A Chaotic Collage Dream

It was messed up from go, a frenzied and frantic circus. It took me a while to work into any semblance of coherent structured memory, and I could be wrong. Then, again, this is what I took from it, so…

The dream included Mom, wife, peeing, being in the military (yeah, again), cleaning, and, well, chaos.

Chaos was the overall theme. In the beginning, I needed to use the restroom. After I did, Mom came in to clean after me while I changed into my Air Force uniform and hurried off to work as my wife kissed me good-bye.

I was in command and control once again. Once again, I faced a disorganized situation. Aircraft were inbound. Some carried VIPs, but an inspection team was also due, and we were not ready. I scrambled to get us ready, working up checklists and procedures, trying to train other people, and setting up flight-following boards. This was being done against radios blaring with communications with commanders and aircraft, and ringing telephones.

Then I had to use the restroom again. Rushing over there, I found the facilities inadequate, but my bowels didn’t care. Lowering myself to the tiny seat on the tiny bowl, I did my business. When I finished, I discovered I’d pissed on the floor.

As I discovered that, old women who were present chided me, “Oh, your mother isn’t going to be happy about that.” Well, no, d’uh? Who would be? I rushed to clean it up using white towels, but there seemed too much of it for the towel, and it was taking up too much time.

Mom arrived, as the women predicted (and noted). While chastising me for the mess, Mom shooed me away (“Go to work, I’ll clean it up.”) She dropped to her knees to clean the floor as I donned my uniform again and raced away.

My wife intercepted me to tell me that there was a problem. As she did that, my co-workers called out to inform me that the aircraft were arriving. Then the commander called me and said, “There’s a change of plans.” Oy, vey,

The dream ended.

Yeah, I see how it all speaks to my current frenzy of thought and direction.

Yet Another, Yes, Military Dream

This one was a bit different. In the military again, with a friend, and our wives, and others, in a hotel. He’d once worked for me, but eventually passed me in promotions while I chose to retire. Now, here he was a CMSgt, E9, which is the senior enlisted rank and pay grade in the Air Force, urging me to come with him to party and do things.

A special guest was due, the highest enlisted position in the Air Force, a position and rank called the Chief Master Sergeant of the Air Force. There is only one at a time. My buddy was eager for me to meet him and have drinks with him.

I went along at first, but then decided, no. I’m done. Not interested. I’m passing.

He came by in his mess dress with medals and ribbons, and black tie to collect me. I was in jeans and a tee shirt. He said, “You’re not ready.” His face fell when I told him that I wasn’t going. He tried cajoling me to change my mind. I held firm.

“That’s not me,” I said.

He shook his head and said, “Man, I’ve so disappointed in you.”

I told him, “You’ll get over it.”

Then he went on, and I turned away to do other things.

The dream ended.

Another Military Dream

There I was, back in the military, in uniform, a short-sleeved light blue shirt with my rank on dark blue epaulets, wearing my salad, sharply-creased dark blue pants, glossy black shoes. I noticed I’d been promoted in my dream.

I was at what seemed like a modern and spacious headquarters building, talking with others. I didn’t know them much. I was explaining to them that I’d received a new assignment. Due to leave in three months, I hadn’t heard from the new location yet. Anyone familiar with the Air Force PCS process understands all these. You get the notification, sign and return it, and then the process begins. A sponsor is assigned to you, you’re sent a welcome package, you receive your orders and begin your checklist, and work with personnel to schedule all the requirements for changing locations and jobs.

There wasn’t information on my new assignment, except it seemed prestigious to me, it had been by a by-name request, and it was across the country. I was pleased to receive it. The others had to return to their work for the day, but I had nothing to do, and killed time by strolling around, wondering what I was going to do with myself, chatting with others, in a good mood, telling people, “I have a new assignment, and I’m waiting for my orders.”


General Dream

“This is General Hamilton.”

Sure, I believed that. I was in the military again in this dream. My cell phone had rung. I’d answered. The other end had asked for Sergeant Seidel. I told them that was me. That’s when they identified themself.

Their voice was a pleasant tenor. Yeah, right, I thought, hearing that, and disconnected. I didn’t know a General Hamilton, and why would he be calling me? I was in the middle of some large, busy military complex. It was indoors and very modern. Everyone was in U.S. Air Force uniforms. I believe the location was in Florida.

I told someone else that a person had called and said they were General Hamilton. I didn’t know who that was. “It’s the commander,” they replied. “A five-star.”

A five-star? Seriously, a five-star calling me on my cell phone? Right.

