Category: Travels

Friday’s Theme Music

The sun was shifting into position in the eastern sky. Gray sky emerged from the darkness as the stars shied away. We jumped into the car and headed north and then east. Our coast time was over. Shame, too. Thursday had been warm. Calm winds heralded dawn at 5:45 AM. This morning’s thermometer proclaimed 58 C was we left the hotel. They forecast 68 F as Yachat’s high. But come 9 AM, we were at PDX, dropping off friends and then heading west for our next destination.

Today is Friday, 7/15/22. Happy birthday, little sister. She’s two years younger than me, mother of two adult men, grandmother to two sweet and lovely girls.

We’re in Beaverton, outside of Portland. It’s 74 F now and will reach 83 F.

“She’s the One” by Bruce Springsteen, 1975, was found in my morning mental music stream. The Neurons put it there after someone made an innocent comment about another person being ‘the one’. Yeah. Okay, at least I get the connection, unlike some of the opaque selections they issue me. Hope you like it.

Well, stay positive, test negative, and so on. I’ve already had my coffee. Might do with another one in a little while, as that drive disrupted my normal daily flow. We’ll see.

Cheers

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Monday’s Wandering Thought

He read the news article about a man stealing from people during an overnight flight. One woman had 10,000 USD and 13,000 Argentinian pesos stolen from her. He and his wife were shocked that she’d be carrying that much currency and that someone was able to steal it from her. As his wife said, “If I had that much on me on an aircraft, I wouldn’t be sleeping, and I’d probably be sitting on my purse.”

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The Expensive Tickets Dream

I was in a room decorated with furniture and hangings in which purples and reds dominated. I don’t recall seeing windows but the small room with dark wooden walls was cluttered, with a low ceiling. As the dream progressed, it seemed more like a loft.

I was working on some sort of rectangular woven hanging which was shades of purple, attempting to straighten it and neatly fold it over a wooden rod, when I heard people below. As I leaned over the heavy wooden railing, I saw people coming up the narrow wooden steps. They were shouting but it was a language which I didn’t understand. Still, I shouted back at them, “No, you can’t come up here, it’s time to go.” I then met them on the steps, waving my arms and repeating what I’d said before.

I went down and outside onto a crowded and busy plaza awash in sunshine. My wife was with me. A young man in a white shirt provided me tickets for our flights. We hadn’t paid for the flights. I saw his shirt cuff as he handed us the tickets. “Playboy Style” and “Cotton” was embroidered in white thread on his white shirt’s cuffs. I thought, these tickets are going to be expensive. I then asked, but he didn’t answer. As he went away, I opened the little sheaf of papers he’d provided and saw the ticket prices. They amounted to $4,000. I said, “No, these tickets are too much.” My wife replied, “We can afford it,” to which I answered, “We can afford it, but do we want to pay that?”

Dream end

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Another Airport Dream

I experienced three distinct airport dreams last night. Two were of the, ‘hey, I’m traveling in an airport’ style, once with my wife, and once without her. They were essentially just in the airport, milling around, waiting for my flights, without any events happening. The third was weird.

My wife and I were in our thirties and looked just as we would in photographs of that time. We were outside on asphalt, between low building with white siding. The buildings reminded me of military buildings erected in the late 1950s/early 1960s. Cyclone fencing encircled the site. Beyond were tall pines and firs in a sandy but flat land sketchy with broken asphalt and foundations where other buildings had been torn down.

We talked as we waited. I asked, “I wonder how much of this land and these buildings are going with us?” Because it was my understanding that they would fly us out by lifting the land we were on. I was struggling to visualize that process.

As time passed, we drifted into another area. Tall, fat, white, cylindrical pillars held ceiling up hundreds of feet above our heads. The paved area was open on all sides. People in knots, clumps, groups, were waiting all around although the center was clear. I walked around a while, looking, wondering when we were leaving, then found that I’d lost track of my wife. As I looked for her, I heard an announcement that our flight was ready and that we need to return to our places.

A stocky pale man with short hair, a red baseball cap, and a goatee asked, “Are you looking for your wife?” As I nodded and replied, “Yes,” he said, “She went to the Starbucks,” and pointed. I turned and saw my wife up on a platform, waving at me. Thanking the man, I walked toward her and waved her toward me, telling her, “Come on. It’s time.”

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A House Dream

I was split about what I was calling this dream because of its varying facets. WTH.

I was a teenager. I’d biked back to visit an area where I previously lived, to see the friends still living there.

