It wasn’t one of the places she lived in real life, but I knew it was her house.
No one else was there. The place was messy in many places, totally opposite of anyplace I’ve lived or visited where Mom was in command.
Getting there, I found a narrow bed. White sheets, pink blanket, pillow, but unmade. I decided to sleep a bit.
A long-haired gray and white cat joined me. I talked to it in the way we do with animals, telling the cat, a male, I knew, was very handsome. The cat then *ahem* indicated that it wanted to have sex with me.
Full-blown horror lashed me. I rejected that completely, telling the cat that was sick and disgusting. I added, “You can sleep with me but as a cat, not a sexual partner.”
Unable to sleep after that, I got up and walked around, taking notice of the mess. Part of it on one end was a pond with rocks. Water fed into it but the water was scummy, full of plants and crap. Deciding I would clean it, I went off, found rags, buckets, tools.
My sisters arrived, chattering and laughing, before I could clean it but after a sort pause, I did. In dream fashion, it was miraculously fast and easy.
I showed the others. Everyone was impressed by what I’d done. Two turtles emerged from the pond. My youngest sister exclaimed, “I knew there were turtles in there.”
One turtle puked. Examining that, my sister announced with happiness, “It’s pregnant. I am so happy.”
Mom arrived shortly afterward, the middle-aged person I knew for most of my life. Her hair was blond and she was wearing black slacks with this black and white polka-dotted frilly shirt that she often liked to wear. Smiling and happy, she came in, saying hello to all of us.
Ashland, southern Oregon. Friday, August 21, 2026.
It’s a cool 75 F under cloudy skies right now. Looks like it could rain but rain is not in our forecast. Today’s high is expected to be 90, ten degrees lower than what we saw yesterday.
Mom is really down right now. She feels trapped and ignored, and that’s very understandable.
Mom texted me that her PCP told her she looks tired and old. Mom’s claim; don’t know if that’s what the doctor said. Mom also texted me, “I don’t want to see another birthday,” “Why won’t God let me die,” and “I don’t want a memorial service when I die. I don’t want anything.”
Mom, to me, always depended upon the structure of routines and schedules. Now her aging, medical issues, and medications has fractured her norms. She used to use cleaning as an outlet to stay on track, along with writing copious notes on her calendar about what was going on: children’s schedules and visits, appointments, bills due and paid, house and car maintenance. Those mechanisms are gone, too. She’s being told one to sleep, eat, and socialize, and she doesn’t like it. Additionally, she and her daughters who live closest to her have a huge emotional schism relating to their lives together and Mom’s choices.
Mom reacts to the gap with anger; the sisters react to Mom’s anger with more distance.
It’s like a self-fulfilling doom loop.
The closing for the sale of Mom’s house is next Tuesday at 5 PM. I texted Mom to ensure she was aware.
She didn’t respond.
Without real surprise, I see that Trump is encouraging the construction of AI and data centers. Backlash against AI/data centers is growing across the United States, creating an ideological trap for Donald Trump.
Part of this is that these types of sites take up land, water, and electricity, but nothing tangible that can be held in your hand emerges from it.
The other part of the trap is that the corporations often demand huge tax breaks and subsidies for the privilege of building there, and the locals are not usually consulted. That pisses them off, because nobody is listening to them. That was exactly the angry and emotional fodder Trump used as fuel to win their votes; he was speaking for them, ‘telling them like it is’.
Now, as others have done, Trump is ignoring them.
And it’s happening on the cusp of the midterm elections.
Those of us who understand who Trump is aren’t surprised. He used MAGA to achieve political power. Then he used that political power to enrich himself. Now he’s using it to further enrich the ultra-wealthy. There are no surprises there, if you’ve been paying attention.
Trump is breeding discontented supporters. They won’t vote for Democrats — “Never Democrats” is probably one of their most repeated mantras — but they won’t come out and vote for Trump, either.
All this thinking has The Neurons playing “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M in my morning mental music stream. When people feel ignored, they hurt. Released in 1993, the song was written about and for teenagers and what they endure. I think it’s sensibilities are more universal than that.
Sample Lyrics
When your day is long And the night, the night is yours alone When you’re sure you’ve had enough Of this life, well hang on
Don’t let yourself go ‘Cause everybody cries Everybody hurts sometimes
Sometimes everything is wrong Now it’s time to sing along
When your day is night alone (hold on, hold on) If you feel like letting go (hold on) If you think you’ve had too much Of this life, well hang on
‘Cause everybody hurts Take comfort in your friends Everybody hurts
May you prosper today, enjoying peace, joy, and happiness. Hopefully, you won’t feel ignored or alone.
Ashland, southern Oregon. Tuesday, August 18, 2026.
We’re back from the coast. Cool there — usually in the 60s. Yesterday made it to the 90s F after our return; we expect more of the same, with the temperature reaching the mid 90s today. Right now, still feels like the coast, minus that fresh air scent. 65 F but already feels like 71.
Mom’s house will close tomorrow. Maybe. I hope; the delays are ratcheting up everyone’s nerves. We’re on edge because if it doesn’t sell, here we go again. I also feel for the people waiting to buy. I imagine what they’re going through. Mom is sad about losing her home, and I understand that, but I’m looking at the flip side, of the people who thought, here is the answer we’ve been seeking.
Getting back into the normal groove. Making a list of things to do around the house. Must replace my wife’s lost phone. That’s job 1.
Meanwhile, though, get caught back up on the news. What is Trump up to now?
Having wrecked the White House east wing and paved over the historic Rose Garden, Trump is destroying the south lawn. Already looking bad due to his various ‘functions’ on it — which of course, he blames on vandals, now becoming one of his favorite old man words — he’s going to ‘fix it’.
