I parked in the coffee shop’s lot. A silver SUV battle scar from its travels had the front passenger door open. I glanced that way. It seemed like the SUV was someone’s home. A woman was in the seat, her foot sticking out the open door, as she painted her toenails pink.
I thought of multiple things associated with painting nails. To feel and look attractive. Or maybe to fit in. To seem normal to others. You know, norms, values, mores, judgements. Or carrying forward from the past, trying to remain that person they were.
Then again, I could be all wrong. Might be that they’re not living in their car. They could just be a traveler, pausing to get coffee, taking advantage of a break in their schedule to do their nails.
It’s the kind of scene that inspires questions and thinking about our life and society.
A long and greatly involved dream in three parts entertained me last night. It seemed like it was about hopes, expectations, and relationships.
Part 1: the Catholic family.
In this, Mom had to go away. Although I was an adult, she worried about where I was going to stay and what I was going to do, standard concerned Mom reactions to change. I ended up with an offer to stay with a childhood friend’s family. Neighbors. Haven’t seen the guy in almost fifty years, but here he was, in my dream, along with his parents. His parents have passed away some time ago, BTW.
In this dream, they had a huge home. I wouldn’t deem it luxurious but enormous with a byzantine layout. Some rooms were like huge cement auditoriums or gymnasiums; others were small but with multiple levels.
My friend’s mother told me, “Do whatever you want here. Just act like it’s your house. We’re happy to have you here.”
While I appreciated the sentiments, I was leery of making myself an unwanted guest, so I tried being circumspect. Weirdly I wore off-white pajamas with narrow blue pinstripes the entire time. I thanked her, of course. After casual exploring, I found a large room with a small student desk, the kind seen in elementary school, where I set up my computer and sat down to write.
After I set up, she came by with her family. Only she spoke, though, telling me, “We’re going out. We’re going to be gone a while, so the house is all yours.” It felt like a huge responsibility, almost a burden, but I thanked her for her trust and hospitality. They left; I kept writing.
At some point, I grew aware that it was pouring rain and the onset of dusk outside. I decided to leave.
Part 2: the Porsche rally and restaurant.
I went into my hosts’ garage and found a car. A small and older sports car of some kind, I knew it as mine.
I drove out into the rain and down a driveway to a busy, winding multi-laned urban street. Small sports cars were passing, dropping revs and downshifting, and sometimes sliding, drivers catching spins as the car’s back end swung out on the slick asphalt.
I recalled then, that’s right, the town was hosting a Porsche Rally, with special emphasis on older Porsches and the Porsche Spyder.
Well, that explained it! I also saw a circa 1970 Lotus Elan go by. I wondered if they’d allowed it to participate in the Porsche event, or if serendipity had brought it to this time and place.
Pulling out into the driving rain, I drove carefully, wishing I had a Porsche like the stylish little cars I saw. As I came up one hill, I needed to slow substantially because a Bugatti Veyron had spun across the middle of the road. I wondered, what is an expensive exotic like that doing here? I then saw three more going by in the rain.
Bugatti Veyron from the net — not my car.
It was almost dark and I reached my destination, a crowded old restaurant where I was meeting friends. The menu was American-Immigrant fusion. I began with pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs, and then switched to chicken fried rice. We stood as we ate, and my food tasted sensational.
As I ate, a tall, thin man walked by. “Guess what,” he loudly said, “I saw jars of Ragu in the kitchen. You’ve been tricked! This sauce is not made here.”
My friends and I shrugged it off. Wherever the food was from, it was awesome.
Part 3: the Revolution
I piled into a car with four other men. One of them was driving. One was armed with a gun which was part of his head. I could see that it was loaded with one round bullet, like something you’d fire from a musket. I was pondering the intricacies of how you’d aim a gun like that, especially if the target is moving.
We parked and entered a small, dim theater. A small stage was set up on the far end in front of rows of padded metal folding chairs. About twenty people, mostly men, were present. All were early middle-aged or older, and all were white. I milled with a few people, chatting for several seconds, and then one man began talking. They were there to overthrow the government.
Well, hold on, I thought, uneasy. I’d been invited to this gathering, and it’s not what I thought it was going to be. Something about the way they were addressed struck me as a religious group. I eased myself to one side, thinking, how am I going to get out of here?
At that point, the man with the gun head fired. He pointed it somewhere else and not at me. I watched the round ball leave its barrel with a plume of white smoke.
