A Dad Leak Dream
There was a leak in the bathroom.
A thick tube of clear water spurted out of the wall. White tiles had been removed above the tub about five feet up. Oh, dear, what a mess, with some black fuzzy thing happening in the opening.
A trio of engineers, casually dressed, of different styles, heights, ages, one woman, two men, came in on behalf of the townhouse association. Because this wasn’t unique to this townhouse. It’d happened throughout the complex. This trio was going unit to unit to assess and strategize. I was just watching them from back by the door, listening as they ignored me. The spoke of how to fix it, what must be done.
Leaving, I headed across a common through sunshine to my own townhouse because, hey, that had been my father’s place, which slightly changed everything. He wasn’t there to look after it, so I was acting on his behalf.
I entered my own townhouse where the same problem existed but seemed to be on a much smaller scale. Some wall had been removed from the bathroom to the right which didn’t seem to have anything to do with the leak. I didn’t understand what that was about but I knew where to go for explanation.
I sought that women and this little rotund blonde explained something that kind of made sense and eased my anxieties. Going off again, I found I had a broken arm. No, not broken, just not working right. I’d been advised to keep it in a sling. I didn’t have a sling, so I fashioned one, and then modified it again and again, decided this was a good place to keep things, like my wallet, keys, and glasses.
So I tucked them in but then needed more material, so I added other things, and reshaped it, and reshaped it. People were going past as I did this and I turned away, trying to keep things private.
I decided to call my stepmother to tell her about Dad’s townhouse. Then I realized that Dad was dead and this was a dream. That I had actually a dream in a dream, and that the townhouse with the plumbing problem wasn’t real.
But I called my stepmother. I said, “I was thinking about Dad because it’s his birthday.” Then I realized, that’s not right. I said, “No, because it was my birthday.”
She was talking but it came to me, this call isn’t happening; it’s also a dream.
I awoke.
Wednesday’s Theme Music — Round & Round
Ashland, southern Oregon — Wednesday, July 8, 2026.
It’s another sunny rocking morning. Cool at 69 degrees, which feels wonderful, with a friendly breeze carrying the heat off. We’re expected to pass 90 again today. My house saw 96 yesterday. Still, a dry heat and not so bad that it saps your ability to breathe. Does do a little damage to the will to move around, though.
Papi has staked out a cool spot in some plant shade, giving me a coolly level amber look before lowering his head and closing his eyes. He appears to be asleep in a second.
On the family news front, Mom’s home is moving through the selling stages without a hitch. My brother-in-law ended up with two stents and staying overnight in the hospital. The medicos said he was severely clogged. Reluctantly, I wasn’t overly surprised. Although energetic, slender, and athletic, he ate a lot of pizza, and a great deal of red meat, sausage, and bacon. Fingers crossed for him. He’s set to be released today. Round and round.
Catching up on the news, I wearily wonder, WTF is Trump doing now? How is he making himself look an idiot this time?
Well, earlier this week, he did it by interfering with the World Cup. He thinks he did a great thing. As others point out, whenever Trump touches something outside of his immediate circle, it fails. So it came to pass that the Trump touch brought on end to America’s World Cup hopes.
Now we see, oh, the war with Iran will begin again. Who is surprised with Trump ‘in command’? He’s declared it over. Done. Changes his objectives about why the war was begun. And here it goes, grinding on…again.
Prices will go up again. The long hot summer will get a little hotter, our optimism will fade a little more, and MAGA will shout “Praise him” once again. Don’t know if they actually do that. Seems like something in the MAGA wheelhouse.
Meanwhile, the Trump DOJ announced that Todd Blanche is a good Trump tool — such a great tool, the best tool ever! Everyone says so!
Blanche is busy delaying and obstructing, as a good Trump tool does, keeping the Epstein files from showing Bad Things About Trump. As if, again, We the People — with the exception of solid MAGAs and some GOP who would rather stab out their eyes than admit what they see — don’t see what Trump has done, who he is, and what he’s doing.
The horrendous, bloated Epstein ballroom remains under construction, despite the will of We the People.
So we come to the song inhabiting my morning mental music stream: “Spinning Wheel”. Blood, Sweat, and Tears released the song in 1969. I’ve always enjoyed how the song begins and builds, slyly, smoothly:
Lyrics
What goes up, must come down
Spinning wheel got to go round
Talkin’ ’bout your troubles, it’s a cryin’ sin
Ride a painted pony, let the spinning wheel spin
You got no money and you, you got no home
Spinning wheel, all alone
Talkin’ ’bout your troubles and you, you never learn
Ride a painted pony, let the spinning wheel turn
Did you find a directing sign on the straight and narrow highway?
Would you mind a reflecting sign?
Just let it shine within your mind
And show you the colors that are real
It’s such a perfect song for a summer day despoiled by Trump and his smirking arrogance. He doesn’t understand cause and effect, such as what his tariffs and broken trust has done to prices and trade. Trump likes to pretend it isn’t real — or, if it’s a problem, it’s someone else’s fault!
May the spinning wheel take you and yours to loftier places, where you’re safe, healthy, happy, and free.
Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 