But my friend wasn’t home. Platinum blonde and white, with hair and clothing styles lifted from the 1960s, aunts and older female family friends were there and told me, “Make yourself at home.” I was in the kitchen with them and felt uncomfortable because it wasn’t my place. They scoffed away those protests while they stayed busy chatting and doing things.

The large, bright kitchen was fresh, airy, and uber-modern. Hidden doors and cupboards were everywhere. The refrigerator opened and unfolded like a transformer toy and held an amazing amount of food. My astonishment rabbited higher with every revelation.

One aunt was looking for cheese. Announcing, “I can’t find it, I have to go to the store for it,” I replied, “Wait, no, I know where it’s at.” I showed her some unfolding refrigerator section that she didn’t know about where the cheese was tucked away.

After that, I walked around the home’s bottom level. My friend’s mother returned home at that point. Short and fair, blue-eyed, with pink lipstick and white gold hair cut like Marlo Thomas in “That Girl”, she told me that I was welcome to stay as long as I like. I demurred but walked around because the house fascinated me. The living room had two large, comfortably furnished conversation pits, but the back of the living room had two natural reflecting pools surrounded by cliff walls. I saw my friend’s Mom take her bikini top off and sit back, relaxing and meditating, but looked away, not wanting to impose on her.

Going on through the house, I found a large green lawn adjacent to the living room. No walls separated them. Another front door led into that area from the outside. Two front doors! I was quite impressed and thought, every house should have two front doors. It made sense.

I had my bike now, and pushed it toward the house’s back, where I encountered the ocean. Yes, there was a large beach, reminiscent of central California, inside their house, or the house wasn’t closed in on that end. I couldn’t decide which it was as I enjoyed the crashing waves and different bird varieties.

My friend still hadn’t returned. I decided to head home. I pushed my bike back up into the living room. Seeing his mother, still topless by the reflecting pool, I called out to her, “I’m going home now. Thanks for everything.”

She came to me, putting a tee shirt on as she did, and asked questions about my planned route home. Announcing she was going that way, she said that she’d ride with me, and pulled her bike out. She was doing some shopping that way.

We rode our bikes along a rutted narrow dirt road filled with potholes and talked. She asked me why I liked her. I told her because she was intelligent, clever, charming, and beautiful. I raved a bit about her house, which I thought was amazing. She was distant in reply; I realized she wasn’t paying attention but was focused on riding her bike.

We arrived at a little market where she wanted to stop to buy bubble gum. Small wicker buckets at angles on wooden platforms abounded in a cramped, small stall. She told me to pick out some gum for myself and then said, “Oh, I need to get tongue for the dogs.”

“Tongue?”

She was holding up several packages. “Oh, yes, they love it.”

I was bewildered. “But isn’t that bubble gum?” Then I thought, who would make tongue-flavored bubble gum? I must have misunderstood.

That’s where it ended.

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Two Directions Dream

The dream upset me. First was one with the usual military overtones. Superintendent of a command post, fixing it up, blah, blah, blah. I experience so many dreams of that ilk.

It segued into a road trip dream. I was in one car, a red convertible, top up, with a friend. It was a shiny, impressive car. My wife was with a female friend and a coupe in another car. The friend and I in the red car were talking about where we were going, when we were getting there, when we should leave. We agreed, we were prepared to leave; let’s go.

The other car had been parked beside us. I got out to go speak with them and discovered them gone.

Shock surprise went through me. I returned to the car. “They left,” I told my friend.

“They left?” He was as incredulous as me. “Where’d they go?”

“I don’t know.”

I called my wife. After she said, “Hello,” I asked, “Where are you guys? Where’d you go?”

She laughed. “We went to go have a party.”

“A party?” I swallowed the phrase with amazement. “We’re due to leave. We’re supposed to on the road now, starting our journey. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you say something first?”

That’s where the dream ended.

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The Baggage Dream

I thought this a great dream to experience on New Year’s Eve/Day. I was traveling as a young man. Not sure what the transpo means were. Seemed like a planes, trains, and automobile variation. I’d stopped at a cafe to eat. It seemed like a cafe but it had a huge eating area, lot of floor space, and many tables. It was packed with travelers. Most were happy. Many were children and families.

I found a place and put my baggage on a table, then went up and ordered. Just three people were behind the counter, serving all these people. I ordered a sandwich. I thought it would take a while but the sandwich was quickly prepared and given to me. I took it back to my table to eat.

