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The Aliens Dream

It’s a frustrating dream, at once very clear but not understood. I dreamed it twice.

The first time I dreamed it, paperwork was being hunted for me. As Fred discovered it and brought it to me, I had my pecker out and was looking for somewhere to pee. Taking a hint, I woke up and went to the bathroom.

While awake, I reflected on the bizarre dream. People had been telling me that they’re been a day when aliens had contacted some. I was incredulous. It was like a big, open secret among these people.

When I returned to sleep, I dreamed it again.

I was at a friend’s home, having a beer. Somehow a conversation took place where they revealed there was a day when aliens contacted them. They’d documented it. Three primary people emerged: Pat, a person who I used to work with; Fred, father of a childhood friend; and Greta Thunberg. There was also a larger group of people that I knew but who remained vague in the dream.

Pat was a big, jovial smart guy who worked in Intel for the USAF and the NSA and DIA. Fred, my friend’s father, was also a big guy, quiet and solemn, who worked for U.S. Steel. You’re probably familiar with Greta. I’ve never her, but have seen and read about her.

A fourth person was the one telling me about it. He had a chart on graph paper showing when the aliens contacted him and what happened as a result – weather and stock market changes. There’d been a twenty-four hour period when the aliens were with humans. Most humans were completely ignorant about it.

Fred, coming in to give me another beer and ask if I was hungry, confirmed what the other guy said. Fred had also been contacted. He had written about it and had a graph like the first guy. I asked if I could see it. He agreed.

This kept going like this. More people came forward with the information, telling me the same thing. Then Pat dropped the bombshell: the aliens had contacted Greta.

I was eating and drinking beer as all of this was taking place. I wanted more information. Someone gave me an information packet that they’d put together. I asked, “Has anyone put together and contacted an entire list of who’d been involved with the aliens?”

Either no one could or no one would answer the question. As I put information together for myself, I discovered a pink sheet of paper. I noticed that everyone had charted their own involvement in a green sheet of graph paper; the pink sheet of paper on top of the package in my hand was a summary.

I sat everyone down. Twenty-two people were present. We were in a large commercial dining room with round tables. A friend, Shari, had joined us. She confirmed that she’d been contacted. I read everyone the pink summary. I can’t remember a thing that it said but all agreed that it was right. I asked if anyone had ever compiled the graphs and analyzed them; no, they all agreed.

That floored me. I decided I would do that. But, the place was closing; everyone needed to leave. They all began departing. Pat was at a table. He was making calls to find more information. I went in and used the restroom. When I returned, I began singing Joe Cocker’s cover of “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window”. Pat, sitting at a table alone, sang it with me. We sang the verses, “Didn’t anybody tell her? Didn’t anybody see? Sunday’s on the phone to Monday. Tuesday’s on the phone to me.”

I left the building. It was a long, two-story place like a U.S. motel. My car, a dark blue sedan, was parked on the street. I was in a happy mood as I walked across the unpaved parking lot and looked at the gathering dusk.

The dream ended.

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Floofpaper

Floofpaper (floofinition) – 1. Essay, blog post, circular, or information site focused on information pertaining to animals.

In use: “Perhaps inspiring greater interest in animals and their treatment and rights, many digital floofpapers have sprung up on the net.”

2. A paper put down for an animal’s use, or taken over by an animal.

In use: “Many people discover that as soon as they open a newspaper on the table or floor, a pet — especially a cat — will turn it into a floofpaper.”

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Future Uncertainty

Stumbled across this post I wrote about future uncertainty in 2017. Bannon is gone from the WH. The novel coronavirus pandemic has heightened the uncertainty surrounding many of my other future uncertainties. I’d say that time will tell, but given what’s happened, it’ll take a long time to resolve these future uncertainties.

Michael Seidel's avatarMichael Seidel, writer

Steve Bannon faces some future uncertainty. Comments by the POTUS caused the uncertainty.

I feel for Mr. Bannon. His dire situation prompts me to confess: I, too, face an uncertain future.

I’ve been uncertain about whether to go public with my future uncertainty, but my uncertainty has been mounting. I’m so uncertain about my future, I’m not certain what I’ll have for lunch, or whether I’ll have a beer tonight. I’m also uncertain about the source of pain in my head. I’m uncertain about whether the current W.H. occupant will start a nuclear war or another American Civil War.

I know that I’m not alone in my future uncertainties. People are uncertain if they can find something to eat today or a safe place to sleep. They’re uncertain that they can survive another day of pain. Black Americans are often uncertain whether they’ll survive a traffic stop. Police officers are…

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Mötley Floof

Mötley Floof (floofinition) – American heavy floof band originating in Floof Angeles.

