Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
An old favorite, Steve Winwood wrote this song. Blind Faith with Winwood on vocals, recorded and released the song in 1969. Others covered it multiple times. I like this live version from Guitar Crossroads, with Steve Winwood, Eric Clapton, Derek Trucks and Doyle Bramhill.
It’s a good walking song, and easy to sing in your head. Enjoy.
I dreamed of a swarthy man with drooping dark eyes.
Coal black hair was parted down the middle and cinched into a pony-tail. A trim black beard underlined his lean face. He was well dressed in a clean, modern style, with collared, starched Oxford shirt open at the neck and a simple, unbuttoned vest. He also wore a Bluetooth and was using it to converse with his staff.
He and I met in a cool, softly lit room. Without further prelude, I found him asking me what I wanted. Without being aware that I’d told him, he told his staff what I wanted, and I corrected him. As this was going on, he held out a pale green dinner plate. The plate was plain. On it was a small white piece of paper folded in half.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Your choices,” he replied, then spoke to his people via the Bluetooth.
I picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was blank. I asked, “Is this a joke?”
“No. Words would limit you. Everything is your option.”
A short, white woman wearing a bright red dress entered. She glanced at me and then focused on the black-haired man. “She seeks help, too,” he said.
He began speaking to her. Turning away, I saw several white pub tables set up around the room. Gold coins and red rose petals were strewn and mounded on the tables.
“Help yourself,” the man said.
A white canvas bag was in my hand. I slide some gold and petals into the bag. He urged me to take more. I declined, adding, “I want to leave some for others.” Yet, I saw that whatever I had taken was already being replenished. Like mounds were appearing on other tables. People were entering and filling their backs.
The black-haired man shook his head. “There’s enough for others. There are no limits. It’s infinite.”
Taking my bag, I drifted out of the room and told myself, “I need to remember this.”
Someone unseen replied, “You will.”
Time for some pseudo-scientific bullshit. There’s your preamble.
All substance, no matter its state, has chi-particles.
Chi-p have imaginary mass and energy and travel faster than light. As they slow, they gain real mass and energy. Slowing chi-p begin aggregating and develop into the ‘strings’ of string theory, M-theory, etc.
Chi-particles ignite ‘life’ and inspire consciousness. Multiple types of chi-p exist. The chi-p embedded in the majority of Humans is one type of chi-p; other types of animate organic matter have different chi-p embedded. There are still other types of chi-p for ‘inanimate’ matter, energy, and dark matter.
The chi-mind is the confluence of chi-receivers, -processors and -transmitters within entities. In some inanimate matter, like granite, these are hive minds. Each chi-mind is depended on the other chi-minds for full appreciation of the fabric of awareness the chi-p convergence creates.
The question that arises to me about the chi-mind is, what is its structure of existence? Why, it’s chi-matter, of course, with imaginary mass and structure. LOL.
Animated, organic entities have a more sophisticated chi-mind structure. While the chi-mind works below the subconscious and conscious levels, the chi-minds interact to establish a shared sense of time and reality that’s often lacking in the inanimate chi-mind. Humans (along with the other intelligent, civilized life-forms, such as the Travail, Sabard and Monad) have a more developed chi-mind than other creatures. As the chi-mind and SoNS develop sympathy through increased and prolonged interaction, abilities to grasp chi-p takes root among some individuals. But, their ability to cope with their chi-mind perceptions are often taken as symptoms of insanity or developmental issues.
There are natural reasons for that interpretation of those people. They’re seeing, hearing and experiencing things that others can’t. Some of it frightens or excites the people interacting with the chi-p, which frighten those around them. Sometimes, they’re so entangled with the chi-mind perceptions that they act out. They believe they’re in another time or reality.
Brett is blessed (cursed?) with a chi-p isotope. It exhibits different properties and mutates others’ chi-p, bastardizing how their chi-mind interprets reality and time. This impacts how memory is affected. Under chi-string theory, only ‘now’ exists as a commonly agreed construct predicated on synchronized chi-mind perceptions, transmissions and receptions. Un-synchronized chi-mind activity can create conflicting impressions and understanding of reality, affecting all underpinnings, actions, perceptions and behavior related to these conflicts.
Whew. Needed that.
I find that I need to write to think sometimes outside of the novel’s construction to understand what I’m conceiving, elaborate and clarify, and shift the thoughts from being abstract concepts into more specific terms. Going to the blog versus a word document seems to engage and promote a thinking shift for me.
