A Work Dream and an Iggy Pop Song with a Shared Single Interpretation
I don’t remember the last time a dream was such a clear personal metaphor. And I’ve never had one kick my ass.
Last night’s dream was nearly a nightmare, despite being free from threats of violence or grisly horror scenes. It sewed deep discomfort through spare details and a twisted fish-out-of-water setting. It was my first day with a new employer, I was working in an office again, and no one had a computer at their desk.
If there’d been an orientation or training, it was in a previous, forgotten dream installment. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. I sat at my desk, surrounded by other desks and employees (in dreaded “open workspace” arrangement), and snuck glances at my neighbors for clues on what action items I should be actioning on. No one offered to help me settle in. No one looked at me.
A coffee-table-sized book lay open before me. I flipped its pages back and forth, seeking some context for my job duties. The words and paragraphs meant nothing to me.
I searched the desktop for anything familiar—a pen, a notebook, a coffee cup—but there was only my large book. I tried to study its blocks of copy but could glean nothing. Needles of panic began stabbing me.
I turned to the person stationed to my right and dared a question: “Is reading this book my job?”
The other employee, a nondescript man, shot me an impatient look and turned back to his book. He also said something—his mouth clearly carved the words—but I heard no voice. He spoke again while turning a page, but made no sound.
Across the room, someone walked between workstations with their big book clutched like a satchel. I debated going to them and asking the same question. Then two others: Where’s my computer? Shouldn’t I be writing something? But my panic was now immobilizing, its needles pinning me to my chair.
Then I woke up.
I've thought a lot about work lately. About what I’m contributing. How I’m growing professionally (or not). What I’m writing. What I’m not. How my career trajectory looks.
I could rhapsodize on these topics, but there’s no need now. My dream made it undeniable: I’m feeling lost and useless. I have to wake up and find my way, find intention. I have to find the words that can lead me to more writing, more work. (And income, can’t forget that minor point.)
Fittingly, writing the words above brought to mind a few lines penned and sung-spoken by Iggy Pop in “Paraguay,” off his 2016 Queens of the Stone Age collaboration Post Pop Depression:
There’s nothing awesome here
Not a damn thing, there’s nothing new
Just a bunch of people scared
Everybody’s fucking scared
Fear eats all the souls at once
Iggy paints a pretty nightmarish picture here, and his brushstrokes only get darker, and snarlier, as the song chugs to its furious shouted conclusion.
Like my dream, there’s a single clear message in “Paraguay.” The dreamer/writer/character in both worlds needs to take action, to grow. To get hustling. Iggy’s solution is to literally walk away from everything and find solace and direction elsewhere—“I’m gonna go heal myself now.”
My solution? TBD, but waking up is an essential part of the equation. Here’s to 2025.