Many people, including me, have experienced an anxiety dream, the kind of nocturnal event that seems to feed on the things bothering them and causes them to awaken in distress, thinking about ‘this horrible dream’. Well, last night’s dream felt like an antidote to such dreams.
It began weird, strange, and slow, with me being given clothes. The clothes were bizarre, especially the pants. White with wide legs and gold piping outlining their shape, they were made of some stiff leathery material. I was barely able to bend them. And they didn’t fit at all. Way too large.
Out on a rocky outcrop, I was supposedly doing other things but couldn’t because I put these pants on and said, “No way. There must be something else I can wear.” So I took them off and held them up, looking around for someone to talk to about my pants. Nobody seemed interested in what I was saying. I reached a point where I thought, you know what, I’m just going to toss these aside.
Someone came by and took the pants away. I was expecting them to provide me with a different pair. When none were forthcoming, I resigned myself to the jeans I wore. They fit fine and were in good shape, so I was okay with that.
Then, crack, I was suddenly lifted by a whirlwind. I’d barely began processing that when it delivered me to a piece of white machinery. It needed repaired, I saw, so, click, I had it apart. Then, click — with a blaze of yellow and red light, the machine roared to life, fixed.
I laughed with glee. Because I didn’t think I could fix it. But I did! And it wasn’t hard at all.
Fixing gave me confidence. I looked around; what else needed fixed? Bring it on.
Then I wondered about my injured foot. It has a ruptured tendon. Need to be careful, I reminded myself. Yes, because it gives out without warning, hurts like fire burning the bottom of my foot when it does, and I don’t want to make it worse before I see my doc.
A deep male said, “Don’t worry about your foot. Do what you want to do. Your foot is going to be fine. Don’t worry about it at all.”
That’s when I awoke, probably because Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) was singing for his breakfast. I rolled out of bed, energized by the dream still clinging to my thoughts. It left me feeling so optimistic. As I went around the bedroom doing things, an odor struck me. I almost froze, smelling, thinking, what is that? I know that smell. It’s familiar, but —
Another dream fragment returned to me. I’d been in a white convertible with a tan leather interior. I don’t know what brand it was, but it was a luxury car, and I was proud and excited about it. The car top was down. I’d just bought the car. Brand new, it had that new car smell.
And that’s what I’d smelled while walking around the bedroom.
We’re bounding into the last week of August, 2024. Today is Monday, the 26th. Looks like 71 days until the 2024 elections.
It’s 57 F degrees in Ashlandia today. We’re seeing mostly blue sky and sunshine. Pouting clouds lurk around the distant horizons. They act like they’re planning something. We hit 80 degrees yesterday. Today’s high will be a more normal 88 F.
I drifted through the news stories this morning. Feeling a little battered by the disasters, campaigns, rulings, deaths, and general information. The never-ending cycle starts feeling a little heavy.
I was able to help out friends yesterday. We’d stayed together on vacation last week. They then drove home to Ashlandia on Friday, as we did. They insisted that they’d lost their key fob. Must’ve left it back at the vacation place.
Well, wait; how did they drive and charge their EV if they lacked a key fob? They insisted they had. They looked everywhere for it. Didn’t find it, so they must have driven home without it.
I researched that, and like, no way did they drive and recharge their Hyundai Kona EV SUV without the key fob or any key. I went over and found it in about a minute, under their passenger seat against the transmission tunnel. They were absolutely flabbergasted but grateful.
After I was looking for it, they mentioned they’d lost a cell phone. I’d notice one in their car, in the center console compartment. Yes, that was their missing phone. We suggested they might need to rest.
We’re dealing with home insurance issues. After being with Connect, which is Costco’s insurance program with American Family Insurance, for over fifteen years while living here, they’re dropping us. They’re worried about what the cost of insuring us for fires might do to their profits. Homeowners see this sort of things from insurance companies all the time. They’re there and willing to take your money until your place is too large of a risk for their profit margins. It’s not just us but all over town, and not just Connect. I’m hearing the same thing from friends and relatives in other parts of the state.
We’ve seen this before. Earthquakes insurance premiums skyrocket, and then the company announces they won’t insure you any more because you’re in an earthquake zone. Our flood insurance one year went from $300 a year to over $3000, because the city said we’re in a 100-year-flood zone. After the terrorist attacks of 9/11, insurance companies bailed on paying for acts of terrorism. Of course, places that see regular tornado, hurricane, or flood damages already have felt the impact of insurance companies running away from them. That includes insurers leaving California and other states in droves after catastrophic wildfires. Capitalism at its finest. Yes, that is snark.
