Month: November 2016

Chaos

Last night’s dreams were a barrage of chaotic events and images. I vividly remember most of them (it?) because my left calf cramped. Pain shot me out of dreams into full wakefulness. Working the cramp, I remembered the dream.

I was travelling with my wife. We were hurrying through an airport. She was carrying all our baggage. It wasn’t much but included a brown paper shopping bag full of papers. “I can help,” I kept telling her. “Let me carry some of that.” I tried taking some. But no, she dismissed my urging and raced ahead. The airport was immaculate and wasn’t busy. We rushed through doors and across terminals and concourses.

Things were coming beginning to come out of the shopping back. “Here, wait, you’re losing things,” I told her, catching up. Slowing her, I tried re-organizing materials in the bag so they were more secure and suggested I take it, but she was too impatient and started off again.

And then we headed for an exit. I was bewildered. “But we didn’t go anywhere,” I said. “We didn’t fly anywhere.” Wordlessly, carrying the baggage, stopping to put papers back into the shopping bag, she prodded us to the exit.

Act two commenced. We were in a vehicle, I think. I never saw or heard it but we were on a divided white cement four lane highway. I couldn’t tell who was driving. Lightly traveled and free of potholes, the road followed curving green hills. The weather was pleasant. I could only see ahead of me and nothing of us or the car.

A bright orange car burst onto the highway ahead of us. Emitting blue smoke and loud noise out of its single large chrome exhaust pipe that came out the back, it looked like it was a home-made fiberglass creation on a shortened VW Beetle chassis. The car seemed barely under control. Accelerating to overtake one vehicle, it jumped lanes and almost hit another. Swerving back, it barely passed between two other vehicles.

We were commenting on the lack of control, what was going on in the driver’s head, and the vehicle’s construction and design, when they did lose control, spinning out as its engine gave up with a smoky, “BANG.”

We were on the scene instantly and then passing it, talking about stopping and helping – but then this crazy motorcyclist roared by. The rider was a young, well-groomed white man with short dark hair. He was driving insanely, cutting off a semi, causing it to crash, and then doing the same to another car.

This time, he wrecked. He got off his motorcycle, stared down at it a moment, and then started walking up the highway.

We were walking behind him. I could believe he was walking away from the mayhem he’d caused. His indifference appalled me. I raced up to him. Catching up, I began calling, “Hey, excuse me, hello,” before finally tapping his shoulder. Taller than me by at least eighteen inches, he was extremely skinny and white, and dressed in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves and a red neck tie that was loose around the collar. I began telling him, “Do you know what you did back there?” Unimpressed, he began leaving, but I held firm, holding onto him, taking him by his arm, and then his shoulder. I was amazed how muscular he was under his shirt.

I told him what he’d done. “So what?” he answered at last. “I’m working from home and McDonald’s has the right to send and receive faxes at my house. I can’t get any rest and I can’t get anything done.” Then the truck driver, a swarthy man a little shorter than me, caught up and entered into conversation with him.

My wife and I went on. We entered a terminal through a double metal door without any markings. Inside was messy and crowded with an old military base feel to it. Not much energy was put on decor. Food was available. We were hungry and perused the menu. Nothing was calling to us. We still wanted to order something but weren’t sure what we wanted to order, nor where to do it, but were beginning to grasp their system amidst the disorder.

Then it got chaotic. A disheveled greasy man appeared behind us. White, with stringy hair and a few days of beard, he was being disruptive. I didn’t know exactly what he was doing. He was just standing and grinning whenever I saw him. But I didn’t trust him. He was wearing sandals with no socks and baggy, dirty green pants.

Eventually something he did caused a commotion. He disappeared. Two police officers arrived. I could hear them talking about him but only heard fragments. They were attempting to find him. Slipping past them, I decided I could find him.

From here, the dream fractured into true incoherence. At this point, the point of view became external. I was watching myself and these scenes as though I watched a movie except I knew it was me and I wasn’t just sitting somewhere watching someone else. There was something about cutting our grass a certain manner and a bevy of strange rules being issued, rules that would undo what had succeeded. I was being urged to conform and obey. “They will ticket you if you don’t,” they told me. Everyone was worried about being ticketed.