I already cringe at the idea that Trump will try to fix something else. Look how he ‘fixed’ the Oval House, plastering gold all over. Recall how Trump fixed the economy: the number of the employed is falling, the national debt is rising, and the affordability crisis is spreading like an unchecked tumor.
Look how Trump ‘fixed’ Iran, by bombing it to the point that the US’s munitions were seriously depleted. Look how Trump fixed the navy (exhibit number 1: USS Abraham Lincoln, or the USS Benford) and the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool.
Someone captured Heather Cox Richardson’s conclusions about our current state in a graphic.
As with everything else Trump, there is no evidence to his delusional claims. It’s just more Operation Epic LOOK — SQUIRREL!, more squirming to avoid the truth and facts, and more scheming to gain and keep wealth and power for himself.
As an aside, what’s the latest on Mitch McConnell? Back from the dead yet? How ’bout the Epstein files? Trump fulfill that promise yet?
After that thinking, the morning mental music stream occupant is by Four Non-Blondes. I was talking about this song the other night. The Neurons made a note. When I said to myself, coffee in hand, “Okay, let’s see what’s up,” the song “What’s Up” began playing.
It’s a good song for the times.
Sample Lyrics
And I try, oh, my God, do I try? I try all the time, in this institution And I pray, oh, my God, do I pray? I pray every single day for revolution
And so I cry sometimes when I’m lying in bed Just to get it all out, what’s in my head And I, I am feeling a little peculiar And so, I wake in the morning and I step outside And I take a deep breath and I get real high And I scream from the top of my lungs, “What’s going on?”
And I say, hey-ey-ey, hey-ey-ey I said, “Hey, what’s going on?” And I say, hey-ey-ey, hey-ey-ey I said, “Hey, a-what’s going on?”
Now off to write.
I hope your day is complete with peace, grace, good foods, and good weather.
Heading to school. Adult – roughly my current age. Driving through a dark, rainy day. It is pouring rain.
It begins with me in a car, driving. Traffic is heavy. I’m trying to get into the left-hand turn lane. A dark blue Miata is ahead, trying to get into my lane. Behind the Miata, a motorcycle is trying to also change lanes to my lane.
Patient and courteous, we work it out and go on. I turn left, then left again onto the school grounds.
Then I’m in a crowded small classroom. English lit is being taught. Other students present are famous and accomplished: movie, television, and rock stars, along with NFL players and coaches, and NASA scientists. I think, what am I doing here?
A man introduces himself as a NASA scientist. I once facilitated some NASA scientists in a team-building exercise. I struggle to remember their names. I can only tell him when and where it happened. He smiles, indulgent, but he’s not impressed.
An NFL player sitting not far from me recalls a ‘jet sweep’ play. He was blocking for the runner, and vividly remembers details. “Was the QB the runner?” I asked.
An NFL coach joins the conversation. Using a marker, he draws up the play on a sheet of paper, describing it in detail. I’m astounded.
We break to different classes. As I walk away, I notice that my computer bag, which is black leather, feels awfully light and floppy. Damn; I left my laptop at home. I think, if I have my phone, I can still log in and do things – but no. I’ve forgotten my phone, too.
Grimacing, I think, how can I recover? Not seeing a way, I sit, hoping to be inconspicuous, realizing, if called upon, I’ll just need to explain that I screwed up and forgot my phone and laptop. I’m so mortified.
Another person sits beside me. I recognize him as someone famous. He asks, “Hey, are you alright? It looks like something is bothering you.”
I explain that I forgot my laptop and that it upset me.
The teacher, a small elderly woman, comes in and sits at a desk at the crowded class’s front. She begins talking.
Problems cropped up. Wasn’t certain where I was supposed to be or what I was doing. But a kindly man offered to help. Older, with trimmed hair. White and clean-shaven.
He helped me dress but the clothes were too small and tight. Seemed to me like children’s clothes he was trying to get me to put on.
I protested but I also thought it funny. Pointed out that the light gray shorts he had me in were so small that my penis was hanging out the bottom.
Gruffly, he dismissed my concerns. “Told me, don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”
To which I just shook my head, disagreeing but not overly concerned, rather chuckling about it.
I went out on a small stage. Light brown wooden floor, varnished. No curtain.
I was in a spotlight. Dark theater. The man was behind me, out of the spotlight. Small audience, mostly women, sat at the front.
I wasn’t sure what to do. The women started calling out, “What are you doing? Get him some clothes. Can’t you see his pecker hanging out?”
Slow day at the coffee shop. Bailey and Nat were behind the counter. No customers were behind me. I asked Bailey if she wrote cursive.
Yes. She told about learning it, she thought when she was eight, in Washington. “Then we moved to Tennessee. I was just learning how to write cursive then.”
“Can your children read cursive?” I asked.
“My daughter can. She’s thirteen and she just learned to read and write cursive. My son can’t, yet. He’s younger and I think they’re going to teach it this year.”
I then explained why I was asking. We’d been at the DMV in Medford where the agent joked about the need to read cursive. Her children couldn’t read or write it.
Bailey asked Nat if she could write cursive. “Yes,” Nat agreed. “But we were the last class to be taught, we were told.”
I said, “I’m happy to hear they’re still teaching it.”
Bailey volunteered, “Yes, but I think it varies with the district. I’m 38.”
Nat said, “I’m 24.”
“You learned in California, right, Nat?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, and my teacher was like, you will learn cursive. I’m not changing my writing. You will learn it.”
Her imitation had us laughing.
So, cool. Here in Ashland, at least, cursive remains alive.
