Another Military Dream – Almost
I wasn’t in the military. Young again, I discovered that I’d volunteered to do something. Many others had volunteered. We were waiting for the results.
While doing that, we went into a chowhall. The place seemed chaotically organized. I decided to fix a burrito. I managed to get a plate, tortilla, beans, rice, but then could find nothing else. I was watching people select other foods but none of those foods were familiar. I eventually found some corn chips. Crunching them up, I added them to my burrito and ate it. It was not very satisfying.
An announcement was then made. I, along with others, had been chosen for a special project. We were being told that it was a great honor and we would do a wonderful job. I have no idea what that was about, although I seemed to understand it in the dream.
We were told that we had new quarters we’d be sharing. Find someplace and stake a claim.
I knew no one else there; in fact, that seemed common: no one knew anyone else. So I’d be bunking with strangers.
I entered what was indicated as available quarters. What I encountered wasn’t what I expected. The walls were painted in bright white. Furnished, it was strangely arranged and organized. Wide, tall, the floor sloped like a meadow. Different rooms were indicated via arched halls. Whole thing reminded me of a hobbit’s place.
I encountered one of the others. A tall, white guy, bald, he was in Air Force dress blues. I gawked at his medals and ribbons; they were a collection unlike any I’d ever seen.
I told him so. Abashed, he replied, “Oh, yes, they rewarded me for being part of some special projects, but they weren’t really anything.” He then explained two of them but I don’t recall those details. One was a huge, blue and white ribbon with a large gold B on it.
Needing to use a restroom, I spotted one ‘down the living room slope’. The bathroom was a small, well lit cave with a rounded entry and door. The bathroom itself was gold and pink. Strings of bright white and gold lights were attached to the arched door frame.
I went in and sat on the commode, then tried to close the door. It would not stay close. We have to fix this, I thought.
A tall, muscular black woman in green shorts and a green top pushed the door in. I told her the room was in use. Never saying anything, she left.
The door remained open. Going out, she called out to the man in the dress uniform, “I can give you three four eight for seven. That should get you there.”
Leaving the room, I did up my clothes and asked in general, “What’s that mean?”
Dream end.
Sunday’s Theme Music — Get You
Ashland, southern Oregon. Sunday, August 2, 2026.
Our weather is cool, 62 F right now. It’ll rise to the mid 80s, basically as it did yesterday. The air is clear with an AQI that says ‘it’s good’. Clouds muddle around the sky as if they’re waiting for a door to open somewhere.
I’m suspicious of it all.
Things are going well — here. Relatively. Everything is relative. We live on spectrums of changing needs, abilities, awareness, knowledge. It all seems more acute for me as I grow older.
I don’t feel particularly old now but then I look in the mirror. Like, who stole my hair? Will they be returning it?
My face just looks different. Not like my parents or grandparents. Now I’m wondering if someone stole into the house and replaced my face.
Then, why would they have taken my average white, upper middle age (ahem) face?
Answer is, of course: they’re going to use my face to commit a crime somewhere.
So now I wait to see what crime my face shows up as part of.
Watching Mom, friends, and Trump, I don’t look forward to getting much older. Mom, 91, is cranky on most days. Filled with pain, she tells me. I see a video of her in a chair, trying to exercise. She’s listing to her right as she jerks her right arm up. She doesn’t look happy or healthy, but she’s trying.
Trump worries me even more. His language, never a strong suit, has become much worse. There are reports of him crapping his pants or delivering some nasty farts. Where there’s this much smoke, I got to wonder about the truth behind it. If he’s crapping himself or emitting enough noxious foulness that others are gagging and turning away, those aren’t signs of good heatlh.
In photos, Trump’s face has that old person, mean, angry look going. He’s glaring at the world like he’s trying to hear what they’re saying and can’t.
Worse, though, are those late night texts — from Mom and Trump.
Mom reached out at 2 AM to ask me if we’re safe from the fires. She pinged me again a few minutes later to ask, “Why don’t you answer?”
I don’t see these texts until I get up a few hours later. Then reply, sorry, missed your texts, was asleep, we’re fine. And I thank her for her concerns.
My sister later reports that Mom texted her in the middle of the night, asking what did Gina do with all the clothes Mom left behind in her house.
I worry, why is Mom up in the middle of the night texting?
Trump worries me in the same way. He spends a lot of nocturnal hours texting. Then he’s shown ready to fall asleep in his chair at meetings during the day.
Trump’s texts are worse than Mom’s texts. Mom shows a belated handle on what’s going on and often shows concern for others.
Trump texted an AI generated vision of himself as Elvis Presley. What an absolutely strange thing to do, I think as I see this. Who in their right mind pretends to be someone else like that?
Let’s pause to think about it: Trump is posting an image of himself as a popular pop culture star. One who died in 1977, almost fifty years ago. What is going on in that troubled head that he entertains these thoughts?
I then think of Trump’s MAGAts. They say that he speaks for them.
Are they out there generating AI images of themselves as others? Are some of them projecting themselves as young Johnny Cash or dead young athletes and actors?
As an aside to that, I admit that I admire the new Iran War Participation Award someone created for Trump. It has the right mix of bitter humor and deadly insights.
I received other texts and messages from people worrying about us and the fires. As the fires grow in the Pacific Northwest and more are evacuated, the news shifts toward the top of the news cycles.