While I ate, I decided to clean out my baggage, which was a dark burgundy backpack. As I went through, I discovered it was full of stuff from previous travels. I frequently recognized things from visits to other places, and chuckling, tossed most of it into the trash. Then I neatly tidied what I was keeping. When I finished, my baggage was light, clean, and organized. I went on to meet my father. He was there to give me a gift. I told him that I was on my way to a new job. He was pleased for me.

Happy new year.

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With A Bullet

He watched the lights. Knew the sequence. What to do. Checked his watch. Been in line forty-five minutes. Sweat sheathed his back. Not from heat.

The woman ahead seemed confused. WTF. How? R-O-Y-G-B. Someone was talking to her from a monitor that he couldn’t see. She was laughing at herself. Hoarse sound. Like she’d been smoking. An odd thought for someone her age, in a lilac and white dress with dark purple shoes and matching glasses and hand bag. Where was she going.

She went on. The light was red. He fixed on it. Glad his wife wasn’t here. And sorry. She would like this. And hate it.

The light turned green. He stepped in. Fixed on the new set of lights to his right. R-O-Y-G-B. Stereo female voice said, “Look into the blue screen ahead of you, please.:

That screen was ten by ten inches, he guessed.

“Find the black light and focus.”

Damn. He’d forgotten that. How could he see the other lights if he was staring at the black dot in the blue screen. Found it immediately — did he get a reward? Focused. A soft click was heard. Gentle whirring followed.

“Welcome, Gerrard. Please look to your left. You will see a series of light. All are now dark except the first one, labeled one.”

Well, they were making this unnecessarily cumbersome. Did that voice have an English accent?

“When light number two turns orange, please put your right arm in the black cuff to your left. You will hold it there as lights three and four turn yellow and green. During that time, you may feel a small jab in your right hand. Do not worry. This is normal. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Might be a British accent. There a difference between English and British accents?

“Keep your arm in the cuff until light number five has turned blue. Do you understand?”

He felt like giggling. Shivered. Cold in this booth. “Yes.”

A chime sounded. The second light turned orange. The voice said, “Please insert your arm into the cuff now.”

Gerrard did. Sweat dribbled down his neck. Why? Wasn’t hot. The cuff closed on his arm. He couldn’t pull it out if he tried. Kind of wanted to try.

Light number three went yellow. Something jabbed his index finger hard. He flinched.

“Please do not move,” the voice said.

Embarrassment washed him. Hadn’t meant to move. He was surprised. That’s all. Harder jab than he expected.

Green light number for came on. Another chime. Same as the first. A blue light came on. “You may remove your arm.”

As he was pulling it out, flexing his fingers and looking for damages, the voice continued, “When the overhead door light turns green, you may exit the booth. Your gate is twenty-seven bee.”

As he looked at it, the booth light turned green and the voice intoned, “Follow the instructions to your gate. Thank you for Traveling with America First.”

“You’re welcome,” he muttered. Ahead was a sign. “Gerrard Miles, please turn left and follow the green line to gate twenty-seven b.” The green arrow pointed straight.

It was dark. Low lights. Cool. Like he was underground. Or in a movie theater. One of those huge complexes with big screens and small rooms. He followed as necessary, losing tracks about how many turns were made. Things he’d read always said this was the offsetting part, getting to your gate. Most deemed this the worse feature.

Gate 27 B was in green to his right. Others were there. About twenty-five. Another sign said, “Pittsburgh.”

A male voice said, “Welcome to gate twenty-seven bee and travel to Pittsburgh. We are ready to board. Please proceed to the door on your left.”

They all queued. He felt weird about it. No seats? No zones? Others were guffawing about it. Nervousness flowed around them like flooding waters. Only one woman, blonde, in a white coat, seemed comfortable. Seemed a little superior in her attitude, too. She’d done this before.

The gate was open. No one was there. A male said, “Please step into the gate when the light turns green.”

This was it. They made it seem like it wasn’t. This was it, though. They all knew it. All were deadly quiet. The blonde woman went. Was gone. The light shuffled forward. Sweat was drenching Gerrard. Like he’d been in a moonson.

He shuffled with the rest. Tenth. Ninth. Et cetera. Then him. Licked his lips. Coped with dryness at the back of his throat. And a dry tongue. Watched the light. Stepped forward.

