Do NDAs Apply to Bad Dreams?

Bad dreams are just random neurological noise that interupt sleep so any connection to reality is obviously coincidental. :)

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I had been snatched as I was about to go into class, thrown into a tiny room that reeked of vitriol. Fifteen minutes later, I was evicted, walking toward the parking lot with just my knapsack, my computer and a letter commanding me not to speak with any of the tens of thousands of staff, students, past and present, and faculty—indeed anyone who knew of the university’s existence.

My office of almost fourteen years was empty, a forced abandonment. Would I have left any differently if I had smoke curling under my office door and flames down the hallway?

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But no, there was no fire. It was a spontaneous and impulsive suspension from my second-rate lecturer position at my little-known university.

The story didn’t have much to it. Some digital stranger in South Asia had spat out that he wanted Israel destroyed. I said I stood with Israel. I added that if you stand with the Palestinian government (that’s Hamas), you stand with Nazis.

No biggie, free speech. Off to class.

Silly me, I thought that after watching videos of butchers intentionally murdering 1200 hippies, after seeing children and grandmothers hunted, kidnapped and raped, after seeing joyful sadists slaughtering women my daughter’s age - indeed, after all that, I thought I must have found moral high ground.

But no, apparently, if you say something that bothers people and hurts their feelings, they are encouraged to reach for the ethnicity, religion, gender, and place of birth grievance lever. They should not consider the “Can we discuss it like civilized human beings” option. This is 2024; it’s a digital age.

Bear in mind that even if nothing you said refers to ethnicity, religion, gender, place of birth, etc., - if they feel like it did, that will do; no worries, feelings, truth, whatever, don’t be pedantic. Just keep telling yourself your heart is in the right place, and that’s all that matters; write that on a piece of paper, put that paper in a small box, strap it to your arm, and treat it like a secular homemade tefillin.

Seriously, though I am no historian, the idea that feelings can become truth or trump truth is a dangerous rubicon that must not be crossed. The Rubicon River was a clear marker for Caesar; it separated Italy from Gaul, and Caesar knew that if he crossed it, he would violate Roman law. He restrained himself and did not cross it, and nor should we.

We may think sensitivity and kindness are on the other side, but this is an illusion: chaos, nihilism, cynicism, and societal ruin.

And yes, back to the bad dream of my ‘human rights’ voyage, the offended were now encouraged to skip civil options like talking, calling, or anything approaching genuine interaction. They were pushed toward a digital bureaucratic complaint option and encouraged to vent; it would be a cathartic purge. Their feelings were coddled and encouraged, and such feelings were now free to frolic in a dreamy meadow where nobody fell, and knees were never skinned.

Such protocols avoid those awkward moments of looking into someone’s eye. Complainants are given the best weapons to launch pejoratives and shameless lies without ever having to see the reality of where their missiles land and the destruction that ensues.

But remember, it is all in the name of sensitivity and kindness. Sometimes, we forget that intentions can be delusory; they can be pots crafted from the clay of hubris and compulsions to keep up with the latest fads in the moral superiority container industry.

Though it has been months, and my tulips will likely have risen and died long before there is any resolution, it is still a nightmare that keeps giving. Even with pharmaceutical help, not to mention gin, my sleep is still troubled, and last night, my dreamless darkness was intruded upon.

In dreams, natural sequence and logic are betrayed but rarely questioned until you wake, sweaty and gasping, happy to return to the darkness of your bedroom, your wife sleeping beside you, and the humming of the bathroom fan.

But before I reached the bathroom last night, my anxious brain showed me a small cackle of claimants, their faces oddly pixelated, standing at a Human Rights Office. The flashing sign was above the entrance, the first word flickering, the last two steadfast and bold.

As the group walked in, a black-haired woman with expensive headphones around her neck, wearing a smart checkered blazer and ill-matched ripped jeans, stood to greet them. She bowed too low and smiled as she handed them clipboards with red pens connected via spiralled red plastic cords.

Each group nodded in appreciation, and the black-haired lady retired behind her executive desk, the top clear of any paper and a set of closed drawers on each side. The top seemed hastily painted white rather than refinished; globs of hardened paint rose off the surface. A sticker covering a bare patch on the desk read, “I love TikTok.”

After the triumvirate of face-pixeled creatures returned their clipboards with the completed forms, she read over each one, her finger running down the paper. She seemed satisfied, opened a drawer and pulled out a black box with silver hinges. She handed it to the tallest of the pixelated.

They opened it. Inside, a black card pushed into a crushed velvet depression looked like a loyalty card from a bougie department store—very chic.