“Enough of this,” I basically said. “I’m not doing that stuff.” I walked out, coming toward my watching vantage. My wife and others hurried behind me, talking to me, asking me to re-consider what I was doing but I was adamant. My dream’s last words were, “They’re just pieces of paper,” spoken by me.

 

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Today’s Theme Music

On some days — or maybe during some weeks — or months or years — okay, during some lives, things aren’t going great. They once motored smoothly along but then the engine of their success started burping foul odors, stumbling and hesitating, barely responding when we called for more power. Maybe even that’s a dream, that your life never found its mojo. You reach a point when you think, I wish there was something or some way for things to be made better, some magical force or power that can fix it all.

We’ve had many stories, myths, legends, movies, television shows and novels about one who can do such a thing. One such legend, about a genie in a bottle and an astronaut, made it to America’s small screens in the 1960s: ‘I Dream of Jeannie’. Hum it to yourself while you traverse your daily travails.

Maybe it’ll help. Maybe a genie will show up and offer you three wishes so you can change the world – or even just a moment.

 

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Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

It’s great when a new year begins. The past is neatly folded and hidden in drawers and cupboards. Part of it is stashed in the guest room bedroom closet in plastic vacuum packs to preserve it for future use because, you know, the past often comes around again.

So I’ve decided to begin a new year. Sure, I could stay wedded to the calendar year or revert to a fiscal year that begins in January or October. I decided not to. That’s too rational and conforms to everyone else’s needs without considering my own. That was working for me. I’ve decided to change it.

I selected November 29th as my new year’s beginning because that’s today. It’s the Michael calendar. I’ll only use it for personal goals and dreams. I’ll still pay my bills on the same date. I thought about trying to change it with the banks and utilities but OMG, can you imagine the paperwork? Bureaucracy dislikes change. Despises it, actually. So it’s easier to fly under their detection systems. I mean, I’ve already created a little app that’ll convert the dates and days for me.

For one thing, I’ve done away with Tuesdays. Come on, it was just filler to bridge Monday and Wednesday. Most people didn’t like it. We can attest to that because they were always doing Throwback Tuesday. “This Tuesday doesn’t matter, let’s look back into the past to give it some purpose.” I did away with it, reducing my week from seven days to six. I’m flexible about when each one ends and begins because basically I’m following the George Costanza method.

If everything that he did was wrong, by some property, if he does the opposite, he’ll be doing the correct thing. So I’m doing the same. Which is the opposite. Therefore, instead of having set days of the week that begin and end at the same time, I’m embracing flex hours.

Things just have to change. Except some things. There’s no telling what will happen from this.

Happy New Year. No, wait. I have to think about the correct greeting. Still a few bugs in the system. But that’s okay.

It’s the opposite of what I usually do.

 

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Today’s Theme Music

The holidays are upon us, as we like to solemnly note in America, as though we’re prophets and not ground hogs looking at the shadows of days of the future past.

Time to get real. And what better way to get real than with a terrific theme song that energetically conveys a nostalgic period, one that most people know and can sing.

Here we go. “Yabba-dabbo-doooo.”

 

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Today’s Theme Music

I don’t know about you, because I actually don’t know you (I barely know myself), but I could use a rebuild every now and then. Take this gut. Please. Rebuild it. Put my twenty-five year old version back in there. Like a lot of things, I like my body as it used to be.

But c’est la vie, my friends. That’s life and we can’t get rebuilt.

Except that’s not how it was for Steve Austin. He was a man barely alive, and they rebuilt him. I wonder, though, you know, if you can rebuild him, did they rebuild all of him? Was this a ground up restoration or did they just pick and chose? I suspect the latter. They’re always talking about one of his eyes and his legs.

That’s what worries me about being rebuilt. I worry that I’ll ask, “Which of my parts should I replace?”

After softly clearing her throat, my consultant tells me, “Well, on your budget, you’re pretty limited.”

Of course I have a vision about how I want to be rebuilt. “What about Brad Pitt? Can I order anything out of the Brad Pitt catalog?”

