Rainy day outside
Twitching tail and watchful eyes
Looking for mischief
The Rain Today
Ashland’s rain today reminded me of the Philippines. I was stationed with the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing, part of 13th Air Force and Pacific Air Forces, at Clark Air Base in the Philippines in the mid 1970s. It was my first overseas duty assignment. Being low in rank, it was a short tour – fifteen months – and my wife was not allowed to be there with me.
I had a lot of free time outside of my shifts. I used to run almost every day, then, in addition to my walking. I typically ran three to five miles a day. The weather never felt cold to me. Sometimes, the rain felt warm.
I was comparing my Philippines memory of rain to our Ashland rain today, trying to think of how I would describe this rain. This isn’t the monsoon sort of downpours that I knew in the Philippines, South Carolina, West Virginia, Okinawa, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Germany, or England. We rarely seem to receive that sort of rain here. Nor is it the milder, lighter rain, like a shower or light rain that I often experienced in Half Moon Bay. This is just…rain.
Our athletic attire is a lot better in 2019 than it was in 1976. Back then, all my athletic clothing was cotton. When I was running in the rain, it’d get sopping wet, heavy, and start sagging and falling off. My socks then were athletic top socks that came up to my knees. They would slide down to my ankles. I wore Adidas running shoes, and head and wrist sweat bands. The wrist bands would start sliding down over my hands, and the head band would drop over my eyes.
I’d bought the bands for playing racquetball, and they were most definitely required in a a racquetball court’s humid confines. They didn’t seem to have air-con nor fans back then.
I used to run the one and a half miles between my barracks and the gym, play racquetball, and not infrequently run home. I’ve always been optimistic, sometimes stupidly so. I once saw it starting to rain in the Philippines and took off running for the gym to play racquetball. I was soaked when I arrived. Water pooled around me. There was no way I would be playing racquetball in those clothes. I had no choice but to run back to the barracks, holding up my short blue Adidas shorts with one hand as I ran.
Ah, good times.
The Gold Dream
I was in a house that felt familiar, like something built in the seventies, two stories or more. The bottom story is a garage.
I’m a spectator off to one side, watching this dream. The dream begins with me standing in a room, looking at the clock, and saying, “It’s time to go.” I know that it’s very early, dark, and rainy. The others are up. They’re ready to go, waiting, like me, for the moment. We didn’t want to go too early, but it’s something that we all need to go and do.
Several of the others are my sisters. One is a brother-in-law. Others are not recognized as anyone from my life but I know that they’re more family. There are eight of us.
After I make my announcement, I go downstairs to the garage to wait. Down there, I see water pouring in from the garage’s ceiling. That’s not good, I know, wondering where it’s coming from. It’s an impressive amount. Although not consistent, it seems like the strength and volume available from a garden house.
I’m impatient to leave and call back upstairs to the others to come on. There said they were ready, so why is there now a delay? My brother-in-law comes down first. I point out the water and tell him that we’ll need to check that out later. He agrees, and we speculate about where it could be coming from.
The others come down. The garage door is opened. We go out into the rain. Crossing the dark street, we come to a field. The ground is sodden. I walk forward and find eight markers. They look like brass grave markers with raised letters. They have our names on them.
I find mine. Rain water is collecting on it. The others are talking about what they’re supposed to do. They don’t know.
I think I know what I’m supposed to do. I get down on my hands and knees in the soaked, muddy ground, and put my head on the marker. After I do that, I draw back to confirm that something is going on with the marker and see that a red dotted circle has formed on the marker. It spirals around and around and then goes green.
I tell the others that they need to lay down prone on the ground and put their foreheads on the markers. They don’t want to because of the rain, water, and mud. I tell them, “We can’t go until we’re all in position.” Reluctantly, they get down.
I watch each, confirming that their grave markers show the red dotted circles. I expect them to turn to green. My sister’s circle doesn’t turn. I tell her that she needs to put her head on her marker. She complains but does it. The light goes green. We disappear.
We end up at a complex series of highways, bridges, and tunnels. I’m in Pittsburgh, PA, but it doesn’t look like the Pittsburgh that I know, except we’re at the point, where the Ohio forms from the other two. We’re looking for a VA complex. Nobody knows where it’s at, so we walk around, trying to find it. It’s exasperating.
I talk to the others about the roads, bridges, and tunnels. Suddenly, I’m very knowledgeable. I tell the others about a similar place of roads, bridges, and tunnels, and how they found gold. Since it’s so similar, we can probably find gold here, too, I tell them. That gets them all excited. We begin walking around, looking for gold.
I break away from the group. Turning and looking out, I see a green vale. Gold nuggets dot its sides.
“There,” I say to the others. They come over. I point. “There it is.” I smile at them. “I found the gold.”
The Knives and Rain Dream
I was back in the military once again, but this wasn’t like any military experience of my life.
As a senior NCO, I was standing off to the commander’s right, facing the troops. They were at attention. One troop, Ryan, a former co-worker (but not in the military), stood in front of the rest. At the commander’s order, Ryan pulled a knife from his clothing. About the length of a machete, he threw it at a target above my head and behind me. I was shocked by his cavalier approach and thought, this won’t go well.
