Human Subject II

I dreamt.

I was sitting at a workbench in a laboratory. There were a few others sitting at the bench doing work too. I was doing my work. A female scientist, like a PhD student sat across from us. She wasn't the "head" of the laboratory, in other words. Between the female graduate student and we who sat at the bench was a screen-like structure.

As I was writing and doing my work, she kept reiterating a soliloquy of material taken from her research paper. I thought she was practicing for a speech or something. I continued working on my writing, even though it was just my own humble stuff and not a published research paper. She kept looking at me.

After she had reiterated the portion from her research paper several times, I asked her - "do you want me to read your research paper?" Yes, she did, and handed me a big scientific thesis. She wanted me to come work as a technician in the lab and to help her with her work. She thought my work was primitive and unimportant. But hers was real research. When I took her paper, she exited to the professor's office to tell him to hire me "for her work".

Immediately after taking her research paper, I noticed I became sick. I hadn't been sick before taking her paper, but now I had an inflamed reddish area on the skin (klaf) of my left calf and a large cyst on my left great toe. By taking her thesis to read, she had magically transferred the blemish of her paper onto my klaf. She wants the goodies, and will give me all the gunk to get them. I see how it works now. Some win while we "primitives" lose and pay the way for the winners. Sickening.

I picked up my work from off the bench and made a medical appointment. As I walked out of the laboratory, I had no intention of ever going back. I hugged my meager writings to my heart. Maybe they weren't in a fancy published research paper, but they were sacred to me. She had wanted me to forget my "unimportant" work and help her with her "important" work. But, I'm not going to. I'm not going to be her technical handmaiden. Especially am I not going to support the work of someone who despises and sees my work as inconsequential and primitive.

As I was waking up I heard the words of a woman - "Keith come in here" (to look at a computer screen) and a woman's laugh of derision. I don't know anyone named Keith. She was laughing at my "primitive" medicine wheel. I knew it.

The woman secretly, through the black arts, passed her sickness to me through the research paper and then laughed derisively at my work. I'm never going back to that oppressive lab. I'd rather die dirt poor and despised. And that is likely how I will die, as clearly no one cares and the injustice done to me lives on unchallenged.

Baruch Hashem for the medicine wheel. May Hashem bless my humble medicine wheel made with love.

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