I was packing all my personal goods up. Part of that was a lot of money, which I and arranged in boxes, cases, bags, and scheduled it to be picked up and taken east.
That done, I sought transportation for myself. I found a bus and bought tickets. Inside were blue seats. I found an open seat and sat. The bus’s seating reminded me more of a widebody jet, except, I saw, it was arranged in a star pattern. Either way, I thought it unusual for a bus and too big.
A crotchety woman was managing the passengers. She announced our itinerary. We were in Maine, heading for New York!
That was wrong! I was supposed to be on the west coast, going east. That’s where I packed my stuff.
Now I worried about my stuff. Had I sent it in the wrong direction?
Then I worried about all that money I’d packed away, fretting that somebody might steal it. I shouldn’t have left it like that, and I should have brought more with me.
A young dark-haired woman in red clothing was in the seat next to me. I recognized her but she apparently didn’t remember me. I played a sly little game, ‘guessing’ things about her because I knew her. She was amazed by how I correctly guessed.
They announced we were in New York and would have a rest stop. The crotchety woman came around serving us slices of pie. I took two pieces and passed them on to other passengers, then ate the third piece. It seemed like some kind of runny custard pie. I didn’t care much for the filling so I only ate the crust.
We arrived at our destination. I don’t know where it was but began looking for my stuff, anxious about how much of it I’d find there. Several of my bags were discovered. Inside them were bundles of cash. I gave some to another traveler because they needed help.
The dream ended as I was walking toward a building, finding and picking up more of my bags.
In my mid-twenties, I’d been somewhere, had a few drinks, went home. At home was an old girlfriend, visiting someone else, staying the night. Morning broke with sunshine through windows. I realized she was leaving and wanted to get up to say good-bye.
I could not move.
Paralyzed isn’t quite the word. I had no control. My limbs were flopping, weak, uncoordinated.
How did this happen? I kept asking myself. I didn’t much the night before, struggling to remember what I’d eaten, concluding, not much. I suspected someone had spiked my drink.
Thinking over the previous night, my memory pulled up a hypothetical scene where a man dropped something into my dream. I couldn’t guess his motivation and speculated he thought my drink belonged to someone else.
Then, damn – I’m late for work.
In the military again, I scrambled to find a clean uniform and shit, shower, shave.
Rushing out of the house, I headed for a train station and realized, I’m in Germany and I don’t know where I’m going. Nor did I speak the language.
There were long lines and a byzantine system of turns and steps. Putting together clues from what I saw others do, but screwing up, I sometimes got scolded – in German. I studied landmarks for more evidence about where I was, where I was going, then made it to work.
I was just a little late. Eventually I explained to the commander that I thought someone else had spiked my drink. He eagerly agreed, recapping my symptoms and then explaining the same thing happened to him the night before. That greatly relieved me, knowing someone else had gone this. I sensed that he felt the same.
I need to go somewhere else, they told me. Out in the system again, I tried putting pieces together to get to the right place and ended up going too far. Figuring that out, I backtracked until I found the right station. I realized we were sometimes going through people’s personal lands. They were very particular about what was permitted but sometimes changed it. For example, one old, white hair man opened up a door as a shortcut, apparently on a whim. An elderly gray-haired female chastised us when we considered using part of her walk as a shortcut.
Then it was time to go home. I had to figure out where to go, what to do, but fewer people were available. I had to figure it out on my own.
It shows here. We started at 34 when I rolled out of bed but with blue skies and sunshine, we’ve jumped fast to 50 F, hurtling toward the mid 60s. Best way to put it, with the daffs and tulips blooming and plum tree blossoms enriching the landscape, it’s a beautiful springish day.
Mom and my sisters are quiet, as is my house. In fact, while many things are going on in politics and world news, I feel like I’m waiting for the multiple systems to react — and maybe crash.
So I feed the cat, read the news. My wife and I think and talk as I sip coffee. All the while, I keep an eye on the headlines and digital stream and check my text and messaging systems.
Time was also spent looking at what the state has been up to. The Oregon legislative session ended. Our rep, Pam Marsh, put out a summary of the work done, a welcome reassurance that some government remains grounded, pragmatic, and functional.
Today’s music reflects that sense of waiting. The Neurons are playing “The Promised Land” by Bruce Springsteen in my morning mental music stream. I hum along with the thought of what was promised and what’s been delivered. This is not just in my life as an adult, but what was held out to us as children. Growing up in the television age, we were often sold impressions about stable, white families with Dad going to work and the children going to school and getting into minor mischief. Mom stayed home and cooked in her skirt or dress, wearing high heels as she vacuumed, did the laundry, cooked. Some shows — like “Hazel” — featured more prosperity, and a maid.