In use: “With songs like “Doctor Feelfloof” and “Barfin’ in the Boys Room”, Mötley Floof has sold over 100 million albums worldwide.”

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The Typist

I sit down to write each day with little idea of what’s going to happen. This terrifies me.

Then I read a sentence or two of what I’ve written the day before, sometimes a little more, and the story takes off. In the space of ninety minutes to two hours, I’ll add two to three thousand more words, then stop and edit a little. Few changes are required; the story is coming to me so fully complete, I’m just the typist.

I know where and how the story started and where it’s supposed to be going. I lack all clues about how to get it there. I just followed the muses. They’ve presented this character that I don’t understand. He’s erratic. I know the reasons he’s erratic, as more of his backstory comes to me after I’ve written about him. After I write, I walk away and think, why did he do that? What’s wrong with him? He’s so inconsistent, I worry about it; I want to fix that, and make him consistent. But I suspect that if I attempt to fix him, he’ll just stop and the muses will walk away.

So…I let it ride, accepting my role as typist. The story sometimes entertains me, but more often baffles me. I’m writing mostly to see what happens next.

It’s a weird, odd role, being the typist. I know some writers insist that what I’m describing is complete bullshit, muses and characters don’t just take over.

Yeah, but here I am, with my coffee, about to do it again. It really is writing like crazy. It’s gotten me to seventy-seven pages so far. Guess I’ll just hang on and try to enjoy the ride.

Onward.

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A Food Dream

Don’t recall what was going on earlier in this dream – it’s all hazy and splintered – but I reached a point where I sat down to eat. 

It was dark, with strings of colored lights overhead. I was seated at a long table with many other people. (I seemed to know them all but didn’t recognize anyone from my life.) Someone set a plate down in front of me. On it was this huge, loaded cheeseburger, along with a salad, and some onion rings. Laughing and talking with others, I took a big bite. OMG, it was so good. I was very happy.

Then, in a dream shift, eating was over. I was in another room, my wife beside me. Sitting in a little conversation nook, we were chatting with friends (no one from my rea world). My wife and I jumped up and suggested that we take their girls to get ice cream. The friends were surprised. They asked their daughters if they wanted to go. The little girls declined.

My wife and I went out and got ice cream. Sitting down on a brick wall in sunshine, we began eating, but we were disappointed that the little girls didn’t come. As I was eating my berry-flavored ice cream, I saw one of the little girls. She was inside, watching through a window. I went back in and asked her if she wanted ice cream.

The dream ended.

I was ravenous when I woke up. Still am.

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A Warning, Accommodations, and A Confrontation

In this dream, I was with others, all men, people that I knew in the dream, but no one from my current life. We were in a yellow two story building. No other details about the building, people, or our purpose surfaced.

In some sort of power position, but not in charge, I was listening to a man describe what he was doing to set up a warning system. It amounted to, he had set up someone to be a look-out; that look-out would notify another, who would then light a warning beacon. It seemed to be weather related.

I asked, “You have established an alternative for him in case he’s not available, haven’t you?” I was pretty insistent about it. The man wouldn’t answer me. I knew that he didn’t have alternatives identified but didn’t want to admit it. I felt it as a severe shortcoming and gave the guy in charge a look of admonishment, because he needed to do something about this.

Next, I was told about arrangements that’d been made. We were accommodating two other men. They wanted to get together but there wasn’t anywhere private for them. The downstairs porch had been closed in, I was informed, so they could meet down there.

I went down to check it out. The two men, a black, and a white blond guy, both in short-sleeved shirts, were slow-dancing. I apologized for interrupting and told them that I was checking on the arrangements for them to ensure they were good.

They stopped their slow dancing (there wasn’t any music, btw) and separated. It seemed like they were embarrassed. Meanwhile, checking the facilities, I discovered it was colder than expected; a light layer of snow covered parts of the floor. Seeing snow flurries drifting in, I followed them until I found the source, a rectangular hole in the cement ceiling. That needed to be fixed, I decided, and resolved that it would be done.

Others came in. I was talking with one man, a tall Asian wearing glasses. We were having a disagreement. I don’t know what it was about, but I was telling him to do one thing and he was refusing.

He hit me, so I punched him. He began walking away. I grabbed him. He hit me again. Angered, I took a sawed-off two by four and slammed it into his face.

I hit him harder than I’d planned and was shocked at what I’d done. Immediately contrite, I apologized again and again. He looked shock but said nothing.

The dream ended.

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