The cell phone rang again. I answered. “This is General Hamilton.”

I answered with who I was and explained that we must have been disconnected. I remained dubious about who I was talking to.

“No problem,” he answered. “How do I get to the hospital?”

Was this a joke? I looked around. A large base directory, like in a mall, was mounted to a wall. “Where are you, General?”

“I’m in my office.”

“Where’s that?”

He told me. I traced it on the map. He seemed like he was two minutes away by car. The conversation continued, with me trying to understand why he was calling me, what his question meant, and what sort of help he was looking for.

“You’re the one responsible for coordinating activities, aren’t you?” he said.

Yes, that was one of my duties. As I was talking, I was walking and looking around, assessing where I was, trying to think through the issue and looking for anyone or anything that might be of help. His question completely baffled me. A five-star doesn’t have problems getting from one part of the base to another.

He had to hang up. He promised to call me back in a few minutes. “Thank you, sir,” I answered, and starting moving and thinking with more focused purpose. I’d made my way to the area he was trying to reach as I’d been talking to him. I’d realized he was going there to attend a ceremony taking place. I further knew who the organizers were, so I was heading there to talk to them. Most of the walls were glass. Although security was tight and I was often challenged, my security passes allowed me complete access.

Reaching the location of the ceremony, I entered and looked around. Although in a glass building, rolling, lush green grass dominated. Birds were singing, and it was sunny, with a warm breeze.

I saw the officer I sought. She was just concluding a speech. I hurried toward her. As I did, two heavily-armed security officers stepped up to her. They started talking. Thinking they were about to give her some problems, I hastened to them, because I knew that although she outranked me, I had a special position, and I could intercede.

I arrived at the end of their conversation. They were telling her, “We just wanted you to know that your story moved us, and we’re here to help you in any way that we can. We’re all here to help you.”

The officer was wiping off tears and sniffing. “Thank you.”

The security officers nodded and left. I gathered that her speech had been a moving one about loss, and they’d been moved. I just had that as an insight as I looked at her.

I started adding my condolences but was aware that time was short. She cut me off anyway, complaining about being emotional. I then began explaining my issue. I struggled to get the words out. As I did, I inadvertently called General Hamilton, General Mood.

I was correcting myself when she replied, “I know who you mean. That’s a good name for him. He’s really particular about how he travels. He has a phobia. That’s why he’s asking you for help. He wants to come here but he wants to walk.”

The explanation stunned me but as soon as I heard her, I knew what to do. It was just in time. The cell phone rang. I answered.

“This is General Hamilton,” they said from the other end.

I identified myself, and then began explaining what he needed to do. In the course of that, I realized that I called him General Mood. I immediately heard the mistake, apologized and corrected myself. He laughed. “That’s not a problem.”

Others came up to the officer I’d been talking to. They were concerned that General Hamilton hadn’t arrived. “I’m on the phone with him,” I replied, which impressed everyone. Then, as I resumed explaining how he was to reach our part, I looked up and saw him arriving.

The end.


I’ve typed the dream out to remember it so I forget as little as possible. In remembering it, some clues about what it’s about spoke to me, but overall, I need time to process it.


A dream’s undertow sucked me into its midst, where I was myself, in a younger guise, and dressed in Air Force blue. I, in my dream madness, completed paperwork in a dim crowded bunker of electronic scents. Watchful eyes ensured I filled the proper blocks with typewritten words in coherent order. But – they were dissatisfied.

A junior officer arrived to ‘help’ me redo the paperwork, explaining in cloying officialese that some of these statements weren’t appropriate and do I know that if I but groom myself a little more and co-operate, they’ll reward my potential with advancement.

But the flattery felt oily, and I resisted, asking, “Can’t I just line out the offending lines?” The Colonel came by to help me understand, asking the junior officer if it had been explained. Yes, the junior officer explained, it has been explained and he understands. “But,”I protested, “but, but, but…,” resisting because I was not inclined to re-type and rewrite, because those were not my words.

The Colonel showed me a note from the General,  where the General had sprawled in a fat red marker, ‘Does he understand that they can see this as treason?’ I could hear the General speak them as he wrote them, as I read them.

Yes, I understood, and no, I didn’t care. I didn’t do it as they wanted. I handed my finished work to the befuddled young officer with only a few words lined out. She stammered about that’s not what they wanted, and didn’t I understand what I could be, didn’t I see how I was sabotaging myself?

“Yes,” I said, “I see, and I understand, but do you understand?

“I resigned, so it doesn’t matter.”

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