Tag: military

That Damn Dream

Had another one of those damn depressing dreams again where I was in the military. I’d been out, now I was back in.

It was just in time for a military parade and change-of-command ceremony. We were dressing in our Class A, or what is also called our service dress uniforms. I was behind, behind in knowing what to do, where to go, and when to be there. My hair was shaggy and needed to be trimmed to mil standards. I was racing to get my uniform pressed and check on my fruit salad, and worrying that my uniform was still in reg. Then I didn’t know where to go. I was running behind and people were both giving me grief and being supportive.

But they were leaving because it was time to assemble until I was alone, still scrambling. I still had to much to do, racing through a shower, getting the uniform on, and then checking the hair on my neck. You can bet, on reflection, I found it ironic that I was back in the military for a change-of-command ceremony. Changes are needed, I’m telling myself, or you’ll be exposed!

So much anxiety in that dream, a perfect exposure of the imposter syndrome.

Damn.

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The Era Dream

It was another military dream. Multitudes of military members were there. Almost all were Air Force members, as I had been. I knew many of them, but not all.

Some Army personnel and people from the other armed forces were in the group. They were very few. We were all attired in service-dress uniforms. My wife was with me, and my friends had their wives and children present. I realized it was a mass celebration.

It was in a huge, haphazard building with multiple levels. Some levels were connected by ladders. Others used stairs or elevators. Some of it was outside, or had rooms that were open to the outside.

Some people shunned me or were antagonistic, but others acknowledged and defended me. The first group disappointed me, and was the larger group, but the second group pleased me.

I didn’t stay with either group, though. With my wife holding my hand, I went up and down the ladders and stairs, passing between levels on my own. I said hello to friends, and some returned the greeting. As I did this movement and talked to others, I began understanding, this was a gigantic retirement gathering. With that, I saw a setting sun and realized, an era was ending.

Then I awoke and thought of the dream with sadness. A part of me reflected, the past is gone.

We’re going forward.

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Another Military Dream

There I was, back in the military, in uniform, a short-sleeved light blue shirt with my rank on dark blue epaulets, wearing my salad, sharply-creased dark blue pants, glossy black shoes. I noticed I’d been promoted in my dream.

I was at what seemed like a modern and spacious headquarters building, talking with others. I didn’t know them much. I was explaining to them that I’d received a new assignment. Due to leave in three months, I hadn’t heard from the new location yet. Anyone familiar with the Air Force PCS process understands all these. You get the notification, sign and return it, and then the process begins. A sponsor is assigned to you, you’re sent a welcome package, you receive your orders and begin your checklist, and work with personnel to schedule all the requirements for changing locations and jobs.

There wasn’t information on my new assignment, except it seemed prestigious to me, it had been by a by-name request, and it was across the country. I was pleased to receive it. The others had to return to their work for the day, but I had nothing to do, and killed time by strolling around, wondering what I was going to do with myself, chatting with others, in a good mood, telling people, “I have a new assignment, and I’m waiting for my orders.”

 

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The Major Dream

The Major had a hole in his head.

It wasn’t a hole, like a hole in a sheet of paper, but a hole, like a hole in the yard that the dog had dug.

The hole took up the left half of the Major’s face. His eye protruded out without any bones to support it. But it was a clean hole, shored up inside, and smooth.

I noticed the Major, Holder by name, Army by service, when I was sent over to him.

I’d been queuing with thousands of others in a writhing river of uniformed personnel. We were preparing to go. I don’t know where. Dressed for battle, I was geared up. I, oddly, was the only one with a helmet. I’d brought my own. Others awaited someone to issue them a helmet, and many were complimentary of me that I’d had the foresight to bring my own helmet.

We finally started moving. I was impatient, as I always am. Irritation grew as I awaited movement and direction. Someone from the middle of people called, “You, with the helmet. Where you going?”

Figuring he meant me, the question and tone pushed my buttons. I was instantly pissed. Shoving through the stream, which rapidly made way for me, I went to the man who called, and stated in a hard voice – the one my teams knew so well from me – “I’m Master Sergeant Seidel.”

The man beamed at me. “Good. Here.” He thrust a piece of paper in my hand. “Take this and go over there.”

Mollified, but puzzled, I did as bid after a moment, and discovered myself in a waiting area. That’s where I met the tall and slender, good-humored Major Holder. Gray-haired and lightly tanned, he wore green fatigues and had no gear, but he was in charge of something. He addressed me, telling me to wait. I wanted to know what I was waiting for, but he turned away.

Others arrived. They began complaining about the impositions they were facing, like me, bothered by the long wait, lack of activity, and general chaos. They started complaining about how bad they had it, noting small injuries, injustices, and frustration.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked them. “There’s a man over here who’s missing half of his face from this war. He’s not complaining.”