The knife bounced back off the target, striking Ryan on the right side of his front. He went down.
As I expected, I thought. I ran to Ryan, took a knee, and said, “Call nine one one.” I looked over at the commander. He held up one finger. I nodded, indicating that one knife had struck Ryan. As this took place, I realized that Ryan had thrown two knives. As I said, “One knife,” Ryan said, “No, two.”
I looked on his other side. Both knives had bounced back, striking and injuring him. An ambulance arrived. I left him in the professionals’ care.
The commander left. The troops parked their cars and assembled to take tests. They were at desks, but the desks were outside, yet arranged like they were in rooms.
I wasn’t testing, but overseeing the process. I discovered that one of the test-takers had parked in my parking space. I didn’t care, and was more amused by it, but the guy thought I was bothered. He went to move his car, telling the rest as he did that he was doing it because I was upset even as I tried telling them, I’m not bothered. When he moved his car, they went to another area of desks to take their tests. Shaking my head with amusement, I left.
I awoke up in my dream. I was in an apartment with my wife. I was worried about others outside, and open windows. Rain was falling, and the wind was blowing. Growing concerned about rain coming in, I went around, checking on the doors and windows, closing some of them. Waking my wife, I asked her, “What’s wrong with you? Why did you leave those windows like that?” Befuddled with sleep, she turned away.
I checked on our pets. They were all fine. Nobody had broken in. I realized that we’d been sleeping with the lights on.
The dream ended.
Monday’s Theme Music
Today, after awakening, rising, and feeding the cats, I began streaming a Bee Gees song called “Lonely Days” (1970). Don’t know what prompted my neurotransmitters to order this song today. I think it might have to do with rain. It was raining as I awoke, and stayed in bed, listening to it for a short period before thinking, “Must have coffee,” which prompted me to get up.
“Lonely Days” always strikes me as a rainy-day song. Something about its timbre reflects a gray, rain-swept landscape to me, a feeling that intensified as I walked on damp pavement and light drizzle.
Here you go. Have an excellent day.
Rain!
Busy editing, I was startled when another coffee shop regular said, “Hallelujah.”
I looked up. “What?”
“Hallelujah,” she said. “It’s raining.”
I turned and looked out the windows. She was right.
Seeing it, I rose and went outside. Oh, the smell, the sound. The last time we’d had rain here in Ashland was July 15. Lightning that day accompanied the rain, starting many of the fires that issue the smoke we’re dealing with.
Lori came out. We laughed at the smells, sound, and sight. Rain! “Hopefully, there won’t be lightning,” Lori said.
Yes, my thoughts, too.
Monday’s Theme Music
I have an affinity for songs about rain. While some are happy songs (“Singing in the Rain”), many of them are about depression or mental illness, like “No Rain.” I like this particular song, “Only Happy When It Rains” by Garbage, because of the delivery, but also the statement it makes. This is a sad and bitter person who likes being sad and bitter. Hey, that’s so honest, and is such a mockery of so many other songs about being happy or morose, those, “Oh, what am I going to do?” songs.
It just happens that today is sunny, with hype that it’s going to be warmish and springish. There’s not a sign of rain.
Velvet Rain
A velvet rain is falling. It’s a rain that makes the world feel cozier and more intimate, inviting deeper thoughts.
I’d planned to walk ten minutes but the rain soothed me, inviting me to keep going. I did, until two miles and an hour had passed.
The rain didn’t appear to soothe all. Some drivers took the rain as a sign to go, “Faster! Faster!”
The walking time allowed for solitude and writing time. I’d dropped into my personal trough the other day in the cycles of buoyancy and depression. Oh, lord, that darkness. Daunting, it drinks me up and swallows me down. The sighs are heavy, the thoughts are bitter, and the world looks grim. Even the cats’ attentions are infuriating irritations.
Perspective helps me survive. Writing, walking, and solitude help me grind out perspective. Alas, Schedules and events kept me from consistently achieving two of the three. But yeah, I survived.
Our new microwave and range were delivered and installed yesterday. They look so modern, I was surprised to realize how ancient the replaced ten-year-old units looked, and the difference it makes to the kitchen. To celebrate, we went out to lunch, and then to a movie.
The movie is part of our annual Oscar Quest. Friends throw a party, and we like to be able to think and talk intelligently about the movies and performances. We’ve only seen a few noms, so we’re behind. We saw “The Post” yesterday. That increases our total to four. We have work to do in our entertainment. None of the previews (“Love, Simon,” “Red Sparrow,” “7 Days in Entebbe,” and “Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool”) didn’t inflame deep interest. Each struck me as something to stream and watch at home when it’s available through one of our subscriptions. Of the four, “Love, Simon,” sparked the most intrigue. I suppose I’m too picky and cynical.