The ground moved, sucking him forward. He almost screamed but there wasn’t time. The same voice said, “Please step forward. Welcome to Pittsburgh. The local time is five thirty-four. It’s a pleasant seventy-eight degrees outside. You can claim your baggage at carrousel number seventeen. Thank you for traveling with America First. We hope you have a good visit, whether you’re in Pittsburgh for business or vacation.

He walked forward, blinking against dazzling sunshine, his sweat drying, the ordeal over, into the international airport, looking for directions to baggage claim. He’d been at home two hours before. Home in Medford, Oregon. Now he was in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He’d gone over twenty-five hundred miles almost instantaneously. Like a bullet.

Fucking technology. He didn’t understand it but it was amazing.

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Tuesday’s Theme Music

Good morning. Today is Tuesday, August 24, 2021. We’re into August’s last legs. September begins next week. Autum will take over in a few weeks. 2022 is hurtling toward us with comet speed.

Sunrise and sunset are 6:28 AM and 8:08 PM, respectively. Temps are lower. Just 60 F now. Expect mid-80s by the mid-afternoon.

We’re back to reality. Back home. In Ashland. Spent a week on the Oregon coast. Drove home yesterday. Coming south/east, smoke took over as the dominate feature, rendering trees and mountains into sketchy outlines, killing breathability, locking out blue sky and sunshine. Oregon, 2021: another year of smoke.

Yardwork needs tending. I’ll put on a mask and do it, though philosophical reservations pummel me. Is having a pretty yard really so critical when attaining it means risking your health. Hell, no, of course not. But, property values, the marketing forces reply. Image and impressions. Some suggest, hire someone. Sure, take advantage of another’s weak financial security and force them to sacrifice their health. Makes sense. Ah, but their choice, right? And they need the money. And there is capitalism’s doom loom in its essence.

The boys — Tucker, Boo, and Papi — are happy to have us back. Lot of love time spent with each yesterday. Heads were scratched. Purrs were issued. Comforting was done.

Had the Animals song, “It’s My Life”, in my mental music stream this morning. “Comedown” by Bush. Then Duran Duran replaced those with “Ordinary World”. Somehow, Lost Frequencies came through from 2015 with “Reality”. Just a matter of words with this light tune, really:

Decisions as I go to anywhere I flow
Sometimes I believe, at times I’m rational
I can fly high, I can go low
Today I got a million, tomorrow I don’t know

Stop claiming what you own, don’t think about the show
We’re all playing the same game, waiting on our loan
We’re unknown and known, special and a clone
Hate will make you cautious, love will make you glow

Make me feel the warmth, make me feel the cold
It’s written in our stories, it’s written on the walls
This is our call, we rise and we fall
Dancing in the moonlight, don’t we have it all?

h/t AZLyrics.com

Yes, I’m all over the map this AM. Happy to be home. Sad to be away from the ocean. Relieved my fur friends and home are okay. Appalled by the state of the air, the extended drought, the multitude of wildfires. Depressed by the break in routine, the inability to saunter to a coffee shop to write (see Air Quality, COVID-19 restrictions), humble that I have a life where I can make such choices.

Reality can be great. It can also suck. At the same time.

Stay positive. Test negative. Wear a mask as needed. Get the vax. Have some coffee. Or tea. Wine. Whatever. Enjoy the music. Cheers

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Monday’s Theme Music

The daily cycle has commenced again. The beat goes on. Monday, Monday. Sunrise, sunset. Here we go again.

Hello! Welcome to Monday, August 23, 2021. Sunrise in Florence, Oregon, was at 6:29 AM in a clear pale blue sky, a sunrise of hope and optimism. Sunset will come at 8:08 PM. It’s 52 in Florence now but it will be 72 later today. Should be beautiful. But we’ll be on the road. Heading home. Ashland. Current temp there is 58. High is forecast to be 85. Air quality has improved, but it’s poor — 69. Still, it’s home for all that it implies, with its failing and securities, comforts and frustrations. Home. Such a four-letter word.

Unimaginatively, many home songs scale my brain. Home, sweet home, I’m on my way. Just set me free. Home, sweet home. And road songs. On the road again. Just can’t wait to get on the road again. But I’m also thinking, ain’t that a shame? Ain’t that a shame that I must leave this lovely place and ain’t that a shame that more people can’t live better lives? That we can’t find and sustain a better balance between nature and humanity’s endeavors? So I’m playing “Ain’t That A Shame” by Cheap Trick in the morning mental stream. I know Fats Domino was first with it. Great version. But I’m rocking today.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Here’s the music. Cheers

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