A Moving Dream
A rusty, fog-like orange hue enveloped this entire dream. My wife and I were moving. Another couple was involved. I suspect they were moving at the same time. In honestly, looking back, I believe they were another version of us sharing the dream. Plans were made. How we can move. When. Where. A specific day was selected. We went to the place. Then I discovered, my wife had an appointment for that day and place. She wouldn’t be able to help with the move. Neither would the couple because they were going with her.
I didn’t understand how such a miscommunication could happen. We’re planning a move for that day and she makes an appointment. Yes, I was angry.
We arrived at the place. My wife was driving. There was a huge, steep hill paved with bricks. She drove herself and the couple up it; I walked up it, a strenuous task. A man at the top who helped run things there couldn’t believe that I’d walked up that hill. That I’d kept up with the car. “I don’t believe anyone has ever done that.” He laughed. Because it was a silly statement. People were probably doing it all the time without him noticing.
They went to the appointment. Promises to come back and help — the next day — were given. My exasperation exploded. But I needed to do what I could. I’d come here to move; that’s what I would do. Others were there, eyeing me, asking if everything was okay, if I needed help. I assured all that I was fine. I collected items that were trash, putting them into a bag. Sometimes, some of the others would come by. I’d tell them what it’s the bag and they’d take it with them. About this time or so, “Lido” by Boz Scaggs began playing. It would play through the rest of the dream. I sometimes sang along with it.
To get rid of the trash bag, I climbed up to a chute. I would put the large trash bag into the chute and ride down with it. I did that, arriving out of the chute with the bag as my wife and the other couple returned in the car. At that point, we all realized that I’d almost finished moving our things. We just needed to get into the car and drive to the new location.
Dream end
Slippage
- Slippage in my personal use is about losing track. Time. Lists. Progress.
- Slippage is heavy when I’m writing. Clocks disappear from my LOS when I don the writing hat. I’m in that other world. Following characters. Contact tracing cause and effect. Studying dialogue. Typing, typing, typing, typing. Surprise overcomes me when I discover that I’ve been at it for an hour or two. My ass is sore. Numb. Coffee gone or cold. I’m hungry. Writing usurps everything. I feel satisfied when I’m done. And starving to do more. But other matters call.
- Because I have lists. Tasks. Chores. Necessary Actions for Modern Life. Balancing accounts. Paying bills. Buying food. Cleaning litter boxes. Talking to people. Socializing. It’s all so draining. Give me the damn keyboard and leave me alone.
- I tend to avoid writing long posts for these reasons. Keep it short and simple. Use energy for longer stuff for my writing projects.
- I feel like I’m suffering from low energy. Might have to do with the smoky situation outside. I peer outside the window and catch the sunshine and blue sky and become happy. Look forward to a walk. An hour later, the smoke has closed its tentacles on the street. Blizzard-like visibility develops. Step outside. Smell the stench. Feel the nostrils sting. The sinus headache begins. Eyes dry out. Energy fizzles. Spirit implodes.
- Could also have to do with COVID-19. We — our county — is one of the nation’s hotspots. As prominent anti-vaxxers and mask deniers sicken and die with COVID-19, my county’s citizens continue protesting. Masks are not effective, they claim. COVID-19 is not serious in their estimation. The vaccine can’t be trusted. These positions make going to the stores or anywhere else a daunting effort. We mask. Others don’t. Stores don’t enforce masks. They know they’re impotent against the unmasks’ illogical, contrarian positions. Wearying is an understatement.
- Beyond writing, struggling to do the things expected to keep the house and body clean and neat, and the modern demands of being responsible, I spend time reading. Finished Klara and the Sun (Kazuo Ishiguro) last week. I really enjoyed it. Loved the simplicity. The straightforward minimalism. Handed it off to my wife. She took it up and gave me the book she’d finished: The Mirror & The Light (Hilary Mantel). The styles between the books are so different. As are the stories being told. One is futuristic, science fiction. The other is historical fiction. Each are greatly entertaining. My wife wasn’t as fond of Klara as I was. Too much minimalism for her.
- Reading The Mirror & The Light keeps calling me back to C.J. Sansom and his Mathew Shardlake series. Not surprising in retrospect. Both cover the same English period from similar points of view. In many ways, it’s just like picking up two books of any other genre and reading and comparing them. Of course, that’s one reason why I like Lincoln in the Bardo so much or The Underground Railroad. Hard to find books that compare favorably with them. Likewise, how Louise Erdrich is able to tell stories with elegant prose and yet be gritty always amazes me. For crazy story-telling along the lines of ‘look-what-you-can-get-away-with’, I look to Lincoln & Childs and their Pendergast series.
- I’m also an information junkie. We subscribe to the NY Times and several other online periodicals. I must always be aware of time while pursuing information. It isn’t enough to just read their articles; no, I must find other opinions and sources to vet what’s being put out there. Then, of course, there are a dozen bloggers who I enjoy following. Always must track them and their latest.
- I have three cats. All ‘rescues’ or strays. Came to me for a visit and stayed for a life. Tried finding their people. In one case, Papi (our ginger tabby), we knew who the owners were. They left him behind when they moved. Deliberately. Cocksuckers.