I drew nearer, and it read, “Paul Finlayson.” Written under my name was, “We will Destroy Him.” The TikTok lady slammed the box shut, almost crushing their fingers.

Again, she held up her index finger to emphasize her point.

“You need to listen carefully. This is your card; don’t lose it, but you must redeem it in the back room. They have no immediate cash value but must be inserted into our HATE machine.” She paused and started again, annoyed though nothing had been said; perhaps she was anticipating a question that never came.

“It’s Hubris, Amorality, Threats, and Evil, but I’m not sure what hubris or amorality is, ” she said. “But be assured that the machine in the back is a top-end, new model, DD2024, fully European and freshly delivered from the Schadenfreude factory in London. It's German quality; you’re lucky—so new.”

The group looked at each other; the pixels still hid their faces, but they did that clap you do when you are afraid you’ll make too much noise, banging the south ends of their palms together.

“Let’s go to the back room,” the TikTok lady said, standing and pushing her chair carefully into her desk. They dutifully followed.

In the back room was a black kiosk-type machine with rows of slots you might see on parking machines. I’m talking about the machines where you insert your parking ticket, lift the arm bar, and escape the lot. It was dark, but when she tapped the machine, the room’s only light came off the large LCD panel; I moved closer to read what was written and caught a whiff of sulphur, like the well water on my cousin Rod’s farm, and I retreated.

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The TikTok lady pointed to a slot in the bottom row.

“You put the card in here,” she said. “This is top-shelf equipment, human rights gold. You can destroy him; no need to skimp on how much psychological hell you can send his way; AI will give you defamation hints, absolutely no crappy 80s talking mandates.”

She did that finger-raising thing again; it was becoming annoying.

“And it comes with three free lawyers and unlimited support,” she smiled.

The taller of the pixelated put the card in the slot.

The narrow red light around the slot began to flash.

“Yes, this is the full package, for sure,” the TikTok lady said, seeming to want to break the awkward silence. We are looking for a catchier name for the process, but my boss said it’s the university’s ‘Let’s Hate and Destroy’ package. Full defamation, 100% pure emotion guaranteed, no contamination with reason or humanity, always sticks to any narrative, no messy conversations needed.”

The pixelated leader of the group cocked his head. The TikTok lady seemed to be anticipating questions.

“Oh, if we need conversation, we’ve got legal ghouls down hallways D1 and D2; they will ghostwrite letters with emotion, threats, and random half-truths.”

The panel was still blank. She shook her head again and spoke like she was reusing a conversation from past clients: “That hate and destroy package, stupid name, way too long; someone has never taken marketing,” she snorted.

The LCD panel finally filled with text, and the lady of TikTok began to read:

“Oh, good job. Your card has been accepted because you entered the correct ethnic, religious, and miscellaneous victimization categories.”

She turned to them and laughed,

“Though you missed out on the gender top-up bonus.”

Turning to the panel, she continued, reading with the indifference one speaks as they skim over boilerplate,

“This supporting institution also offers you and all your fellow agitators the anonymity bonus, three extra months to refine your slander, and the bad faith top-up, with no evidence ever required.”

She raised her finger; God, I hated that move.

“And, now, as part of the human rights complaint package, you also get the wounded feelings are assault assumption set.”

Before, she’d been reading it like a bored preacher reading Leviticus, and suddenly, she decided to become a saleswoman. It was so annoying.

The pixelated group turned to each other and did that awkward hand clap again.

The machine went dark, and the group and TikTok lady vanished.

I was awake and heard the bathroom fan. I swung my legs to the floor, pushed my shoulders straight, and tried to take soft steps not to wake my wife. My creaky back objected.

I shut the bathroom door, turned on the tap, filled my cupped hands with water, and drank, eager to touch the world and leave the fading anxieties of a foolish nightmare behind.

I had been snatched as I was about to go into class, thrown into a tiny room that reeked of vitriol. Fifteen minutes later, I was evicted, walking toward the parking lot with just my knapsack, my computer and a letter commanding me not to speak with any of the tens of thousands of staff, students, past and present, and faculty—indeed anyone who knew of the university’s existence. 

My office of almost fourteen years was empty, a forced abandonment. Would I have left any differently if I had smoke curling under my office door and flames down the hallway?

Please subscribe and get at least three pieces /essays per week with open comments. It’s $5 per month and less than $USD 4. I know everyone says hey, it’s just a cup of coffee (with me, not per day but just one per month), but if you’re like me, you go, “Hey, I only want so many cups of coffee!” I get it. I don’t subscribe to many here because I can’t afford it.

But I only ask that when you choose your coffee, please choose mine. Cheers.

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