They were, of course, words that chastised me, too. But Major Holder, always patient and good-humored, turned and said, “Don’t worry. It’s nothing at all.”

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A Dream of Lost Identity

After twenty years in the military, I suppose it’s not surprising that my identity is linked to my time in the ranks. I’ve been retired for more time — twenty-two years — than I served — twenty-one years — so my continuing dreams about identity and being in the military disturb me.

In this latest one, storms were raging. I was the new MFWIC – mo-fo who’s in charge — and was geared up and entering a tense situation. Everyone was waiting for me. But arriving there, I discovered I lacked my military identification card. I knew I’d forgotten it. That embarrassed me. I fumed about the loss without saying anything, but none dared approach me, as all were aware of the situation. All I could so, though, was stew with frustration while waiting to go back and get a new ID.

Returning to the staging location, I didn’t need to say a word. Nobody else did, either. Everyone was waiting for me to get there. As soon as I did, a young female airman in old BDUs wordlessly went about providing me a new ID card. Once she did that, I turned to leave and begin again, more than ready to do so.

And the dream ended.

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Coming Clean

Cleaning

To dream that you are cleaning indicates your ability to make situations more positive and to solve pressing problems. You are learning how to replace pessimistic views and beliefs with those that are more uplifting and pleasurable. This can suggest your desire to seek inner peace and enlightenment.

To dream that you are cleaning an object means that you want to improve a certain part of your personality or character. If you are cleaning the refrigerator or oven, then it implies that you want to tackle an issue head on rather than trying to solve it gradually. Perhaps you feel as if you have reached a stagnant position in your life and you are unsure of where to go from there.

To dream that you are cleaning out a desk implies that you have decided to shed unfavorable pressures and instead follow a new path. You now comprehend the fact that you have options and choices to make; you are not stuck in the same rut.

h/t to dreamforth.

I dreamed I was cleaning last night. Once again I was returned to military life, where I enjoyed the structure. Expectations were clear and you were rewarded for doing an outstanding job. I liked that.

In this dream, I was rushing to get dressed in the military. Part of a large building, I hurried to find my gear and then to a shower to clean and shave. Finding one, a person of lessor rank, someone who I knew, confronted me and told me I had to clean the shower.

I was outraged. Number one, why should I need to do that, now, without expectations established? Number two, who was this person of lower rank to tell me that I was clean this shower? Why not one of the many other people milling around there?

I was furious. Nothing like the wrath of an experienced senior NCO. We knew how to do angry and focus it like lasers.

I did so in my dream. Everyone shrank away, the cleaning supplies left behind. This pissed me off, too. Feeling it needed to be done, angry that others had shirked their duties, I began cleaning. Unfortunately, as I cleaned, I saw how filthy it was. I was resigned; I was cleaning it, so personal ethics insisted I do an outstanding job.

So I cleaned and cleaned, scrubbing away mold and soap scum. Then, I found something that belonged to me. Oh, was I surprised. With more cleaning, I found more of my materials there. I then began to see that the person who confronted me was trying to explain it was my doing, something I refused to accept and understand. Instead of trying to understand, I was brow-beating them with rank.

On waking and thinking about the dream, I realized that this was another recurring dream. I have dreams about being in the military, but I also have specifically oriented dreams about those periods. Cleaning a common room, like the shower, was one such dream.

The question, why do I continue to dream about cleaning in the military, led me to dreamforth. Is it correct? I don’t know. I was surprised to awaken in a surly, low-energy, blackheart mood. Considering that cleaning in dreams might be a way of trying to tell myself that I needed to seek new balance or improve was my dream entity’s way of trying to help me cope.

 

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One, Two, Three

Of the three dreams remembered from last night, the third was the most striking.

The first was of the usual military variety. Back on active duty, I’m to attend a planned changing of the guard ceremony, except I don’t have my ribbons and medals, and my uniform isn’t pressed. They specifically told us three days before that our uniforms needed to be pressed. Why didn’t I go out right away and have that done, I kept asking myself. There were others in the same situation. They asked the same question. Meanwhile, many people were rallying around us, trying to help us.

But I was distracted. There had been a death of someone close to me the Friday before. I don’t often dream of death, and my dream being struggled to cope with it.

The second dream was of the usual visual gibberish involving rising water. Streams, lakes, rivers, everywhere I went, I encountered rising brown water. While the images remind me this week of the scenes from I-5 flooding in Redding, the Oroville Dam situation, and other flood scenes in the news, the dream events didn’t disturb me. I always ‘knew’ I was protected but I worried about others. This is a variation of a regular dream that I’ve had for decades. I used some of the dream memories in ‘Everything in Black & White,’ a novel I wrote a few years ago but haven’t published. The hero encountered flooding and ended up encountering, fighting and saving other survivors. These were the first people he’d seen since the Great Collapse.