- Boo, though, is problematic. Don’t know what went on in his past but it left mental and emotional scarring. Arthritis affects him. PTSD, too. Anything new – smell, sound, visitors, anything – sends him into a frenzy. He snarls and hisses at our other cats. His coat is matted. Embarrassing. Sure it’s not comfortable nor healthy for him. But we’ve only reached the point that he can be petted without hissing or snapping at us. Slowly introducing him to a brush. S-L-O-W-L-Y. Yet, he seeks me out. Sleeps against me. Comes to me for attention and food. Sleeps at my feet when I’m at my desk writing.
- TC — Tucker Cat — meanwhile has matured wonderfully. Went from battling with Boo to gracefully indulging his needs. Walks around him without disturbing him. He, too, sleeps with me. Loves it when I sit down to read. Is beside my laptop now as I type. Where he frequently is during the day.
- On my list of things to do is call my parents. They are divorced. Dad is remarried. Mom has a live-in fiancé . One lives in Pennsylvania. The other is in Texas. Both are retired with health issues. I worry about them constantly. They take appropriate precautions but still. You know, right? Yeah, you get it.
- My wife’s health also worries me. She’s suffered from RA for over twenty years. Wasn’t originally diagnosed, of course. No, that required over a decade of treatments, blood tests, imaging, and doctor visits. She loves exercising and dancing. She’s suffering a flare that’s truncated her ability to do those things. It also gives her foggy brain. She struggles to remember. Spell. Abstract concepts give her problems. So dismaying watching her decline. She’s more social than me. Since she can’t go out per usual (RA, smoke, COVID-19), I’m her conversation partner. I’m not particularly interested in socializing and conversing. Particularly when I’m writing. She’s become fond of Reddit streams such as Am I the Asshole and Facepalm. Feels compelled to share them with me. She’s also almost obsessive about local COVID-19 news and trends and must share them as well.
- Circumstances have curtailed my walking routines. Had a long streak of averaging 11.3 miles per day. I woas driving toward twelve. Then COVID. Then, smoke. I sometimes mask and go for a walk but always preferred walking when I had concrete destinations. Coffee shops to write was my standard. I do miss those days. My average has declined to nine miles per day. Most of it is running in place in the house, which just is not as entertaining.
- Enough of a break. Time to return to writing like crazy. But first, another cup of coffee, please. Black, of course. Cheers
A Racing Dream
A group of us — all men of various ages, builds, condition, etc. — were gathered. A tense but excited current ran through us. We were being given an opportunity to race a Formula 1 car. These were not the current cars but vintage vehicles from the eighties. All of us could attempt to qualify but only twenty-three could race. My father was encouraging me to participate. I asked if he was, too, and he said, “No. Too old,” with a laugh.
I was in my early twenties and eager for the opportunity. An overcast sky murmured, it might rain, and a cool breeze kept us shivering. The track could barely be described as one. A run-down, overgrown place, we would-be racers walked about, attempting to clean off the track a bit, kicking off gravel, twigs, and leaves, removing old, rain-sodden black branches. Several drivers seemed much larger than me. Most were older. We chatted in knots as we impatiently awaited our chance. I was more knowledgeable about F1 than others there so I asked more questions and pondered things. One older, larger care took note and started asking me for advice to help him. Each time he asked a question, I asked, making a suggestion. When he thought the suggestion didn’t help, he wanted to take it out on me. I told him, “Look, I made the suggestions but you made the decisions. Own your decisions.” That seemed to take him back.
Meanwhile, I was becoming annoyed with the organizers. I understood that we were to be given cars randomly. Okay. Then we would practice, qualify, and if we were fast enough, we’d race. Okay. But the organizers were also issuing us old racing coveralls to wear, and helmets. Shouldn’t we have a chance to pick those out ahead of time and get used to them some? Why not? In my mind, the uniforms could be important because they could be too tight and hamper our movement, you know, like shifting gears and turning the steering wheel.
I was mentioning these things to other participants. None of them could answer it, of course, so I went in search of the organizers. The dream ended.
An Army Green Giant Dream
Dreamed I was on an installation that almost felt like an army place. No weapons or anything. But institutionalized structures. Parade grounds.
Me and others. All male. All green. In green uniforms. Like toy army soldiers. I was a small boy. Chubby-cheeked. But green. I learned panic was roiling the place. A large statue had taken up life and grown taller. Men, including my father, were discussing this. “What do you think he wants?”
“Who knows?”
“He might be angry.”
“I’m sure he’s angry.”
“Of course he’s angry.”
“We have to find out what he wants.”
“I’m sure he’ll let us now.”
“He’s huge.”
“Huge doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Somehow, thinking of the green giant statue — for that’s what it was, one of us, made into a statue at some time, now come to life but much larger — I was doing math and trying to tell them, it’s easy to know how big he is. It’s multiples of seven. He was a three-quarter replica. The original was twenty-eight feet. So the statue was twenty-one feet. Now he’d grown to three times that size when he came to life. I knew that, I thought, because it was he was three/fourths of what of the original. So he was now three times taller. Dream logic, right?
