Communist Dreams

So I borrowed a few general-subject philosophy books from the library yesterday to help with a project I might be interested in penning.  One book was one of those philosopher per page reference guides.  As I’m skimming through the 19th century I come across Marx’s page, with, of course, a sidebar on The Communist Manifesto.  Now, the theory is thoroughly debunked by history to me, as well as common sense, and holds no real interest.  Except for that fact that I have never read it, and I note that it is only 44 pages in length. 

Oh well.

Then, for some reason, last night I had a plethora of dreams.  In one of them, I stood in a shabby 1860s-style German boardinghouse, with gaslight lamps (dunno if they existed then), drawn curtains stitched in numerous places for repair, populated with old King-Louis-the-whatever-style furniture.  Everything in the dream was black-and-white, or, more rather, gray.  Two unnamed men (Marx and Engles, in retrospect) were with me, and we were all dressed in typical 1860s-style garb.

Marx was extolling how this little handwritten pamphlet he was clutching was going to revolutionize the world.  Power to the working classes!  Stick it to the man!  That sort of tired stuff (it even sounded tired as it came from his mouth, presumably the first time such things were uttered). 

But how are we to spread the word?  I wondered aloud.

Marx and Engels exchanged glances.  Then the communistic Jerry Garcia said to me, “Engels here knows a printer.  We ordered a thousand copies, paid in advance, and we’ve hired a sales representative to go to all the local bookstores.  In six months we should see a return on investment of …”

I woke up then to go to the bathroom, the dream fresh in my head.  Overcome by a sense of irony so thick it felt like I was wearing my wife’s lush terry cloth bathrobe, I realized I had to remember it to write it up the following morning.