Month: January 2017

The Portal

The portal was opened too much

admitting too many sights and sounds

distracting and drawing

thoughts and energy

from where they were proposed to be.

So he narrowed his focus.

But it remained too wide

permitting in conversations and laughter

and news and sounds

of cars and trucks

and people and animals

distracting and drawing

his attention

from it was supposed to be.

So he narrowed his focus.

Then all he could see were his words

all he could hear were his sounds

all that troubled him were his thoughts

and all there seemed to be

was his voice

and his typing

as his fingers skated and checked across the keyboard.

This seemed just right.

0

The Fitbit Effect

“You’ve won your penguin award,” the email said, or something like that. “You’ve walked seventy miles already! That’s the same distance the emperor penguin walks each year,” or something.

It was an email from Fitbit. Cool, seventy miles, I thought, in two weeks. Not great, but I’ll take it. Besides those emails with odd ‘awards’ and progress announcements, the Fitbit has had some interesting influences.

My wife and I each have a Fitbit and wear them continuously, except to recharge. Recharging is required about every five days. It takes one to two hours, but damn it, I was chuffed: that is one to two hours where my activity isn’t being counted. I’M BEING CHEATED.

We’ve taken to jogging around the house, ensuring the right arm, where we wear the Fitbit, swings forward and back. We often jog in place as we’re doing things. “Hey, did you read the news?” she asked, jogging in place. “No,” I answered, jogging toward her and then jogging in place as we chatted. “What news?”

We’re both right-handed so we’ve both figured out how to do things with our left hand instead of our right hand, and continue jogging in place. Making coffee and popcorn, cooking in general, getting the mail, the newspaper, emptying the trash and recycle…brushing our teeth. I’ve drawn the line at shaving my face and drinking liquids.

Everything is taken as an opportunity to add steps. Where we used to empty the car in one or two loads after shopping, to minimize the number of trips, we now carry less so we can maximize the required trips.

It’s insane. 

It also seems a little addictive.

I’ve entered into competition with myself – I did fourteen thousand steps yesterday – go for fifteen thousand today! – along with a spousal competition. “How many steps have you done today?” my wife asked this morning, after returning from her Y work-out.

I’d been expecting this. “I’m at four thousand.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m at forty-one hundred.”

We both started running.

4

Her Mission

He was young, maybe, I don’t know, sixteen or seventeen, using limited impressions: long light brown hair, no split ends, clear and firm white flesh, a slender jean-encased body with a hoodie.

She was black and young looking, on a leash. Racing along with her long ears flying and flapping, she was pulling him down the street. Riding a skateboard, he hung onto her leash with one hand and clutched an acoustic guitar in his other hand. “Wait, Rachel, wait,” he called.

Pink tongue exposed, she slowed and glanced back in a questioning canine grin. When he said no more, she turned her head back and accelerated her young, muscular body, intent on her mission, regardless of what he wanted.

0

Unusual Dream

I dream a lot. I remember a lot of dreams. My dreams tend toward consistent themes, symbols, objects and settings. That makes them comfortable and helpful. So this dream, last night, was different.

One, I wasn’t in it.

Two, it was about aliens.

I don’t dream usually dream about aliens. Perhaps I have and I don’t remember it now. Maybe I will with more thought.

The dream was odd in its structure, too. My voice was in the dream but I wasn’t ever seen. No people were seen. No creatures were seen.

Short, the dream opened with a screen. It felt tense. On the screen was a black and white maze with thick black lines around fat white alleys. “What is this?” I can be heard to ask. Others can be heard asking the same question.

It’s material, I realize. This isn’t a maze; it’s a diagram of materials. “It’s the aliens,” I hear someone say.

“You’re right,” I answer, having an epiphany. “It’s the aliens. They’re going to show us how they’ll do it.”

The screen changed as I spoke. Some of the white maze alleys inflated and changed color, becoming aubergine. “They’re applying heat,” I said. “The materials are reacting to the heat. They want us to know what they’re going to do and how they do it.”

“Oh,” others said, agreeing and understanding.

The alien screen returned to its original configuration. The entire process was repeated.

“But why?” someone asked. “What are they showing us?”

Watching the maze, I realized, “That’s them. Part of the maze is them. Or they are part of the maze. Applying heat changes the structure. That isolates them. Then they’ll be able to safely mind meld with us.”

“Ahhh,” others said.

I was satisfied in the dream, whereupon I awoke, clueless about what it means. This is going to require a lot of reflection.

I may need more coffee.