More realistic shows came along, such as “The Jeffersons” and “All in the Family”, but our beliefs were hardened by then. Yet, it didn’t often work out as television claimed it would.
Anyway, here I am, waiting.
Hope you have a great day and all that means to you. Peace and grace on you.
Dreamed I was at a fancy business dinner. Large, round white tables set across a ballroom, bar in the corner. I’d just arrived and set up was underway. Two of my previous bosses were there. The fete was due to begin in an hour or so.
Participants, including me, had been asked to create some entertainment. I’d created a word jumble. Then my former boss said, “And please provide an answer sheet.”
Uh oh. I hadn’t created that. I went to get the notebook where I’d made it, knowing that I used one of those black and white lab notebooks that I always favored. I’d thrown it away because the notebook was full. I went to a gray, wheeled, large garbage cans sitting there and began going through the trash. People asked me to explain. I reluctantly did, with a grin, and was met with sympathy.
One unfamiliar elderly woman came by and said, “I know what you’re going through. I’ve done that.”
Shrugging, I replied, “If I can’t find it, I’ll just have to solve the jumble.”
Dad was there, putting silverware on tables. He said, “Maybe you used one of these notebooks, Michael.”
I knew I hadn’t because the ones he showed me weren’t the right kind. But I said, “Good idea, I’ll check.” And made a show of checking a few.
That dream segment ended. Another began.
I went to a counter crowded with product and was a little confused. My wife was there, along with several others, including a man behind a counter. I learned they were talking about my hair! Some products had been ordered and had arrived.
I had my own things to do/try for my hair, here and back home, so I was a little puzzled and annoyed. My wife said, “Everyone wants you to look pretty for the wedding.” I think I dimly knew a sister was getting married but didn’t know who.
The man wanted me to try the products. I wanted him to back off but didn’t say anything. I suggested, “Let me brush my hair so we can see what it looks like first.”
I didn’t have a brush, mirror, or comb, so I used my hands, and then asked my wife, “How does this look?”
She hemmed and hawed, not able to decide, which vexed me.
Ashland, Oregon — Sunday, March 1, 2026. It’s raining and foggy in Ashland, with temperatures tottering around 50 degrees F. Not a shred of sunshine out there, and a high of 57 is expected. Spring is muscling in.
It’s a day of questioning for me, starting with what’s going on with Mom to what’s going on in the world and the nation.
I learned yesterday that another sister — our youngest — had been going to visit Mom, taking her things, etc. The youngest has been designated as our contact with Mom because she has the best relationship of everyone living nearby. I reached out to her to see how Mom was doing.
The youngest related that when she arrived, Mom was playing bingo with five or six others at a table and apparently laughing and having fun. Mom told the youngest that she’d gone to church, which she enjoyed, and seemed pretty content and happy.
After wheeling Mom back to Mom’s room, the youngest found clothes all over Mom’s area. Mom complained she didn’t have hangers. Sis pointed out that they’re in the closet, and told her, you need to look, and helped Mom tidy.
Then, though, today, Mom asked the youngest to bring her cookies — “Anything but chocolate chip.” Oatmeal raisin cookies were brought, which made Mom mad. She then gave my sister ‘mean faces’ and quit speaking with her. The youngest rolled Mom to the dining room so she could eat, and then left.
The youngest sister also related that Mom’s roomie is 95 years old with congestive heart failure and two ‘bad shoulders’. She had a hospice aid visiting. My sister suggested that maybe we should get Mom a hospice aid. That took me back, because there’s nothing indicated to me at this point that Mom is ready for hospice.
It’s just as troubling and confusing elsewhere in the world. Trump ordered the U.S. to attack Iran, a joint operation with Israel, “Operation Epic Fury”. While Iran’s supreme leader was killed, Iran retaliated. Americans were killed and injured. More critically, is this the opening that will explode the area into another war? Trump and his advisors seem to think in terms of gunship diplomacy and regime change.
Trump — the peace president, a self-made assertion that has Orwell laughing in his grave — said that the attack was to protect Americans. “Our objective is to defend the American people by eliminating imminent threats from the Iranian regime,” Trump said in prerecorded remarks posted on White House social media accounts early Saturday morning.”
Back in 2011, Trump said President Obama would start a war with Iran. “Our president will start a war with Iran because he has absolutely no ability to negotiate. He’s weak and he’s ineffective.”
Who is weak and ineffective now, Trump?