Yes; I see and understand that now. Writing in a more public forum requires me to focus more intelligently on what words I use to explain what I’m thinking. It inspires focus and concentration. Then I’m left with deciding, leave it as a draft or post it.
I needed to do this now for this novel because the characters and their disparate story lines are beginning to weave together. I needed to better understand my high-concept’s tangible impact on their situations and actions.
After writing something like this, I sit and drum my fingers in debate for a few minutes about what to do with it. Most often, I leave these as drafts, or copy them and add them to a Word doc called Blog Drafts because they are rough thoughts. Even though I write to understand, and that’s been accomplished, I can’t delete them or not save them. They must be saved so I can return to them, to mitigate forgetting what I conceived, thought and developed. After all, they’re thinking aids.
At the bottom of this are my fears. I worry about being exposed as an idiot. As often done, I’ll flip a coin.
Heads, I publish.
My wife was reading lists of romantic movies yesterday, and disparaging the lists. After reading them to me, she asked me what romantic movies I would recommend. We like these games.
Four movies came to mind after brief thought:
After realizing I’d given four, I decided I needed a fifth. “And of course, one of my favorite movies, ‘Blade Runner’.”
Pausing, she looked up in thought, and then smiled and nodded.
Pulling one out of the memory cloud, I came up with a classic. ‘Black Magic Woman’ was written by Peter Green and performed by Fleetwood Mac.
I did not much care for that song and rarely heard it.
Two years later, Carlos Santana put it on ‘Abraxas’. I think that’s the one most people know. Most people think Santana wrote ‘Black Magic Woman’, and are unaware of Fleetwood Mac’s version. I’m speaking of the people I know in America. Other peoples in other countries, or or other ages and persuasions, may know differently.
The differences, IMO, is that Green came up with the lyrics but he and his band couldn’t provide it with the musical structure needed. Carlos, on the other hand, with his powerful licks set against that soft, mysterious organ, a steady bass that sings the lyrics at times, a Latin beat, and Gregg Rolie’s vocals, seems like a much more fully realized vision.
I reached my car yesterday after walking a few miles. As I settled in and started the vehicle, I spied a truck dart through the light traffic from the right lane to the left and then to the curb. What the hell is going on there, I wondered. It had been abrupt and erratic.
There wasn’t any traffic. I pulled my vehicle out and kept a watch on the other vehicle. The vehicle was parked illegally. I wondered if they were having car trouble. Maybe they were taking a call. Perhaps the driver and a passenger had started arguing. Maybe…well, I write fiction. I can get pretty creative with a scene with a few seconds of speculation.
A woman got out of the passenger side. Something was in her hand. She walked back the way the car had come. I watched for understanding. She went to the bus stop. I was closer and could see better.
It all clicked. A person was asleep on a bench in the bus shelter. The woman was carrying a plastic clam-shell container of food. She put it carefully on the cement beside the sleeping person and walked away.
As I passed, I remarked to myself how wonderful and thoughtful some people can be of others. Of all the things I imagined happening, what I’d witnessed wasn’t one of them.
With that, it’s time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
The question rattling around during my walk was, “Do you need to understand love to understand hate?”
It was strictly a writing question but properly prompted by St. Valentine’s Day posts. I’d reach my own satisfying answer but desired another’s input.
Shannon was the barista working at the coffee shop. A bubbling avowed Christian, her dress today startled me, partially because she wore a crown of roses in her hair. “Hello, flower girl,” I greeted her.
Shannon bubbled as she does. “I love Valentine’s Day. It’s my favorite holiday.”
“You like all holidays, don’t you? I know you love Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day. I love love. I don’t have a boyfriend so I bought flowers and gifts for my room mates to celebrate.”
“So…do you need to understand hate in order to understand love?”
Shannon considered the question. “I grew up in a very loving, Christian family. I didn’t really encounter hate until I was a little older. Then…it helped me…appreciate love more. I don’t think you need to understand hate to understand love but encountering hate makes you appreciate love more.”
I thanked her, understanding her take. It’s like loving life more and appreciating it more after near-death experiences or personal losses, or being thankful for what you have after having nothing or almost nothing.
Not all will react the same, of course. I know some people who avow they’re thankful for what they have because they had nothing. But they’re so angry and bitter that they once had nothing, that in many ways, they strike me as still having nothing, because they can’t let go of how they once lived.