I was trying to tell them, the statue was sixty-three feet tall. That he was hollow. I knew because the statue was hollow. All were hollow metal. Anything else would have been prohibitive. The statue had been made, piece by piece welded onto a frame and then shaped. Bronze, I thought, stained green. Green bronze.
They were not listening to me. Other boys and I commiserated. Fathers. Never listening. Never hearing.
The giant green statue strode into view. Towered over us. Threatening with a scowl. Contemptuous. I kept saying, “Just ask him what he wants.”
Dream end.
Words
They slice and dice
Little cuts that bleed
Scabbing without healing
Bruising without showing
Being without being
Wednesday’s Theme Music
Another day on the coast. Sunshine shouldered in at 6:24 AM. Clouds took note of Sol’s mood and sauntered off oh so casual, not really going because he was there but just ‘cuz. Temperatures perked up. They swear it’ll be in the mid sixties by the time Sol strolls out at 8:16 PM.
Today is Wednesday, August 18, 2021. Our housesitter back home said smoke is gone. AQI sits at 105 this morning per the Innertube. Still not healthy. Yesterday’s high in Ashland, she said, was in the mid-seventies. It’s going to be in the low eighties today, is the claim. We’ll see.
Nice to be indulging in a little vacation. Sharing a condo with friends. Two couples. It’s enough space but my energy veers away from the spectrum’s social end. I’m more internal. Like my writing. Routines. Those are all unintentionally trample by others. Because, to be normal in America means you stop what you’re doing. Socialize. ‘To have fun’. Just shut off one thing. Turn on the other. Doesn’t work like that for me. While the wife knows, she suffers it. So I suffer because she suffers. There.
My mental music today is “Push” by The Cure. Picked it up from my friend yonks ago. Think it came out in 1986. At least, that’s when I associate the song with my life. Could be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first. Could attempt to hunt down the correct year but I’m a little lazy this morning, sitting by the water in the shadows as the sun’s presence grows.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask, and get that vax. Even talking a third shot. At least 99% of those encountered in stores and restaurants are masked. Bit reassuring. Here’s the music. Cheers
Dream and Dream Again
First dream was one of those short, sharp ones my mind has been recently providing.
My wife and I have a home. Two stories. Not a house but part of a building. The outer walls are open to the other places. We’re making improvements. I’m pleased with the progress. As I go about, though, I discover that a neighbor has installed a central vac system. There’s an open outlet on a kitchen wall that sucks in air whenever they turn their system on. Well, that’s not acceptable. Who wants a hole making news and sucking air out of your place? I was in a good mood though. Heard the neighbors and went over and informed them of the error.
Off I went again. That was all upstairs. I went downstairs. Confusion reigned of the Abbott & Costello ‘Who’s On First’ variety. Used to be that there was a room opposite the stairs when you went down. Thought it was the kitchen. But I just left the kitchen. Are there two flights of stairs? Did we used to have two flights of stairs or is this new? Do we have two kitchens. I darted about looking for answers that didn’t come before the brief dream ended.
Second dream was long, involved, and anxiety driven. Mild understatement.
Wife and I were vacationing. Our last day. We somehow get separated. Where is she? I’m looking everywhere. Panic is rising like a thermometer on a hot day. I can’t find her and we need to check out and catch our flight. With time passing, worse fears that something has happened to her is growing.
I hurry past buses disgorging tourists. Among them is Jennifer Aniston as Rachel from “Friends”. She’s in a dress with messages attached to her with safety pins. Don’t know what that’s about. Deciding it’s not related to me, I go on.
Stopping to tie my shoe, I set my glasses down. A young boy with his father pulls his suitcase into me and then picks up my glasses. The father picks up his son and apologizes to me. I accept those apologies but where are my glasses? I need those, thanks. The child doesn’t have them. I discover them sticking out of the father’s shirt pocket. “My son must have put them there,” the father exclaims, proud, amused, appalled, apologetic. No problem. I take my glasses and hasten on. I must find my wife.
Anxiety growing, so does confusion and bewilderment. Where is our hotel? What room is it? What day is it? I can’t remember these things. I can’t remember our airline or flight numbers, or what time we need to be there. I can’t find the tickets or room key. Can’t recall how to work the electronic device in my hand. Seems to be a phone but it looks weird to me. Can’t recall what email account I used. And can’t find my wife.
Somehow, I acquire all our bags. I’m carrying something in each hand, on each shoulder, and on my back. Then, there’s my wife. She’s been shopping. I’m outraged. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to go.” She’s vague, disconnected. She’s been right here. She doesn’t understand the problem.
Never mind, we need to go. I find our rental car. We’re in it and driving with other traffic but there are no lane markers or directions. The road is slick and smooth. There’s no traction. The car is sliding all over. I discern that there are some markers but it’s all faded away. Never mind, we’ll follow other cars.
We reach a parking garage and stop. It’s inside a building lined with stores. I’m thinking, now they’re putting stores in parking garages, too. I remember my email account and suddenly understand how to use the phone to retrieve my email but, oh, no, we forgot to check out of the hotel.
Dream ends.
Michael Seidel, writer 