0

Today’s Theme Music

This song, and the album it was on, blasted in on us in the summer of 1995.

I was stationed at Onizuka Air Station (a place also once called Sunnyvale Air Station and Onizuka Air Base), working as Director, QAF for the 750th Space Group. A young airman was working at his desk, radio on, as I walked by; this song was playing. I stopped down to listen, and then laughed and said, “Holy shit.” It was one of those songs that shocked me into instant memory. I listened for it on the radio as I was driving arrive the bay, and cranked it up whenever it came on.

The song starts out so gently, confessional and non-confrontational, but then it rises with unmasked, almost uncontrolled rage and contempt, a thematic approach repeated several times in the song. Listening, it feels like an emotional stream of consciousness that zigzags between confrontation, reconciliation and coping, someone trying to release their pain and bitterness even as they search for understanding.

This is Alanis Morissette with ‘You Oughta Know’ from ‘Jagged Little Pill’. 

0

Marching Saturday

Multiple, large marches are planned for Saturday, January 21st, 2017. These are women’s marches, to protect their rights against Trump’s encroachment. For some reason, they’re concerned about a man who likes grabbing them by their pussy while thinking nothing of he or anyone else doing anything like that.

I’ll be marching, too, to support women, as part of a local march in southern Oregon.

What can I say? I like women. Why, some of my best friends are women. I like them so much, I married one. I don’t want to see her, Mom, my sisters or any other woman grabbed by their pussy because some idiot thinks it’s okay. Grab him by the balls uninvited, and let us see how he reacts. Well, the first thing he’d do is react according to who’s grabbing them. If they’re not a ‘loser’ or aren’t ‘unattractive’, he’ll be all for it.

According to a recent poll, many Republican men think it’s better to be a woman than a man now, because women have more rights. Too bad we can’t have someone grab them by their pussy, or work the same hours for less pay, or get raped and told they must carry the child to term because of another’s religions, or get raped and beaten and told they were asking for it because they were drinking or how they were dressed. Bet they’d change their fucking minds in a New York minute, were they ever the victims. But their white maleness often saves them from being victims.

Now some may read this and think that I want Trump to fail. Ben Carson, the failed presidential candidate now up for HUD Secretary, is probably one of those people. Ben said last November that he wouldn’t accept a Trump cabinet position. ‘“The way I’m leaning is to work from the outside and not from the inside,” Carson said in an interview Tuesday with The Washington Post. “I want to have the freedom to work on many issues and not be pigeonholed into one particular area.”’ He said that he made that clear to Trump in several conversations. I guess it wasn’t very clear after all.

It’s amusing to me that Trump often states he ‘dislikes losers’, but someone like Ben Carson, who ran for office and failed to win, the very definition of a loser, is his buddy. Likewise, the young woman singing the national anthem for his inauguration did not finish first on ‘America’s Got Talent’, which, sadly, according to Trump, makes her a loser. That’s how it works, right?

But I don’t want Trump to ‘fail’ any more than I want the United States to ‘fail’. I want Trump’s racist, bigoted, sexist and hateful policies to fail. I want his efforts to drag our country and progress in the areas of social rights and justice back to the 1950s or earlier to fail. I want his efforts to make shitloads of money by being POTUS to fail. But I don’t want him to fail.

I want him to change. I want him to be enlightened. I want him to quit acting like a child throwing a tantrum on Twitter every time someone famous criticizes him. And yeah, views of what it means to be enlightened can be different. I’ll be willing to argue those facts, although it’s hard addressing facts with people who insist that facts don’t matter.

I don’t want Trump to fail but I’d rather that we didn’t put the oilman in charge of oil policy, especially one so in love with Russia, like Rex Tillerson. It’s odd to note that if U.S. oil production increases, oil prices will drop, unless, as it is likely, OPEC takes action to protect their income streams by reducing production. No matter; Trump and his incoming administration want to wean America off of oil imports, even though that trend has been going on for a number of years, which Rex Tillerson should know, right?

I don’t want Trump to fail but I question his understanding of modern manufacturing processes and economics. He must know, because he’s a successful businessman, a reputed billionaire. We can argue about those points, too. Trump has promised and then refused to divulge his ‘big, very beautiful’ tax returns so we don’t know if he’s actually a billionaire. We do know from public records that he’s made money by suing others, reneging on contracts and payments for work done, and declaring bankruptcies.