As the lights dropped and the previews played, and then the movie opened, my writers emerged with scene ideas. When we returned home, I quietly sat down (quietly, so as to not attract the cats, who seemed determined to stop me from writing at home) at the laptop, opened the required doc, and wrote the scene and changes. Not interested in tempting fate (the cats! the cats!), I saved and closed the doc, but later, while eating, more writing visited me. I stole back into the document and added a few more pages. Best, it left me knowing exactly where to begin today.
It’s a fine feeling, to know what to write, to write it, and to look forward to writing more.
Liquid dripped onto the coffee shop table as I unpacked and set up. Rain or sweat? I don’t know; either were plausible. I suppose I could taste it, but it’s not a critical difference.
Tonight, Wednesday, is when I meet with my friends for conversation and beer. It’s a standing invitation. My attendance record is lackluster but the rain is whispering, “You should go.” I’m ambivalent, but contemplating it.
Meanwhile, the first gulps of hot, black coffee have scalded my lips and tongue. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Disjointed
Last night’s dreams must be characterized as disjointed. They seemed to jump from scene to scene. Funny enough, that’s also my writing practice. Maybe one is a mirror of the other.
The dreams themselves were also fun, exciting and inspirational. As far as I can tell from the jumbled pieces, I was a racing driver, there was some heavy rain and flooding occurring, and I was being permitted into special places where others can’t go.
In our first program, titled, “Racing”, I was with another young man. We were exuberant fellows. As part of a project, we were going around giving presentations to others. I never saw one of the presentations but was aware they were happening, or had happened. He and I were casually dressed in neat sporting clothes. We would talk about what was to be done and laugh. This was happening through the progression of a season, I discovered. Then I discovered it was a Formula One racing season, and I’d won the first two races. Apparently, this was unexpected by anyone, as I was the younger and the accepted number two driver. But nobody was bothered; all were happy and pleased with my success, celebrating it more than I celebrated it.
As part of our traveling presentation show, we went somewhere special. I knew that another person, a female relative that I wanted to see, was nearby but wasn’t quite sure where she was. There was a large white building, which was apparently a school. That’s where I thought she was.
So I stole into the building alone. Inside was as white as the outside. I found classes going on and saw her. I watched the class for a short period and then began exploring the building. There seemed only one way out. I became intent on finding another way. That drove me to slip down into a lower level. It was supposed to be off-limits. There weren’t any exits there but there were secret rooms. As I was exploring them, I was caught by white-garbed employees. One accosted me for being there, but the other corrected him. “No, it’s cool. He’s not supposed to be here, but it’s okay, because he’s special.” They then left me alone. I kept exploring and actually found the exit I sought.
I walked into another dream. In this one, I was watching a swollen brown river. Tumultuous with energetic flood waters, it was perhaps one hundred to two hundred yards away and not threatening to me at all, but was threatening others. The river was located in a valley. I stood on a road that led to the river. Others were present, too. The river had clearly overflowed its banks and had wiped out the bridge that was supposed to be there, because the road continued on the other side.
I knew it was destined to get worse. Following the road with my eyes, I could see the road rise toward some hills on the other side of the river. Those hills alone were dark with rain. There were three hills. As I watched, I noticed streaming silver lines forming on the hills, one on each hill. I knew those were new floods. I was with a man, who was apparently my guide. I pointed the streams and hills out to him, along with the flooding. “It’s going to get worse,” I said and saw that yes, those three silver streams were thicker and more visible, and were obviously increasing flood waters. The rain was clearly increasing on the hills, as well.
Turning away from that, I went toward another building. I can’t remember anything of that building. I was not quite expected there but, recognizing me and my name, they made an exception, and welcomed me. I was there to see a man. He was considered a young genius. I had some ideas to present to him. I had to wait for him as others went about their tasks in a flow around me. While waiting, I discovered the teams I’d driven for were McLaren and Ferrari. I was surprised, pleased and impressed, for they represented two of the most respected and oldest teams in Formula One racing.
Then the man I was there to see came out and found me. I apologized for being there, but he waved that off, telling me he was excited that I was there. He’d heard about my ideas and had been waiting to meet me and discuss them in person, so he was very happy that I had arrived.
So I awoke thinking, Wow, aren’t I special? Then reality returned, and I went off to pee and feed the cats.
Today’s Theme Music
Theme music is often about setting the stage for what’s about to happen. It’s a familiar, establishing your expectations.
On some days, I like defiant theme music to play in my head. They’re not necessarily days when I battling conditions; these can also be days when I’m determined to complete a task or pursue a dream.
Other days find me seeking melancholy theme music for accompaniment, fun music, or dance music. Theme music that’s nostalgic to me is frequent. That’s not surprising. Nostalgia is all about trying to achieve a particular state of mind. For me, that balance was often about hopes and dreams, youth and maturity, satisfaction and eagerness to pursue life.
The weather also affects my theme music choices. Today’s song, though, hits in many areas for me. It’s pouring rain through balmy air and upset winds. So I’m reaching for a song that accompanies my mind’s drift toward nostalgia and weather but remains something that
Michael Seidel, writer 