We’re fine, I reply to all, knock on wood. No, it’s been a remarkably ‘cooler’ summer, with us rarely challenging 100 F. Wildfire threats have been far away. The smoke has only been mild and hasn’t lasted too long — knock on wood. Hope to hell I’m not jinxing us by mentioning it.
No, our thing remains the drought. Winter supplies are down to the low 40s. We’re conserving. Vegetation is browning, which would be nice if these were pie crusts baking in the oven instead of grassy fields and mountain meadows.
Between nature’s growing extreme trends and aging, there’s a sense that something is going to get you. Trump, acting crazy, arming ICE and mobilizing them in cities, fostering more war, using violence as a mallet to try to fix things, only makes that feel worse. Especially as his main concerns are promoting himself as a young Elvis Presley, affixing his name to buildings, and destroying our heritage and cultural norms.
No surprise then, with The Neurons’ music choice for the morning mental music stream. “One Way or Another” is a 1979 Blondie song. Deborah Harry was being stalked but wrote the song with some humor injected into it.
Sample Lyrics:
One way or another, I’m gonna find ya
I’m gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya
One way or another, I’m gonna win ya
I’m gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya
One way or another, I’m gonna see ya
I’m gonna meet ya, meet ya, meet ya, meet ya
One day, maybe next week, I’m gonna meet ya
I’m gonna meet ya, I’ll meet ya
Catchy. Easy to sing along with, good hard beat with a fast tempo made it a popular and memorable song. Makes perfect sense for today, with the threats being raised by nature and Trump.
Hope your day is threatfree, and that you enjoy carefree moments of pleasure and happiness with people you’re fond of, in places which you enjoy.
Cheers
A Windy Night
This post is part of SoCS, promoted by Linda Hill:
After drinking beer, he got his wind up, passed some wind, and then ran like the wind when he realized he was late for his flight to the Windy City.
The Sisters Dream
I was with several of my sisters. We were all younger than now.
Don’t know where we exactly were. Outside. Mostly flat and sort of muddy to start.
I’d been off doing something and then returned, looking for them, as it was time to go. I found them by a large broken cement sewer pipe coming out of the base of a dirt hill. Multiple bottles and trash was there.
One of the sisters asked, “Michael, can you help us? We want to clean up these bottles but we don’t know how.”
They had two large plastic containers with a spout on top. Way too small to put the bottles in. So I tore the top of the plastic away. They thanked me and we loaded the bottles up, often breaking them. Some bottles were already broken. As they warned me to be careful, I picked up the bottles and put them in the plastic. Then I carried those away, depositing them somewhere safe.
I was ready to go, so I began walking. My sisters were several hundred yards away. I wanted time to myself. Deciding to avoid them, I began running. My sisters called my name: I ignored them, running faster.
I crossed the muddy plain and then ended up on a highway’s wide shoulder. Traffic was heavy to my right. Dusk was coming. Left was a lot of new constructions: houses and stores were being built, but was suspended for the night.
I thought, wow, that’s a lot of construction. The construction and changes threw me off. I hadn’t been in the area for a while. Confused about where I was going, I decided to go back to my sisters.
Turning around, I gawked with some amazement. I hadn’t realized how far and fast I’d run. Running back, my speed amazed me even more.
I reached the spot where I’d last seen my sisters. They weren’t visible. I called them; no answer.
Then I found them, along with their previous husbands, and more of my family. I looked for my wife but she wasn’t there. I saw my younger sister’s ex-husband, JJ, and said hello to him, adding, “Good to see you.”
The group told me we were going to Sharon and John’s. She’s my sister and that’s her husband. Then the group kind of wandered around, dawdling. Impatient, I went to Sharon and John’s house.
It was a small place. In the dining room was a large oval, polished wood table. Arrayed in front of it on one side were three rows of seven baby highchairs. They were different colors and ages. Each had a placard on it.
I was mystified. Like, what’s going on here? Is this where they expected us – adults – to sit? We wouldn’t fit in those chairs. No, they seemed to be set up for something. Classes for children?
Then the chairs rearranged themselves. Many disappeared. Matthew Perry was seated at one of the tables. Reprising his role as Chandler Bing from “Friends”, he did a few scenes. Except, he was the size of a baby.
John came in. I said, “How was that done,” gesturing to Perry/Bing in a highchair. John explained, “Oh, that’s Matthew Perry. He was in “Friends”.”
I answered, “I know all that, but that’s not him. That’s the size of a child. Is that a puppet? Animation?” It was completely lifelike.
We went back and forth, with John explaining the same thing in almost the same ways. I kept asking questions, trying to clarify it, but never got an answer. My sister came in, interrupting us to announce that there were sandwiches in the other room.
Dream end.
The Writing Moment
Finished the first draft of “A Tribe Called Death” today.
Began it on impulse in December, 2025. Set it aside to finish “Unfocused”. Wrote and revised five drafts of “Unfocused” before setting it aside to cool at the end of May of this year.
Then I returned to “A Tribe Called Death”. It managed to flow out in very satisfying ways. I didn’t want to write or talk about it because I didn’t want to jinx it — knock wood — so I only spoke about it to my wife from time to time. Never talked about what it was about; only told her about generic writing progress.
Today, I wrote The End.
320 pages. 70,000 words.
A vampire, detective, and the Ministry of Death.
Now I’ll set it aside. Let it cool. Pick up “Unfocused” again tomorrow. Revise and edit it again.
Prepare to submit it to somewhere, someone.
And go on.
Michael Seidel, writer 