“Yes.” My consultant clears her throat. Again. “You can afford anything out of his fingernail sections. Here, page through the website. It’s organized by body parts. So, just select limbs, and then click down to arms, hands, and fingers. See? Brad Pitt’s fingernails are quite reasonably priced. We can rebuild you with a couple of those.”

“A couple?”

“Yes, you can afford a thumb and a little finger.”

“From the same hand?”

“No.”

“What about my mid-section?”

Heavy laughter ensues. When it ends, my consultant tells me, “Oh, you can’t afford Brad Pitt’s mid-section.”

“I can take out a mortgage on my home.”

“That won’t be enough, I’m afraid.”

“How ’bout a bun?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can I get rebuilt with one of Brad Pitt’s buns? You know, his rear end? His ass, to be crass, his derriere, if you want posh.”

“Oh my gosh, excuse me. I spewed coffee when you said that! No, you can’t afford Brad Pitt’s buns, and don’t even think about anything off his face.”

“Not even an earlobe?”

“No.”

“Well, what can I get?”

“Here, let me show you our John Goodman collection.”

“John Goodman? From ‘Roseanne’?”

“Yes, I think you can afford his mid-section.”

“I don’t think that’s an improvement.”

“Are you sure? He is a star.”

So, anyway, I won’t be doing any rebuilding on this cyber Monday. I’m still saving for improvements I can afford. Meanwhile, here is the opening from ‘Six Million Dollar Man’. Oh, sure, they can rebuild Lee Majors. What’s he got that I haven’t got?

That was rhetorical; you don’t need to reply.

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The Wall

Ever do distance running?

The race begins and after a brief interlude of finding your pace, you enter your zone where your legs and arms are moving with orchestrated pace and you are where you want to be and where you expected to be. Interior dialogue begins to help focus. Time and distance pass and you feel good, even great as your body feels its power and responds.

And then, without warning, here is the wall.

The wall is many impressions at once. It feels like you’re running in sludge. Where your feet were lifting and dropping with relative ease and precision, you suddenly feel wobbly and your feet are heavy. Your legs feel heavy. An undertow has sucked all your energy out to sea. You just want to completely stop, sag and breath.

But you know that this will pass if you can keep your arms and legs moving. That’s why you’ve trained, to learn how to keep your arms and legs moving, how to properly breath, how to find the oxygen in your lungs and get it to your heart, into your blood and to your muscles. You’ve trained to know what to do when it happens and take the pieces of broken focus and put them back together so you can keep going.

Well, I’ve hit the writing wall this morning. My body is sagging despite my stretching and yawning, and my mind is screaming, “I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna.” It’s cold, gray and wet outside. My eyes are tired. My morning coffee is cold and it doesn’t taste good. It’s Sunday, come on, aren’t you supposed to take Sunday off to sit and chill? You deserve a day off from dealing with the Penta Majur.

And I know some of this wall comes from unique places within. Emotional demands have eaten into the writing reserves. I’ve learned that a friend and family member by marriage had open-heart surgery a few weeks ago without telling anyone. Only his wife knew. And you wonder, why wouldn’t they tell anyone this? He didn’t have insurance and her insurance is a miserable and greedy company which is barely covering any of the bill. She’s well employed and a hard worker, with an impressive job title and salary, but this has drained their finances.

I know some of this wall is holiday related as I pause to consider what was and what now isn’t. I understand my nostalgic nature even if I can’t control it.

And I know some of this wall comes from dealing with news and protests and murders and deaths and hatred and racism and bigotry and –

And there is the wall.

My dreams reflected this last night, too, putting me through the paces of trying to sell a car, a sports car which I owned for twenty years but traded in for a new SUV, a car that reflected some of the pleasure I felt with what I’d achieved, where I was and where I was going, a car that then became a reminder of where I’d been and what I’d achieved and that I was no longer going anywhere, car that reminded me that time had passed. And yet a car that I missed because I’d enjoyed considerable pleasure driving that car on trips, and it was associated with the validation found in work and promotions.

