gaps, but the assistants have long gone, either being promoted into full-fledged sandmen or wearing out and going into other equally-depressing careers as guardian angels or gremlins.
There's dreams to be delivered, and they all have to be custom-mixed and delivered at the right moment of REM sleep. Not a moment to spare, not a grain of sand to lose.
Daydreams, too. Flights of fancy, you name it - it's all dreams. Sometimes, the sandman's got to spread a little inspiration, too, since the muses don't get around like they used to. No wonder why all the entertainment's turned to crap and there's only a good show or play or book every now and then instead of popping up everywhere like in the Renaissance or Classical Greek times.
The Muses, they've got a union. The sandman doesn't, and he suffers for it.
Every sandman used to be adorned with flowing golden robes and a shadowy cloak, but with the haste they rush from client to client, they've torn and worn out those robes of office on many a doorknob and protruding nail. The sand itself needs to be constantly replenished at their regional field offices, but due to further cutbacks they now have to recycle old dreams, stock it with filler they scoop from the polluted beaches of the world, and mix in the necessary chemicals and fairy-dust on the run.
They never take time off. There's nobody to back them up when they walk off the job, get sick, or trip over a dog or a cat at the foot of your bed. There's less of them going about sprinkling the dreams every year while there's more people to feed their dreams as time crawls on.
And every now and then, they get careless. A dream meant for one person might not get to them, ending up sprinkled over the head of someone else. When a dream doesn't fit the dream-receptors of the brain, nightmares result. Nightmares are the rejection of the incompatible dreams, you know. One man's dream is another man's nightmare, right?
Worst case, though, is when the sandman gets careless or gets ugly. Ever heard of someone dying in their dreams and dying in real life? It's always from a bad mix of dreams, with maybe too much filler or too much fairy-dust, causing an overdose. Usually, it's carelessness, but every now and then the sandman just wants to lash out at these ungrateful dreamers, never once offering thanks.
Some folks like to do the math on old fairy-tales and folklore and myths like the sandman or Santa Claus, showing how fast they need to get their jobs done and how heavy their packs are and so on. Well, let me tell it to you straight: Santa Claus only has one night to deal with while the sandman's doing this round-the-clock for as long as there's a human head that needs filling with dreams.
Now go back to sleep so I can sprinkle this crap on your head and get on to my next thousand clients.
Pleasant dreams.
Filed Under: Blogging
Yeah, I know the Sandman. He brings you your dreams. Guy works his ass off bringing you your dreams, and do you ever stop to thank him?
Hell no.
It used to be easy for him to bring you your dreams because he had a whole team of dream-bringing Sandmen to work with. Dreams die hard now, and cutbacks and layoffs have reduced that team to a select few of die-hand dreamcasters.
You think that you've got your own sandman to bring you your dreams? Hah! Every sandman has to bring the dreams for hundreds and thousands of people every night, all by a pre-assigned territory so as to deal with the rolling-duskline that falls across the earth as it turns.
Despite that plan, they don't get any rest, considering that you've got your night watchmen, your narcoleptics, your terminally-ill, and your kindergartners punking out after milk and cookies during Nap Time. Assistants used to help with that, filling in the gaps, but the assistants have long gone, either being promoted into full-fledged sandmen or wearing out and going into other equally-depressing careers as guardian angels or gremlins.
There's dreams to be delivered, and they all have to be custom-mixed and delivered at the right moment of REM sleep. Not a moment to spare, not a grain of sand to lose.
Daydreams, too. Flights of fancy, you name it - it's all dreams. Sometimes, the sandman's got to spread a little inspiration, too, since the muses don't get around like they used to. No wonder why all the entertainment's turned to crap and there's only a good show or play or book every now and then instead of popping up everywhere like in the Renaissance or Classical Greek times.
The Muses, they've got a union. The sandman doesn't, and he suffers for it.
Every sandman used to be adorned with flowing golden robes and a shadowy cloak, but with the haste they rush from client to client, they've torn and worn out those robes of office on many a doorknob and protruding nail. The sand itself needs to be constantly replenished at their regional field offices, but due to further cutbacks they now have to recycle old dreams, stock it with filler they scoop from the polluted beaches of the world, and mix in the necessary chemicals and fairy-dust on the run.
They never take time off. There's nobody to back them up when they walk off the job, get sick, or trip over a dog or a cat at the foot of your bed. There's less of them going about sprinkling the dreams every year while there's more people to feed their dreams as time crawls on.
And every now and then, they get careless. A dream meant for one person might not get to them, ending up sprinkled over the head of someone else. When a dream doesn't fit the dream-receptors of the brain, nightmares result. Nightmares are the rejection of the incompatible dreams, you know. One man's dream is another man's nightmare, right?
Worst case, though, is when the sandman gets careless or gets ugly. Ever heard of someone dying in their dreams and dying in real life? It's always from a bad mix of dreams, with maybe too much filler or too much fairy-dust, causing an overdose. Usually, it's carelessness, but every now and then the sandman just wants to lash out at these ungrateful dreamers, never once offering thanks.
Some folks like to do the math on old fairy-tales and folklore and myths like the sandman or Santa Claus, showing how fast they need to get their jobs done and how heavy their packs are and so on. Well, let me tell it to you straight: Santa Claus only has one night to deal with while the sandman's doing this round-the-clock for as long as there's a human head that needs filling with dreams.
Now go back to sleep so I can sprinkle this crap on your head and get on to my next thousand clients.
Pleasant dreams.
Filed Under: Blogging
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