Trump believes he can save America by putting tariffs on anything imported into America and forcing companies to build factories in America. By this, then, America will become great again. He believes he can force Apple, for example, to build their iPhones in America instead of China. Perhaps he can (although experts think he can’t). See, that’s been addressed multiple times by multiple people but no matter; it’s new to Trump and his supporters. Trump hasn’t been leading by example in this matter by outsourcing his clothing manufacturing to other countries besides America. He says that it’s because that’s the way it is but that he didn’t want to; yet, as a billionaire, he lacked that clout and needs to be POTUS in order to have such clout?

Oddly, a Chinese woman ordered a gold-plated iPhone encrusted with diamonds and engraved with Trump’s face to give to him as a gift at the inauguration. Perhaps she’s being ironic.

Wonder if he’ll turn it down?

1

The Competition

I always interact with the Boulevard baristas. Intelligent, personable, charming, they seem to enjoy it as well. This isn’t limited to me; they interact with everyone. After all, they do get rewarded with tips. The interactions are about snippets from personal activities and lives but also about the drinks. They get serious about making the drinks, which serves me well, because I’m serious about drinking my coffee, especially my writing mochas.

As part of our daily rituals, I often admire their latte art. They typically fill my drink to the brim, forcing me to slurp some away before walking lest I spill some of it on the way back to the table, so I comment about its taste. They’ve come to wait for those comments, and some of them are competing to see who makes the best-tasting drink, and who has the best art.

I didn’t know how serious this had become until I made a comment to Meghan about three weeks ago. “I think your drink tastes the best,” I said, “but Lexi has the best art.”

Meghan responded, “I make your mocha different. I put the cocoa directly in the steamed milk at the bottom.” Chrissy stopped what she was doing and leaned in to listen. “And I add a lot of cocoa powder because I know how much you like it. I can make better art but I’m being lazy.”

That changed immediately. Her drinks started sporting more serious latte art – flowers, trees, and hearts. Lexi also heightened her efforts, along with Chrissy and Chelsea. Madi is still learning it, something we both acknowledge, and often covers her efforts up with extra cocoa powder (which I mind not at all). Sam, ironically an art student whose wonderful water colors are now on display in the coffee shop, is also still learning latte art. Allison, the owner, doesn’t try.

But Meghan raised her game the other day. After calling my drink out, she waited for me to pick it up. “Look at what I did. Do you see it?”

I looked into the cup and laughed; she’d spelled out my name above a daisy. “Wow,” I said. “You’ve upped your game.”

Eyes bright and smiling big, Meghan nodded. “I have upped my game. You have to tell Lexi that I upped my game. But don’t tell her how. I want her to have to ask me.”

To be continued, I think….

 

4

Resistance Bread

A fascinating part of the net for me is the opportunity it provides to meet people who I would otherwise never encounter. Many of these are fellow writers, intelligent and personable people who enjoy reading and writing. One of these is Barbara Froman.

Barb is the author of Shadows and Ghosts. She has come up with a recipe that she calls ‘Resistance Bread’. She posted it on Facebook. I liked it (because it sounds delicious for  cold day) and decided I’d share it here, so here is Barb’s FB post and recipe.

#Resistance Bread

I created this tea bread so that it would be food for strength and comfort—loaded with antioxidants, yet sufficiently sweet. Indeed, my husband says he can’t think of this as bread, as it seems more like dessert to him. I, on the other other hand, eat it for breakfast. The recipe is open to improvisation. If you try it, and experiment with your own additions/changes, please share!

Preheat oven to 350º

Liberally grease an 8″ x 4″ bread pan with cultured butter.

Mix:

1/4 cup packed dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons grapeseed oil or melted cultured butter
2 beaten eggs
1 grated apple
1/3-1/2 cup orange juice (pulp or no pulp, it doesn’t make a difference, just start with the smaller amount and add more if necessary)
1/4 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup dried cranberries or cherries (I mix the two when I have both on hand)
1/2 cup coarsely chopped walnuts.

To this mixture add:

1 cup minus two tablespoons any 1-to-1 gluten free flour mix
2 tablespoons coconut flour
(optional) 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
2 teaspoons baking powder

Blend well into liquid mixture. The batter should have substance, but not be stiff.

Pour into prepared pan and bake for @50 minutes. Test with toothpick to see if it’s done. Cool in pan on rack, then slice when still slightly warm and slather with chevre or your favorite nut butter.

Ready to #Resist?

