No silence. None for thinking — certainly none for writing. He’s with two people who verbalize their thoughts. Their thinking moves with the linear certainly of hail showering off pavement. Play by play is given: “Where did I leave that? Have you seen my *purse *hat *shoes *keys *contact lens *computer cord *books. I thought I left it — is that it over there? Oh, that is it. How did it get over there?” Laughter ensues as they explain to you the process that they just went through.
Variations exist. “Oh my God, I’ve lost my tricorder.” It’s not a tricorder, but a key, a pair of glasses, a credit card. Panic rising, they verbalize their fears that they’ve lost their item, searching and searching, providing updates on the search and expounding on their exasperation, worries, and anxieties.
But then, success! They have found it.
No place to hide from this. No place to write. Yes, writing it out is an exercise in self-pity and frustration. It’s been an exhausting day of vacation.
I woke up thinking, this feels like Saturday. I knew it was Thursday and sacrificed about ten minutes thinking about why this Thursday felt like a Saturday. Only thing that emerged was that I had no reason to leap out of bed. No structure of rushing off to work, or hurrying somewhere to meet someone. No urgency to leave the house and go to a coffee shop and write. Yeah, we’re still under COVID-19 restrictions. I haven’t gotten the booster, and my wife has underlying issues. Well, I have some, too. Underlying issues is part of the aging gift package for many of us.
Anyway, today is Thursday, November 21, 2021. Lackluster weather. A bit of sunshine burst through and fired some joy through my synapses. Seeing this, a heavy cloud hurried over and blocked the sunshine. The temperature is 52 F and there’s no indication that it’ll get any warmer than 56 F. Sunrise came at 7:47 AM and sunset will launch at 6:01 PM. Basically, we’re coming down to eight hours of sunshine per day.
I’m a little aggro this morning. Feel like I’m on the precipice of my monthly trough, sliding down toward the dark waves. The cats didn’t help this AM. Opened one of their favorite foods. They all chowed down but one returned, asking for more. I fed him and he gobbled away. Then, as I was preparing my brekkie, he walked in and puked at my feet. Three facets then emerge: why did he puke? Just eating too much too fast? Two, damn it, there’s a mess to clean. Three, damn it, I’m hungry and I need to clean this up before I can eat my oatmeal. Bah.
Trying to get the vax booster is also agitating me. Websites are all, we have the boosters! Make an appointment. But. They then ask about which vaccine I’ve had. I received the J&J. These websites — RiteAid, Fred Meyers, Costco, the three primary sources for COVID-19 shots in our area — all then direct me to get a J&J booster. Which I don’t want; I desire a Moderna. This is per CDC guidance. All their websites say that as a J&J recipient, I can have whichever shot I prefer. Yet their appointment form won’t let that happen.
I complained to my friends last night about it. They clearly weren’t paying deep attention, telling me, “Just go to the Fred Meyers website, just go to the Costco website, just go to the RiteAid website.” Exasperating, n’est pas?
Other acquaintances relate that they made appointments only to show up and discover either the vaccine of the people to administer it wasn’t available. But others made appointments and got the shots, no prob. Seems like a dice game when it comes to getting the booster, just as it was back when we were trying to get the vax.
Oddly, perhaps, all this angst and irritation stems from having strong writing sessions. I get immersed in the writing; pulling out to participate in real world activity requires a major energy shift. I don’t want to give it many times. Just let me keep writing, damn it world.
I had “Sister Golden Hair” flowing through the morning mental music stream. A Rush song, “Show Don’t Tell” from 1989, supplanted it.
How many times do you hear it? It goes on all day long Everyone knows everything And no one’s ever wrong Until later
Who can you believe? It’s hard to play it safe But apart from a few good friends We don’t take anything on faith Until later
Ah, good music for this Thursday for me. Stay positive — hard some days, innit? — test negative, wear a mask as the situation requires, and get the vax and booster when you can. Now, excuse me, but a cuppa coffee is screaming my name. Here’s the music. Cheers.
Yes, another dream about communications. Being in the military. And technology. Except it wasn’t the US military. Wasn’t the Air Force. I was part of a different military organization. Black or very dark blue — couldn’t tell in the dream — one piece uniforms. Like coveralls. Belted. Black boots. Caps. Insignia that was made up of diamonds and stars in silver and gold on epaulets.
Some disaster was eminent. Tidal waves, storms, and flooding. Another guy and I were trying to organize stuff. He outranked me but I was asserting my ideas. It had to do with displays. What should we put on the displays? What would be most useful? A tech informed us that we could have more than one display up concurrently. How many were the max? Four. Then let’s put four up.
A vision came to me about what we could do. I became animated with the idea. Was trying to explain and sell it to the rest, especially the man in charge. My exasperation expanded. How could he not see and understand this, blah, blah? I slowed down. Became patient. He began to grasp the plan. But whereas I wanted to display information about the weather, our readiness, etc., he countered, “Let’s put information about eggs up there.”
Eggs. I was taken so far back. “Why would you put eggs up there?”
“So that everyone knows how many eggs we have,” the man in charge replied.
“Why would anyone care about eggs? We’re a military organization. There’s a storm due to hit at any minute. Why would we put information about eggs up?”
But he was insistent. The dream ended with me turning away and walking off, shaking my head.
I was an adult and at a camp or retreat. Nothing posh. Many other people there. No one I know. Most were my age. A few were older. Part of the setting, a mild green tinge imbued everything. Skin, clothing, skin. All were tinged green. Not deep. But noticeable.