The third dream was something new and different for me. I was busy writing. Writing, writing, writing. I was writing on everything I could find. I was possessed to write.

The neighborhood residents were all helping me. They knew I was a writer and knew I was writing, but didn’t know what I was writing. But individuals would come to me with more scraps of paper, pens and notebooks to use so I could write. They fed me so I could write, and kept unobtrusively trying to keep me comfortable as I wrote. I lived in a large apartment with my family. We had several cats. A canal was outside of my apartment. People lived across the way, including a family from India. They were most watchful and helpful to me although I sensed they were poor and struggling.

They had two cats who had been injured. I took the cats in, fixed them up with robot exo-skeletons and nursed them to good health. One cat immediately rushed back to its people. I could see them receive it. The two children were very happy, and the mother knew I’d helped. A whole confused segment followed about their yard and improvements they made along the bank. My wife and I would stroll each day, see the changes, and discuss doing something similar.

But the second cat had disappeared. I was busy writing but found the cat living in my house. He’d grown to a very large size and had mastered walking upright. He rushed out of the house. I worried about where he was going and what would happen to him, so I followed.

All this time, I’m writing. I’m writing as I do everything. I stroll and write. I find a piece of paper and write. I follow the cat and write. I see the cat has made it home yet I feel compelled to go over and tell the people that the cat had been with me and safe. Before I can do that, the husband visits me. Young, he’s barefoot and very intelligent. His aura of calm intelligence awes me.

I’m sitting at a table writing. He gets on the table top to speak with me. He’s wearing gray sweat pants and a white tee shirt. It’s all so clean, it looks new. Lying on his side, he curls up and talks to me, smiling as he does. He challenges me with questions and challenges my answers with questions and observations. I don’t remember those details but as we’re talking, I’m writing. We talk for a while as I write but something happens and interrupts our visit. He leaves for his house across the canal.

After some thought, I decide to follow. The canal water has become much higher. It’s a narrow canal. I think about leaping it. I have new shoes on, though. A female friend present said, “I hope you’re not thinking about jumping that canal,” which is exactly what I’m thinking. She then keeps trying to convince me not to make the jump.

I don’t attempt the jump but instead attempt to cross via rocks. I misjudge the distances and end up in deeper water with my new shoes. But it’s all good.

I enter the people’s home. They’re busy in the back with the returned cat. I can hear that the children are very pleased. I’m an intruder and prepare to leave without fulfilling my mission of telling them what had happened with the cat. But I’m writing. And there is a typewriter. It’s  an old manual portable. I sit down and begin typing on it. I can’t help myself.

The young mother comes out. I apologize for using her typewriter and being there without permission. She dismisses my apology. I begin explaining who I am and why I’m there. She dismisses my explanation, telling me with a gentle smile, she knows who I am, and it’s fine. She offers food. I decline and state that I must leave. But she has made up the guest bed for me with soft downy blankets and sheets. No, I insist on leaving. “Then I must put the bedding back away,” she replies in a flirtatious manner, “after all this work that I’ve done.” “I’ll help,” I answer. She tells me that it’s not necessary but I pick up and fold a blanket.

But then I must write. Sitting down at the typewriter, I start typing.

The end.

 

 

 

 

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Resigned

A dream’s undertow sucked me into its midst, where I was myself, in a younger guise, and dressed in Air Force blue. I, in my dream madness, completed paperwork in a dim crowded bunker of electronic scents. Watchful eyes ensured I filled the proper blocks with typewritten words in coherent order. But – they were dissatisfied.

A junior officer arrived to ‘help’ me redo the paperwork, explaining in cloying officialese that some of these statements weren’t appropriate and do I know that if I but groom myself a little more and co-operate, they’ll reward my potential with advancement.

But the flattery felt oily, and I resisted, asking, “Can’t I just line out the offending lines?” The Colonel came by to help me understand, asking the junior officer if it had been explained. Yes, the junior officer explained, it has been explained and he understands. “But,”I protested, “but, but, but…,” resisting because I was not inclined to re-type and rewrite, because those were not my words.

The Colonel showed me a note from the General,  where the General had sprawled in a fat red marker, ‘Does he understand that they can see this as treason?’ I could hear the General speak them as he wrote them, as I read them.

Yes, I understood, and no, I didn’t care. I didn’t do it as they wanted. I handed my finished work to the befuddled young officer with only a few words lined out. She stammered about that’s not what they wanted, and didn’t I understand what I could be, didn’t I see how I was sabotaging myself?

“Yes,” I said, “I see, and I understand, but do you understand?

“I resigned, so it doesn’t matter.”

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