I saw all that in the dream as the dream masters chastised me for not following proper procedures while selling my car, ordering me back into line, and confusing me with demands that I need to write my requirements in white on black socks, which totally befuddled me because that makes no sense. And then, there is the waking reflections on what makes sense and does not, with gentle chiding amusement over the expectations that everything is to make sense. That’s the interesting thing about writing: that you must always make sense in a world that doesn’t make sense.

The writer within is demonstrating remarkable patience. He wants to write but he’s telling me, you’re just a little tired. It’s understandable, that’s okay. Take some time to sit in quiet, relax, drink some more coffee, read, surf the net, look out the window, watch the trees, the birds, the clouds and rain, and the passing pedestrians. Observe life. Let your energy build.

The wall is there but you’ll break through. Be patient and persevere.

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Tucker’s Floor Work

The big black and white rescue will begin with a mellow leg rub and segue into gentle back strokes. Gentle purring is arising. Now some soft scratching on his forehead and the back of his neck, followed by his left ear, and now his right ear. Notice the head tilt is exactly the angle needed to provide access and issue approval.

Nicely done. Now he’s sitting and progressing to chest and neck scratching. His purr has gone deeper and more uptempo. His eyes are closed…judges always look for that as a signal of trust and contentment. Look at that marvelous neck extension! Oh, well done. You know that he’s done this before. He’s one of the best.

Now he’s executing a floor flop, followed by a floor roll and full leg stretches. Look how adeptly he extends his legs, paws and claws and then moves into an inverted back arch. His fluffy tail is straight as an arrow. He is really in the zone today.

And now, it looks like…yes, he’s exposing his furry white belly for some belly loving. And he’s putting his paws up. Look at his display of beautiful shiny white fur and the trust and tranquility in his green eyes. Oh, my, and he’s kneading the air with his front paws in a slow, cyclical motion.

Now he’s signaling that he’s done, rising to stretch and wash. Bravo! What a star. Let’s turn to the judges and see how many treats they rate this Sunday morning performance.

Judges?

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Today’s Theme Music

We’ve survived the initial shopping volley.

Actually, I went out yesterday and discovered it wasn’t that bad. We did our usual routine. Went by CostCo because we needed to fuel the car. Ended up with a cart load of other necessities, like tp, soup and wine. Then off to PetSmart where they were severely understocked for kitty litter and food for our (grit teeth) furry beloveds, followed by Trader Joe’s for some items (like my shaving balm), and then to Shop ‘n Kart for our produce, cheeses and essentials.

The routine nestled us with familiarity and grounded us, needed after the interlude of Thanksgiving shopping, prepping and socializing. Each born under the astrological sign of Cancer (I’m a Leo rising), we’re like hermit crabs, preferring solitude, home and routines. My wife wants to be a social queen but it empties her energy tanks and then she crumples for a few days.

Still, it’s nice to visit with others and go where everybody knows your name.

By the way, my wife despises the television show ‘Cheers’ because of their portrayal of women. I see her point but I enjoyed it back when it was on.

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What I’m Watching

Here’s an update to my viewing habits with hopes that others will point me into new directions.

I cut the television cable cord several years ago. With digital indoor antennae, I receive signals from ABC, CBS, FOX, NBC and PBS. We have a Roku and a ‘smart’ television and subscribe to Acorn TV, Amazon Prime, HBO Now, Hulu and Netflix streaming.

It’s easy to binge through a year, a season, or a series. I’m constantly on the hunt for new offerings. I like intelligent police procedurals, good British black humor, and…well, intelligent and interesting shows.

Acorn is often one of my favorite sources. They don’t have a large catalog but they manage to pull in good finds from Australia, Canada, New Zealand and the UK. I already raced through ’19-2′, which is an entertaining series but a little uneven. Right now, I’m watching ‘Deep Water’ at the painfully slow pace of one new episode a week, and ‘Raised by Wolves’, restricting myself to one of those per night.

I’m on my last episode. I’m bracing for withdrawal. That series is just too short.