Protests in Baghdad broke out, with “Death to Israel, death to America,” being shouted. This smacks of the 1970s and 1980s, so it sickens me that we seem to be going into another war spiral. I hope to hell that’s not true.
As I sat with that information, news arrived of a mass shooting in Austin, Texas. Next came updated information about deaths in Iran where 85 are reported killed: “The majority of the dead are schoolgirls aged between seven and 12 years old, according to the regime-controlled news outlets Tasnim and Fars.”
Senseless killing, once again. I expect anger and hatred in Iran to rise in response. This is exactly where we were before, using violence and killing to win hearts and minds. It did not work then; I don’t expect it to work now.
BTW, remember when Trump vowed no more wars when he campaigned? Guess that promise meant as much as Mexico paying for the wall and lower food and energy prices.
The song in my morning mental music stream came when I first looked out the windows, before reading any news. “Rainy Night in Georgia” came out in 1970. The Neurons put it in there when I thought, “Another rainy day in Ashland.” I didn’t remember who performed the song and looked it up to learn it was Brook Benton.
I call again for peace and grace to find its way to us, and maybe it will someday. Right now, it feels less likely than it did last week. But things will change. It’s really just question of how and why.
I dreamed I was in part of a square complex where the center was an open court. I was on the fourth or fifth level looking out. There was a balcony that looked over the inner courtyard. Heavy snow was falling. I discovered when I went out on the balcony, a small box existed. In it at one point were my keys. In another time, there was a folded note. I unfolded it and read it but don’t remember what it says. I remember complaining (I think to myself) that a mistake was being made, that those messages weren’t going to get through because of the snow, but also the location. You’d need to know to look there.
The snow itself amazed me. It was so thick, covering everything in layers. I don’t remember the snow actually falling, just building up, white and pure.
Ashland, Oregon — Tuesday, February 24, 2026. February is winding down. The NFL ended its season and the Olympics ended. Rain pours from a flat gray sky. Mists swallow the mountains and the temperature hums along at 51 toward a possible high of 52 F.
The east coast’s blizzard stuns me with its strength, size, and the amount of snow. What staggering levels. I hope that all stay safe and recovery is quick and painless. Fingers crossed as I think that.
The weather doesn’t overly bother Papi. He goes out and stays under a protected area, sniffing, grooming, ears tuning. The wind isn’t blowing. Sunshine is absent so he comes in, finds his chair, commences his orange fur grooming.
I wade through the morning texts and muddle through the morning routines, eager to move on to other matters. I’m not looking forward to Trump’s State of the Union address at all. In my mind, the question will not be, will he lie? It’s a matter of how large the lies are, and how often he repeats them.
Looking back on news from the last few days, many positive reactions were seen when the Supreme Court struck down Trump’s use of one law to impose tariffs. Trump cursed and accused others of being ungrateful to him and then launched more tariffs under other laws. Markets spiraled down and trade partners reconsidered their position with the U.S. But Trump presses on.
I can only recall the snipper of one small dream last night. A woman was giving me a handful of silver change. I thought we were exchanging change and protest, laughing, she was giving me too much. But she insisted, “No, here, this is all for you.” I was like, what am I going to do with all this change?
Wakening, though, I thought about all the change going on and smiled at the messages my subconscious seems to be sending.
The Neurons have “Ordinary World” by Duran Duran playing in the morning mental music stream. Specific lyrics hooked me.
Papers in the roadside Tell of suffering and greed Fear today, forgot tomorrow Ooh, here beside the news Of holy war and holy need Ours is just a little sorrowed talk
(Just blown away)
And I don’t cry for yesterday There’s an ordinary world Somehow I have to find And as I try to make my way To the ordinary world I will learn to survive
The 1992 was written and recorded in the face of lingering low morale among the band’s members. Simon Le Bon’s built lyrics around “ordinary world” and a desire to regain a familiar and comfortable reality. I certainly get where they’re coming from.
I hope you survive and grow through this ordinary world and become happier and healthier. I’ll try to do the same, starting with a little coffee and a little writing.
In the last few months, a parent, stepparent, and two friends died. Last week, Mom threatened suicide and is now in a nursing home at 91.
Mom used to light up when I came through her door. She always wanted to feed me. Her cooking was excellent – especially her potato salad and spaghetti and meatballs.
She loved playing games, especially cards. She always told me that she enjoyed how I made her laugh.
Thinking of her made me remember others. Grandpa Paul passed in 1976, age 65. Multiple uncles and cousins followed, and a half dozen friends made during my military service.
I mostly remember their laughter and the fun of being with them.
That brings me joy.
Of all that was endured, it’s the laughter and fun which remains.
Michael Seidel, writer 