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Work Dream(s)
By Stephanie Kemp







I spent yesterday reading and proofing and lightly editing my 75 personal essays, ranging from Breaking my Hymen on the Jungle Gym to My Daughter Going off to College to David Sedaris Never Wrote Me Back.

I am exhausted, but I did it.
Some of them are pretty good!

If only I can write 75 more I think I will have something.
Just kidding.

But I did have this Dream (probably based off my Origin Story with a dash of Career Day combined with The One About Bo Burnham and Menopause):

It was a Sunday…
Modern times.

I woke up (in the dream) so motivated by all of the work I’d done writing and getting my shit together that I decided to head into the office and get my shit together there, too.

It was a beautiful morning and I was in the best mood, sort of (or exactly) like a fall day in Michigan, when the leaves had turned and I was driving to the Cider Mill for the first (or last) time of the season. (I couldn’t tell if I was excited about something or already missing it.)

As I drove, I felt both guilt for totally ignoring this office (and its people) over the past 20 years and totally grateful that they somehow hadn’t noticed and/or shit canned me.

(I was sort of like Robert Evans on the Paramount lot in his later years, even though no-one would ever say that and I never made anything nearly as good as Chinatown or changed the course of cinematic history.)

I loved going to the office when no one was there.

It was a gorgeous space. Old Spanish building, natural light, big windows, creative shit happening in every nook and cranny with Dunkin Donuts coffee always brewed and at the ready.

I wasn’t there often enough (this means ever, during business hours) to realize that I no longer knew a single person who worked there, so when I arrived on this sunny Sunday I was surprised to see a bunch of young people in the kitchen, strangers making matcha lattes. I was suddenly Brooks the librarian from Shawshank who doesn’t know how to operate in the free world once he’s released from prison.

The strangers were polite, but all seemed to be looking at the girl spearheading the lattes (Rachel McAdams from Mean Girls played by Amanda Seyfried as Elizabeth Holmes wearing a black turtleneck and low bun, but no lipstick). The only person that would make eye contact with me was Mindy Kaling, who looked fantastic and was headed off to the beach in the world’s best bathing suit.

I didn’t want her to go.

I gracefully declined one of the stranger’s offers to give me their matcha (it was the last one and there had been “no Dunkin in the house since way before Covid!”) and headed to my office on the second floor, which was small but the best - tucked away in a corner perch with wood floors and floor to ceiling built in bookshelves hugged by a view of tree tops over Sunset Boulevard. (This might sound familiar to anyone who worked at Imaginary Forces in 2003 - or ever - until they moved to Sepulveda.)

When I opened the French doors (French doors!) I was startled to see RachelMcAmandabeth (now also wearing fresh lipstick, clearly having finished her latte), going through my drawers and putting things in boxes.

How did you...
Why are you…
What the fuck are you...

“Oh hi, Stephanie. I’m sorry about this, but let’s just cut right to it. You haven’t been here or done anything for 20 years and we can’t carry you anymore. It was fine when the people who knew you were alive and the things you made still streamed, but those days are done. (You know about streaming, right?)  Plus I want this office. We always thought it was a supply closet because your door was always shut. That was clever.”

Before I could say anything or punch her (or cry), I noticed my journal, sitting open on the desk.  She noticed me noticing:

“I know. I read the whole thing. It’s so sad. I’m sorry you had to live through all of that, but it was just the world then.”

What the fuck was she was talking about? My journal (at least this one) was full of good things - childhood memories, early loves, life happening in different cities with different jobs and amazing friends, meet ups and hook ups and fuck ups (and getting back up) and trying and failing and traveling and eating delicious food and making movies with kick ass people and/or embarrassing myself with reckless abandon (or absolute horror)…My family of origin. My chosen family. My family today. The thought of her (or anyone) reading my journal was so appalling it made me want to rewind my entire life and never have lived it.

Almost…

“And make sure you see HR before you leave. We need an exit scan to make sure you don’t try to get back in. I had them pull your file. You looked so different when you started! That picture was hilarious but I can tell you were pretty. You should take it. No-one needs it anymore.”

