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?”
I was in the living room, doing light exercises and watching the television.
It was 10 PM. The temperature had hit 101.5 F at our house. Now it had dropped to 80. I’d gone around, opening the windows to cool us off.
Strong skunk smells began coming in with the cool air. Cursing, I went around closing the windows I’d opened about ten minutes before.
As I was doing this, my wife came in. “I heard something knock over a garbage can.”
“Our garbage can?” I asked. It’s behind a fence so –
“I don’t know where it was. I think it was on the street.”
Confirming that Papi was safely inside, my wife went to the front door. Picking up a flashlight, I joined her, turning on the porch light and unlocking the door. She did a little start. As I went out, she took hold of my shirt and followed.
I shined the flashlight along the dark street. Sirens were rising. Emergency vehicles raced along the main road about a hundred feet below us.
“See any trashcans?” my wife asked.
“Just that one.” I shone the light on a bulky shape across the street.
“That trashcan has eyes,” my wife said.
“It does,” I agree.
At that point, we knew it was a bear. Black bears are common in our area. Down on all fours, the bear looked about four feet tall at its shoulders. It casually turned and took a few steps toward us.
My wife took a few steps backwards.
I laughed.
The bear disappeared behind some bushes lining the street. “Let’s go in the house,” I suggested.
“Okay.” As we went in, my wife said, “I was ready to give you a quick push and then shuffle backwards into the house.”
I chuckled. “I wasn’t worried. I know I’m faster than you.”
She laughed.
I looked back with the flashlight. The beer loped up the street.
Ashland, southern Oregon. Wednesday — August 5, 2026.
We hit 101.5 at my house yesterday. That was outside. Inside, we stayed below 80. We’ve yet to run the A/C yet this year — knock wood — as the temperatures drop enough at night to cool the house and land down.
We’ll see if that holds today. Right now, it’s 83 F, on its way to 101 again.
The thing about yesterday’s weather is that it climbed slowly. At one mid-afternoon point, I thought, well, this isn’t bad. 91 then, I thought, maybe we won’t hit one hundred. Then I entered a store, came back out said to myself, holy shit, it’s hot as hell. What happened?
Today, though — hot early, hot fast.
Although there are more fires burning across the United States, we’re still fire-free — knock wood. The smoke isn’t bad, either. We’re fortunate in our neck of the woods; Oregon has topped 2,000,000 acres burned this year. Washington has several large fires going. Portland (OR) now has the worst air in the world, due to the wildfires.
Mom and my sister, Gina, continue their quiet war. Mom turned to her granddaughter, Gina’s daughter — Amy — as the go-between. Amy is rejecting the role. Although Mom helped raise Amy, Amy doesn’t deal well with the tension of being the go-between. Plus, Amy is in college, working on a Masters, and she works. So I help fill the gap.
As 2026 wears on, we’re seeing the shadows of Trump’s thinking, lying, fantasizing, playing out in real time now. It’s all catching up.
“When Trump hits a brick wall now, as president, he just fashions an alternative reality. He can talk up tough financial data or a foreign policy hiccup as though he’s bigging up a tatty property in a real estate prospectus.“
Your Trump Quote(s) of the Day:
This is the same tired claim Trump made in January of this year:
Trump has made this claim dozens of times already. But reality does not back him up. As with many matters, Trump has a basic misunderstanding of how things work. If inflation cools, prices don’t ‘come down’; inflation is a measure of how much they’ll increase.
Trump’s claims about affordability and prices coming down, and being in a ‘golden age’ is just like his Iran War rhetoric. Trump has claimed victory again (April), again (June), and again (July). Yet the war goes on, in August. He keeps trying to distract us from the truth. Not happening, because we’re paying through the nose, and we’re feeling it.
Today’s music is “Shadowplay” by Joy Division. Seems right for today. I didn’t know the song when it came out, and discovered it when The Killers covered it for a movie. I like the original’s sonic approach to the gittar playin’. Good morning mental music stream occupant for these times as Trump’s shadow grows.
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?
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.
It’s 71 F in our valley at the moment. Light, high white clouds. We expect a high in the upper 80s.
A new heat dome is moving into the region. But the jet stream shifted a few years ago. Now we’re often protected from those heat domes. It can change again at any moment, so I’ll take it for now and celebrate the small win.
It’s a new month but much hasn’t changed.
Eight-five fires are burning in Oregon.
They still haven’t closed on Mom’s house. She is aware that it’s being sold, though, asking me for updates every day.
Trump is still lying. Still squirming, trying to distract us from his failures.
The Epstein files haven’t been released. Trump’s war with Iran is still going on. Affordability remains a crisis. Healthcare costs are going up.
Like many people, I’m waiting for other things. Like the old story: waiting for the other shoe to drop.
So, it’s a new month, but the same mode of waiting.
Without much surprise, The Neurons caught onto my thinking. My Neurons can be slow and flaky, easily distracted by games and cats, but like a car, they can get fired up and pointed in the right direction once in a while.
Today’s song in the morning mental music stream is “Waiting for the End”. This is a Linkin Park song. Came out in 2010. I caught it on SNL and went looking for it to hear it again.
Sample Lyrics:
Waiting for the end to come Wishing I had strength to stand This is not what I had planned It’s out of my control
Yeah, yeah What was left when that fire was gone? I thought it felt right, but that right was wrong All caught up in the eye of the storm And trying to figure out what it’s like moving on And I don’t even know what kind of things I’ve said My mouth kept moving, and my mind went dead So, I’m picking up the pieces now, where to begin? The hardest part of ending is starting again
The song is about hope, paralysis, and frustration, IMO. Feels right for today. Here we are, waiting for the end, trying to figure out how we define the end.
I hope you have a strong day, whatever one it is, whatever your season, a day that comes with lasting peace and grace.
I don’t usually keep my phone near me when I’m in bed. Had a lifetime in the military, along with my time in marketing. People always wanted me immediately available.
Well, no longer! It’s one of the declarations of independence I made when I retired from all that work stuff. The phone stays in the other room.
Except, yesterday, it didn’t. I wasn’t feeling well. My car was in the shop for routine maintenance. I was waiting for them to call or text to tell me it was ready. So I had the phone on my nightstand.
They called about four-ish, asking if they could keep it overnight. No, nothing major found; they were just short-handed and overscheduled.
Shrugging it off, I agreed, sure. “Call me in the morning when it’s ready.”
I went back to sleep, off and on, and forgot about the phone.
Until six AM this morning.
The phone pinged with a message. In irritation, I thought, sisters. That was more a matter of my mood than anything. My sisters have habits of getting up early and sending texts early. They’re on the east coast of the US, so they’re three hours ahead of me. Texts that they’re sending at 8 AM are pinging on my phone at 5 AM.
But it wasn’t my sisters.
Nor was it the car repair shop.
No, it was Google Health, formerly known as Fitbit.
Google Health pinged me awake at 6 AM to tell me that I didn’t have a good night of sleep.
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.
Michael Seidel, writer 