An episode dedicated to corporate daydreamers, opponents and proponents of boardroom bluster, meeting doodlers and anyone who has ever had to circle the waggons, eat their own dogfood or deploy blue-sky thinking - this is for you.
Somewhere between waking and sleeping on our journey towards the unfathomable deep, there comes a thin moment where we have one foot in the waking world and the other is in that other world where we relinquish conscious control.
Pausing here and straddle between two planets that drive one another like gears, the attentive traveler will notice a narrow door only wide enough to sidle through.
This is the border of sleep, where imagination and reality are braided together, a chasm in the crust of consciousness, venting the hot pumice of imagery into the irresistible magma of narrative.
Welcome to episode 34 of Stories from the Borders of Sleep, a occasional podcast of curious tales from bordersofsleep.com featuring original stories by your host, Seymour Jacklin.
Visit bordersofsleep.com for more information or to leave us some feedback which is always appreciated.
Artwork by Robin Trainor, production by Tim Wiles, and the soundtrack for this week's episode is by Benji Goodrich and It's available from magnitude.com and it's lovely.
So do go and listen to the whole thing cuz we've cut it up a bit.
This podcast is also available on itunes, so if you're ready to journey with me, then I shall begin hitting it out of the park.
By Seymour Jacklin Ballpark Figure the words jumped onto Greg's drifting mind like a late passenger swinging aboard as a train leaves the platform.
Ballpark figure.
What did it even mean?
Greg saw his own ballpark figure, his shadow stretched flatly eastward in the late long light and meeting his feet in the dirt of the pitcher's mound that was a summer of grazed knees and sunburn, going to war with his buddies each morning with bat, ball and gloves.
The wasteland at the end of the parking lot had been their field of dreams.
He looked at his colleagues round the conference table.
Jack young, neat, dark like Clark Kent, with sharp Superman eyes that always looked through and beyond you to the goal of his ambitions.
Cora, with the bearing, beauty and temper of an African queen, she was like their secret weapon.
With clients like Nina Simone, she put a spell on them.
Nicothe senior among them was either sunshine or clouds, and depending on which he was on a given day, you'd notice the cheerful crow's feet in his laughing eyes or the heaviness in his tired jowls.
Today he was the cloud.
Chairing the meeting was Dale, Sandy haired, sun browned, marathon running, as likable as a person as he was infuriating as a boss.