Over on Amazon Prime, I’m finishing up on the excellent ‘The Night Manager’. Based on a John Le Carre novel and staring Hugh Laurie, Tom Hiddleston and Olivia Coleman, it has a terrific supporting cast and is tremendously well written, acted, directed and plotted. High marks all around. I’ve already completed ‘Goliah’. I began ‘Fleabag’ but disliked and dismissed it after one episode. However, a dinner companion the other night told me to persevere because it gets better. We’d been comparing shows and books (I’ve convinced her to attempt Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan quartet again as she gave up reading ‘My Brilliant Friend’) so I’m inclined to trust her. She also recommended ‘Good Girls Revolt’. It’s been added to my Amazon list.

Viewing is pretty shallow on HBO Now. ‘Westworld’ is the main draw…. I watch ‘Tracy Ullmann’ or whatever it’s called and that has some enjoyable skits. Her talents still amaze me.

I returned to Hulu for a reduced price after a few months off of them. Sadly, there’s not much that I see as quality from this consortium of major corporations. I’ve watched ‘Casual’ but the characters remain too self-absorbed and shallow, with thin and slightly recurring issues for it to remain an interesting show. I’m watching ‘The Musketeers’ but it’s popcorn for dinner when you wanted lasagna. Someone recommended ‘Blind Spot’ the other night so I’ll give it a go. I’m a Jeffrey Donovan fan so I’ll also try his new offering when it arrives in December. I’ve also started ‘Aliens’ but it’s not holding my interest. We’ll see.

Netflix continues to pull something out of the bag for me. After ‘Orange is the New Black’, ‘Stranger Things’, ‘Grace and Frankie’, and ‘River’, they gave me the final season of ‘The Fall’. I’ve also enjoy ‘Luke Cage’ on there, and to a lessor extent, ‘Dark Matters’. The last perplexes me with its industrialized vision of future travel, where keyboards remain the rage. (Or is it an alternative universe?) ‘iZombie’ was finished as far as the episode list was concerned. It’s suffering some growing pains. ‘Longmire’ has been completed to date and we watch ‘The Crown’, but their offering of Queen Elizabeth II seems so diffident, weak and unsure that we’re taken aback. We also spend much time searching for information about how much of it was true and what’s being dramatized to provide better theater. Now I’m enjoying ‘Paranoid’ and ‘Doctor Foster’  although I find neither unqualified viewing success. ‘Paranoid’ disappoints me because it features so many actors I enjoy (like Leslie Sharp, who was terrific in ‘Happy Valley’) but I’m not overly fond of the characters, especially Nina, who I consider too flaky. Her flakiness is inconsistent and I detest character inconsistency. It’s one thing if they develop as inconsistent and are known to be so but this seems to be used a device to pad the episodes and provide extra tension, basically weak and lazy writing.

And that’s where I stand, on the precipice of a viewing gap. That’s not bad, if that’s the worse matter happening in my personal life, and it is. Besides that, several interesting movies are now out (I’m thinking of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ and ‘Arrival’) to go see, and I have several stacks of novels to read.

But if you happen to have something else worth watching, please, please…share.

 

 

 

 

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Today’s Theme Music

I haven’t been out to sample the holiday shopping crowds. Shopping and crowds are anathema to my sense of peace and social tolerance toward others. My small town yesterday demonstrated again and again how people change during this season. A flip was switched. Cashiers seemed to already be eyeing customers as threats to their patience. The rules for driving seemed to be eroding. My impression of their thinking evolved from their actions.

“One way? No problem, I’m just going a short distance, and I need that parking space. I’m in a hurry!”

“Two lanes? They can move over. There’s plenty of room for them to go around me. I’m special.”

“Stop signs – I rolled through. Close enough.”

“Turn signals? I’m barely aware of where I’m going, and you want me to think of turn signals?”

“Hurry, hurry, let’s get home, quickly, quickly, faster, faster. Get on his tail. That’ll make him go faster.”

This is what was happening in our small, mellow town. Holidays and precipitation seem to unhinge people’s thinking. I don’t know what was going on in one woman’s head as she drove down the twenty-five mile an hour residential street at what I guessed was thirty-five to forty, her head down and her phone up, texting away.

I think this song is the theme for many. I hope it’s not harrying your mind. Here’s Al Hirt on the trumpet solo and Rimsky-Korsakov’s ‘Flight of the Bumblebee”, as used for the theme music for the television show, ‘The Green Hornet’.

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