I started toward my journal and this person with one open hand and one clenched fist, never so grateful to have two hands. (This might be an exaggeration, I have always been grateful for both of my hands.)

“Here,” she said, handing me the journal. “We don’t need this anymore either. Enjoy whatever’s left. By the way, I liked that part you wrote about Quality versus Quantity. That’s actually a really good idea.”

After my scan, the same kid who offered me his matcha latte offered to help me take my boxes out to the car. I couldn’t really talk to him because I was still trying not to cry or throw up.

“I think you knew my dad*. He said you were really nice and good at your job. He says hi.”

As I tried to remember exactly what my job was, the kid put the boxes in my car and then handed me a manilla envelope, never telling me who his dad was (and me never asking).

“Here’s your Script, in case you want to read it....Don’t worry. They made it funny. I also put a t-shirt** in there. It’s the last one, they’ve been discontinued. Bye, Stephanie.”

I got in the car and started to open the envelope containing the Funny Story of My Life (actually wondering what its title would be), when I woke up from the dream because my real life husband called. (I am in the mountains).

Both of my hands were in a fist.

And I never got to see the/ir title.


*It was Doug H.  I am going to call him.

**The t-shirt said Call the Police in the same font and style as the Absolutely Kosher Records logo my husband designed when we worked together, just after I met him and right before I pushed him, when he (first) tried to kiss me.



PS. One last thought about Dreams...(this is a lie, there will be many more):

The problem with writing down your dreams is that you can get it so wrong. And if you get it wrong, the wrong part stays and you (or someone else) might read it later and think you were a sourpuss. A Debbie Downer. Miserable. Half empty. Spoiled. Unhappy in your life. Manic. (This can also happen if you write down your batshit sleepwalking episodes.)

You write the dream as if it is some sort of glimpse into what your actual life is, when a dream is really a pressure valve to release all the shit that would otherwise taint your days and muck up your mind.

There is a reason dreams melt away so quickly. They are the ultimate liminal space, not meant to be captured, or held accountable.

I don’t hate millennials (ok, maybe I hate some, but….), they have a huge burden on their shoulders.

How must they fear AI at their ages if we fear it this much at ours?
How about all of those additional years they will get to be on the burning planet?
How unfair is it that they will have to unmangle what’s left (or will be left) of an increasingly mangled America?

And I shouldn’t have (and wouldn’t have) hogged that corner office for all those years when I chose to be a mom and mostly stay (and work) at home. No one should hoard a beautiful anything if they are not using it and someone else needs it and is working towards it.

Do I miss that office? That time in life? That job? That space? Those people (or at least my IF friends and Doug H)? Yes. That’s why they made it into my dream.  

This is what dreams are for. To remind us what we miss. To hand off a message that we wouldn’t be able to receive or hold onto during the middle of a real-life day.

To warn us about something...
To nudge us in to reaching out to someone we miss...
To pay more attention to something we are meant to see,
(Or less attention if there is no more brain space available for intake.) 

To Shhhhhhh…………

You can’t go back in time, only forward (this might not be true, I have never liked or been very interested in learning about Science until recently) but your past doesn’t just vanish. It needs a place to be seen and heard. It’s still part of you. Dreams let us go back so that everything gets a chance to be a part of moving forward. Or so that we can learn to put something down forever.

See? How can anyone get it right?

As for the person in my dream that was RachelMcAmandabeth, I see you. I might have to go for a walk and have a think on why it was the exact combination of you (plus Tina Fey because she wrote Mean Girls and because she is Tina Fey) that made it so vividly into my dream. (Or maybe I’ll just watch your movies with my Gen Z daughters after we meet Mindy for a day at the beach and ask her about her new swimsuit line.)

One more thing (I swear) -

There is nothing wrong with matcha lattes. They are delicious. And good for you. (I know this because my daughter reminds me of it everytime she gets me to buy her one.)