For us, our home insurance will go from $360 to $1140 a year. It will no longer be through Costco Connect, but to one of American Family Insurance’s feeder companies. Yes, we are looking for a new insurance company for home and auto. We don’t appreciate being passed around like a cheap bottle of wine.
And with extreme weather events happening more frequently as predicted by climate change models, expect more withdrawals by insurance companies. Soon, they’ll only be insuring the wealthy and powerful.
This week’s theme music concept remains time in the song title. There’s an abundance of such songs out there. Today, though, The Neurons pulled out one that they said is dedicated to Don Old Trump and his merry band of MAGAts. Yes, today The Neurons have the Guest Who song from 1969, “No Time”, thumping in the morning mental music stream (Trademark paused). The Canadian group’s opening line in this song is, “No time left for you.” Right on, Neurons. No time left for Trump. I like it.
First, I was working for a friend I used to work for, Laura. She was a terrific boss, perhaps the best I ever had. Certainly in the top three.
I was injured in the dream and forced to wear a cast on my left arm. It struck me as an unusual cast but I can’t provide any details. Encumbering me, it was forcing me to do things in unusual ways.
Laura was at her desk, watching and talking. I suddenly had a brainstorm about how the cast I wore could be modified to make it easier to deal with the limitations it imposed. Laura began talking about it a split second after the idea came to me. We both started babbling about with growing excitement. Calling me to her desk, she said, “Take out the notebook from the inside pocket on the left side of my jacket.” I did, and handing her the small brown book. She opened it to a blank page and started writing.
With a dream shift, I was now in line. I needed a new vehicle. Five people were ahead of me. A female cashier was helping us. I saw a white Jaguar convertible with a red interior. It seated four. I decided, that’s what I’m buying.
The cashier told the first person in line, “We don’t have any small cars left.” Then she called out to the rest of us, “Is anyone in line interested in any car besides a small car.”
Raising my hand, I responded, “I am. I’m buying that white Jaguar.”
The purchase was done with dream speed. As part of my purchase, I was given a model of the car. They went off to get it ready for me to drive away. I went to a coffee shop and purchased a cup of coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid.
A hard wind was blowing. I needed to set my coffee down but worried about the wind blowing it over, even though I was in an office. I opened a file drawer and set the coffee in there, thinking that the drawer will protect it from the wind. Then I set the little white Jaguar on top of it.
The wind immediately blew the little car off the coffee cup lid. I wasn’t surprised. I said, “That’s exactly how I expected that to go.”
Two lanes in each direction with a turning lane, Ashland Street is one of our little city’s busiest main streets. Besides connecting to the southern Interstate exit and entrance, it’s home to four shopping centers, a fire station, college dormitories, five gas stations, a Starbucks and another coffee shop, along with several other businesses, motels, and restaurants. Connecting to our main drag, Siskiyou Boulevard, which leads to downtown, Ashland Stret is divided by median stripes and cement dividers in numerous places.
The city has added white stanchions alongside the bicycle lanes on Ashland Street. Some call them bike lane delineators. A couple inches in diameter, they’re tubes which stand 36 inches high and help separate the bike lanes from motor vehicle lanes, making it safer for bike riders.
Questions have arisen from the people. Like, how are cars supposed to pull over to the curb to let emergency vehicles pass? Second question that everyone wonders is, how will the street sweeper handle the stanchions? There’s no clearcut answer for that, they say. As for pulling over for emergency vehicles, people insist that they can’t.
Except: I noticed that these stanchions or delineators are spring mounted. They bend over. I believe cars and street sweepers can go right over them. The question is, will drivers do that?
You know how it is with change. Some have a harder time with it.
So, it’s a mini-rant on a subject tapped before. I don’t understand some drivers.
Followed a guy along city streets today. I don’t know if it’s germane but the Santa Cruz truck which he drove sported Oklahoma plates. Rental, student, visitor, new arrival who hasn’t registered their vehicle yet? Couldn’t say.
In the 35 MPH zone, they slipped along at 30-31. Okay, they’re cautious, I thought, Maybe looking for something.
The speed limit plummeted to 25 MPH. They cruised through, pulling away from me.
And that dichotomy is what manufactures my ire: why do they go below the speed limit in one area and above the speed limit in another. That’s so contradictory to me. It’s like, and I don’t know if this is what they think, “I’m just going to establish my own speed limit and adhere to it no matter what the local signs say.” Or maybe it’s something they picked up from their parents. Perhaps it’s an Oklahoma habit.
Michael Seidel, writer 