1

Today’s Theme Music

Back in the early 1990s, I was stationed at Onizuka, just off Highway 101 in Sunnyvale. I worked with a guy who was dating a SF rock station DJ. Bush and Pearl Jam, among others, were playing in area clubs. The DJ was often involved locally in arranging these shows, so she would take him with him sometimes, enabling him the chance to meet the bands. I went a few times and ended up meeting the guys of STP, Pearl Jam and Bush. ‘Meet’ is a generous expression. It was more like they would generally nod at me (or stare) when my name was given. Sometimes one or two would chat with me, but the meet place was usually hot, crowded and barely lit, and they were getting ready to do a show. I was just trying to stay out of the way.

Here’s the twist: my friend was dating the DJ in secret. He spilled the news to me once while we were having a few beers. Why this was secret was never explained well. I didn’t care; it was their life. If they wanted to keep their dating secret, that was their biz.

Those three bands all were on the cusp of making it big when I met them; once they did, I never met them again, but I bought their albums and enjoyed their music. I ended up making a personal favorite CD for driving around and that CD included music from them, along with the Cranberries, Blind Melon, and a few others.

Bush’s ‘Comedown’ was the first song on the CD. I’ll always associate it with blasting down Interstate 280 in my RX-7 as it played. The weather was usually gorgeous, and it was a fine time for me to be alive, and the song’s lyrics fit: “I don’t want to come back down from this cloud. It’s taken me all this time to find out what I need.”

0

Mom’s Fault

It’s pouring rain. Soaked dark, my coat dribbled rivulets across the floor as I walked across the coffee shop.

“Did you walk?” the coffee shop owner asked. “I know you like to walk. I’ve seen you walking all over town.”

“No, I just walked a mile,” I answered. “I wanted to feel the rain and wind.”

“You like to walk, don’t you?” the owner said.

“Yes.”

Yes, I like to walk. It’s Mom’s fault. In my young life’s dawn, I’d want to go somewhere and requested Mom drive me. “You have two legs, you can walk,” she’d reply. Stories about her walking when she was a child followed. She walked to school miles in both direction, no matter what the weather was, digging trails and tunnels through the Iowa snowstorms, if necessary, fording rivers and forging trails, dodging wild animals while picking berries or nuts on the way home to use in baking, and stopping to milk the cows. If she walked in those conditions, I could walk.

I might have exaggerated about what she claimed to do.

So I walked. I walked everywhere. I didn’t have a car in high school for several years, so I walked the miles home from school after sports activities and play practices. I walked to my girlfriend’s house, miles more, and back again. Sometimes I was given rides. Sometimes, people attempted to molest me.

Once in the military, my wife and I didn’t have much income, so we walked. Over in the Philippines on duty, I didn’t have a car and had plenty of time, so I walked around the base and the town. In Germany, walking was organized into Volksmarching and celebrated with drink and food. Terrific!

By the time I began writing, walking was ingrained as part of my thinking process. I was pleased to discover that studies validated my impressions about walking. Walking ten minutes a day made most people happy besides providing exercise. Walking also enhances the creative process for most.

I was sure of that latter. Deciding I needed to put myself and my goals and dreams first, I started taking an hour out of the work day to write. Bosses, co-workers and team mates didn’t care as long as I did my share. As part of that, I observed that walking helped me shift from work Michael to writing Michael. As I walked to write, I would ask the eternal writing questions, “Where the hell am I? Where does the story go next? What do I need to write next? What did I write yesterday?” Asking these questions and thinking about it prepped me to sit down, ready to type.

Likewise, after leaving, I’d often continue working out characters, scenes and plots as I walked back to work. Then, walking to write the next day, I would recall the previous day and resume writing with little effort.

I was surprised that studies didn’t demonstrate a link to improved focused thinking, as well, and problem solving. Perhaps I’d trained myself to solve problems by walking, but I always felt leaving work for a short work, changing the scenery and releasing my brain from the work environment, was hugely instrumental in being able to see answers and develop solutions. Perhaps, though, that was still the creative brainstorming that writing seems to encourage.

My walking continued once I started working from home. I walked to take breaks and enjoy fresh air and sunshine. Then, walking to the coffee shop to write, I walked to reduce my carbon footprint and help save money and the environment.

Now, I have the Fitbit to encourage me to walk. If I haven’t walked in an hour, it buzzes me to get up and walk. So I leave the coffee shop and hustle down the steps and around the block and back. That’s enormously reduced my writer’s ass, which is when your ass goes to sleep after being almost stationary while typing or writing at a desk or table. When I’m at home, my wife and I jump up and start running around. Sometimes, we chase the cats, but they’re not into it, so we don’t do that much.

But, like many things I do and enjoy, my walking started with Mom.

4

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