I don’t believe dreams mean anything. I’m convinced that they are just random neuronal discharges, some kind of maintenance mechanism the brain has to go through periodically to flush out the pipes, blow tubes, compact files and defrag the disk. They give no insight into our mental condition, and they certainly don’t allow us to predict the future. Whatever function they may serve in revealing our innermost feelings and problems, whatever use they provide for analysis of our psyche and personality or to help illuminate our neuroses, is, at best, highly exaggerated. Still, it can’t be denied that dreams are internal and self-generated, the raw material for their narratives must be what we experience, what we think about, or what we remember. We can’t fully escape the suspicion that there must be a motivation for our dreamscapes, particularly the more bizarre and spectacular ones. The human mind is a highly refined and extremely effective pattern detector, but it is so sensitive it sometimes sees patterns where none really exist. We are determined to make sense of things, and we often do, even when they make no sense at all.

Having said that, I had a doozy this morning, just before I woke up. I dreamt I attended a fancy management seminar, an executive conference of some sort. It was held in a very beautiful hall
(it looked like a converted mansion), elegantly furnished and appointed. The place had many rooms and parlors, and was tastefully decorated in a severe Frank LLoyd Wright style. It was attended by about two hundred people, mostly in their thirties and forties, and the attendees all seemed attractive, prosperous and crisply professional; dressed, groomed and coiffed to project an air of competence and confidence; cool and unflappable. To quote Warren Zevon, “Their hair was perfect.” Ah-Hooo…

I’d been to a lot of similar affairs when I was working, in fact, I even helped organize and officiate a few. But those were more like industrial trade shows, where folks from the industry gathered to listen to lectures, walked through company and agency booths, and promoted new products, technologies, or vendors. I’m sure you’re familiar with this type of event; people read technical papers, and there are panels and round-tables to discuss issues of interest to the industry.

The gathering in my dream was different. There was all sorts of activity, but it was impossible to connect it to any single industry or trade. There seemed to be no specifics, just a lot of feel-good generalizations and business platitudes, all sorts of talk about “innovation”, and “excellence”, “entrepreneurial spirit”, and “meeting our customers needs”, but no specific product or service was mentioned. The gathering was open and free-form, people were huddled in small groups, earnestly discussing things in vague and abstract terms. There were large meeting rooms, like hotel lobbies, where the participants milled about and sipped cocktails and made small talk. There were auditoriums, classrooms, and a lounge. From the gourmet kitchen, fresh food, very good food, was plentiful and there was an open bar.

The mistress of ceremonies, a very attractive middle-aged woman (yes, I’m old enough to occasionally consider middle-aged women attractive), flitted about from one group to another making sure everyone was having a good time. She reminded me of a cruise ship social director, overworked but indefatigable, great legs, great smile, a little black dress and every hair in place.

I was brought to the conference in a luxury SUV, along with several other attendees. I went in and started mixing with the other guests, trying to make small talk and pick up some industry gossip, and seeing if any of my old associates and colleagues were among the attendees. But no one seemed to want to talk business, it was all small talk and platitudes. I rapidly started coming to the conclusion that this was not a professional conference at all, but some kind of emotional support group for failed businessmen and technocrats. These people weren’t here to schmooze and get ahead, like I was; they were there hoping to be discovered, trying to break into a profession, any profession! It was more like a self-help thing, some kind of EST-like California feelgood group grope, where people could put on airs and pretend they were “in” when what they really wanted was to get in. It was rehab for losers, a salon for has-beens and never-weres, where they could play at being professional, or technical, or bureaucratic. Eventually (about half-way through the dream) I realized the whole exercise was just one big motivational gathering, a place where wannabees could be reassured of the validity of their ambitions and pretend they were living their fantasy, like a fan con. Everyone there was in costume, role playing, mouthing execubabble and trying to look like the movers and shakers they wanted to be.

Almost everyone. I started seeing cracks in the executive cool. One guy was crying in a corner, pounding his smart phone as if he was desperately trying to talk to a real person who had not bothered to show up. No one wanted to talk, or answer questions. Once I made clear I was interested in what was going on, people avoided me. Everyone there looked bored, or scared, or sad. The MC was polite to me, until I asked her just what the purpose of the meeting was and who sponsored it. She quickly vanished. The entertainment came out, a group of very authentic-looking Japanese Geishas in full traditional costume, hairdo and makeup, dancing gracefully, ducking and bobbing and fluttering their fans to the accompaniment of a strange stringed instrument. Some of the attendees, obviously in their cups, got up and tried to dance with them.

It occurred to me the whole show was expensively produced, and I started to wonder how were they going to pay for it all. Was there going to be a bill? If so, it was going to be outrageous–the Geishas looked like they had been flown over from Tokyo, and the chef’s at the buffet really knew what they were doing; I was stuffing my face and knocking down one highball after another. Was I expected to sit through an exquisitely boring sales pitch in order to pay for the entertainment? I was having a great time, but I didn’t want to pay.

As in all my dreams, just as it was getting really interesting, I woke up. I made it a point to go over the details as I went through my morning routine so that I wouldn’t forget them. Maybe this dream was just white noise, random synaptic firings in my brain, but maybe it was more than that, or maybe it just felt that way. I knew I had to write this one down and tell people about it. I felt I had been given a glimpse of Hell.