They made an announcement that we were going to play games. Everyone else was already in gym gear. I needed to change and told them. I had some trouble finding my gym bag. Once I found it, I sought privacy to change. The only place I could find was an old restroom. Cold and wet rough cement floor. Yellow walls — tinged green. Door that didn’t fit right. The door had a dead bolt. I was trying to close it and lock the dead bolt but others kept interrupting. I finally explained what I was trying to do. Left alone, I closed the door and bolted it. Stripped down to put on gym clothes. First set didn’t fit. They couldn’t be my clothes. But I knew those clothes and it was my bag. Next, I couldn’t get the shorts on and then I ripped them. Finally, I managed to get something on that fit. The white shorts and tight white top didn’t please me. But I had nothing else. I went with it.
I went outside to discover that they’d already begun playing. Teams were even. I couldn’t participate. That upset me. I understood that I’d been a long time and that they couldn’t wait But, mitigating what had happened, I’d been delayed. Nevertheless, that was the situation.
I moved to the side by myself and watched. The dream bounced forward from that scene. The games were over. We were gathered to hear about the next activity. Young woman of color was announcing it. I was sitting with others. We’re all tinged green. The coordinator said, “I hear that there’s a writer or novelist among you. Who is that? You’ll enjoy this activity.”
I immediately raised my hand. My hand was the only one raised. People around me turned and pointed to me while saying, “He’s the writer, he’s the novelist.”
The coordinator never looked my way. Never saw me. Then went on, “Who wants to do a fun creative exercise?” My hand was still up. Others still pointed at me. But others raised their hands. The coordinator went to them and passed out the exercise. This went on until only me and one other remained. The other was a young woman of color. She and I told the coordinator that we weren’t given an exercise.
The coordinator said, “Oh, you two can work together.” She then gave us some objective which struck me as make-work.
My partner and I went off to a table. She sat down. Rain sprinkled down. I said, “I don’t think I want to do this. It seems like a waste of time.”
She said, “Neither do I.” She called the coordinator over and said, “We’re not doing this.”
Blackberries. Love to eat them. They add sweet juiciness to everything. But they’re invasive. Will take over. And highly flammable. These traits make them threats to urban areas.
We soldier against a blackberry plant. Never with pesticides. Cut it back. Dig it up. Last night, they returned, in my dreams.
I was outside our house. The dream house wasn’t like our real house. The dream house had walls with garden beds all around the house, up against the foundation. I liked the arrangement and was walking through, admiring it, when I discovered blackberry bushes growing in it. Wasn’t the ordinary blackberry growth, though, no. These blackberry branches were several inches thick. They were pushing out the cut end and had not leaves, stems, branches, or berries. They had large thorns, though.
I was appalled by what I saw and headed back inside to talk with my wife and make plans. To return inside the house required me to pass through a cafeteria-style cafe. Make sense? No, but this is dream land. A young woman with her infant was sitting down at a table with three friend. She was complaining about the blackberry bushes’ sudden appearance at her house. I stopped to commiserate and flirt. Yes, I flirted with blackberry bush invasions as my baseline, trying to launch off that to impress her with my charm, knowledge, and wit. Such a dream flirt, I am. It fell completely flat.
I hurried on to my wife. When I arrived in our home, she greeted me with her discovery of the blackberry bushes. Demands of how did this happen and what are we going to do followed. I explained that I’d just learned of it. She cut me off to tell me about the unusual growth. Yeah, I know, I basically responded.
Meanwhile, two young nephews were eating at the table. They had blackberry bushes and were joking about the growths and laughing. I tried explaining our concerns about them but they paid no attention.
I’m at a work station. One those stands with a big tan CRT monitor on top, tower PC, keyboard on sliding tray. Something from the 1990s. Whole thing is just wide enough for the monitor. I’m one of many at such computer work stations. Large room. Wide and tall. I’m in the last row, on the end. Fourth one in line. This gives me space to my right. It’s open there and behind me.
Everyone is doing through thing. It’s a hubbub of clicking, clacking, talking, laughing. I’m doing my thing, reviewing files for a dead friend. The computer files on the screen on red. They fill the screen. When I print things out, the paper and folders are red. I suppose, when I’m wondering about the red while I’m dreaming, that the red is supposed to be symbolic of something. I don’t get it. Urgency? Warning? Don’t know. I’m also wondering why I’m going through folders about a dead guy. He’d been a friend but he died a while ago. My rational side intrudes: it’s your birthday. You’re sixty-five. Dead guy was a year older than you. Never lived to be sixty-five. Collect the dots.
Aha, dots probably collected. My wife is pestering me for specific information. This annoys me. She flits in to demand I look at something, sure that it’s important. I already looked and moved on while she wasn’t there. But she keeps coming back, asking to see specific files that I already read and closed.
Many others are behind me. Two women and a man are among them. The women are attractive. I gather that they’re foreigners. Maybe British and Scottish. They’re friends. I think one is with the guy. He seems American. He comes and goes. I keep catching snatches of the women’s conversation. They’re speaking of going someplace, doing something. I’m familiar with the areas and offer some unrequested advice, which they shun.
“Keep yourself to yourself,” I tell myself, sorting files on the computer. I’m testy with my wife as she comes and asks for information on a specific date and event. Without responding to her verbally, I search for the appropriate document, drilling down through information. She doesn’t realize what I’m doing and hectors me. I snap back with an explanation. She then goes away.
Meanwhile, the British and Scottish women have become friendlier. As if they sensed they rebuffed me and now want my friendship — or something — they step closer. I’m aware that they’re surreptitiously attempting to see what I’m doing. They make a subtle show of patting me on my shoulder, touching my arm.
It all confused and wearied me. I move off the dead man’s files. Why should I be involved with them? I find myself instead working on the files for another who worked for me. Investigating this person makes no more sense than checking the dead man’s files.
I understand it all when I awaken. The sense of dissatisfaction, frustration. The searching in myself for answers about directions and desires.
Michael Seidel, writer 