There’s always the one hand, and the other, on how these things can affect us. That’s what I go through with my characters, thinking through and feeling their reactions in response to their past and present, understanding where they’re at and why, and then telling their story.
Note: my conversation with Shannon is presented in abridged form here. She spoke, and I listened. I hope I correctly portrayed her point.
Sometimes my muse reminds me of the classic Looney Tunes cartoon, ‘The Singing Frog’. In that cartoon, the singing and dancing frog amazes the man who finds him while a building is being torn down. He sees riches. But when the finder attempts to show the frog’s talents to others, the frog is just a frog.
Sometimes my muse is amazing; but other times, it’s as inspiring as a croaking frog.
Did anyone else feel that last night? Felt like a giant rubber band had been stretched to its limit. Now, snap, it was released. A shift took place.
Perhaps it’s only a personal shift. I awoke this morning feeling fantastic, like I’m twenty years younger. I slept well and experienced deep and clear, OMG amazing dreams. Feels different for me today, though. I hope others encounter this feeling of change, too. It’s a fine elixir and an awesome way to start a day. Yes, even better than coffee.
In honor of the changes I feel, I searched the mental cloud for a song that felt right and pulled on out of the file marked ‘Feb, 1996’. One of the hot groups then was Smashing Pumpkins. This song of theirs, about Billy Corgan’s coming of age when he was twelve, feels about right. It was a different sound for the Pumpkins; I like it.
Here is ‘1979’.
Nice weather always steers me toward washing, waxing and polishing the cars when time becomes available. We only have one car wash in town. Reliable and pleasant ten years ago, it’s a wreck of a business today. Three of the five stalls don’t work. The other two have issues. It’s often a dice roll as to what’ll happen.
I tried washing the car first on Saturday afternoon. Six other drivers were pursuing the same idea so I went back Sunday. Both stalls were in use. After studying their activities to see which might end first, I chose stall one and pulled up to wait.
A woman was cleaning a Subaru in stall one. A beater, I thought, noting the tells of its narrowness, narrow, small wheels and tires, and elderly design. A beater is a car that’s usually old. Typically missing its wheel covers, as this one was, the car runs sufficiently for local errands but isn’t to be trusted going too far or too fast. It usually has mechanical idiosyncrasies, windows that no longer align, or doors that don’t open and close correctly. Sometimes they’re missing knobs and things like the cigarette lighter. Based on memories of friends’ vehicles, I reckoned her Subaru was a mid-1990s model. She was cleaning out its back with some household cleaner and a rag.
“This is against the roles,” my resident citizen huffed within. “You’re not allowed to use rags to wash the car at this facility.” My indignity climbed. “She doesn’t even have money in the machine!”
Well.
My interior philosopher roused himself. “Relax.”
“Relax?” How dare he suggest that I relax. Rules were being broken. Why, without rules –
“What tangible impact do her actions have on you? You’re going to wait a little longer, that’s all that I know. Do you have somewhere you’re rushing to be? No. Show patience and tolerance.”
Well. His reminder miffed me. Mind you, he was right, but still. It’s the thought, right? She’s breaking the rules. And being intolerant and inconsiderate, right? If she’s breaking these rules, what other rules does she break?
“As if you don’t break rules,” the philosopher said. “Distract yourself. Kill time. Play with your stereo.”
I did as he suggested. After a few minutes, I glanced up. She was spraying her car now, actually washing it.
Well.
Another car had arrived. I glanced at the other stall to see how far they’d advanced. Walls obscured my view. I didn’t know how close they were to ending. They were using the wand again, versus the brush.
Well.
I resumed fiddling with the stereo. Her car’s engine noise drew my attention. She pulled up to the end of the stall.
What the hell?
What was she doing?
She continued cleaning but obviously not with the spray.
Was she finished?
I pulled into the stall. Exiting my car, I called, “Are you done in the stall?”
“Yes. I need to do more but I ran out of quarters.”
The facility has a change machine. I always bring sufficient quarters because the change machine is often broken. I collect them for this purpose. How anal am I? “I have quarters, if you need them,” I said.
She laughed. “No, I think it needs more than quarters. It’s an old beater. My last kid has left the nest. I don’t need a beater any more, so I’m cleaning it to sell it. You know, first impressions.” She laughed again.
“I see.” She was right. The car needed more than a car wash. Wax, polish…paint…rust remover….
“I’m hoping someone else will buy it,” she said.
Well, of course it would need to be someone else, I thought with irritation.
She continued, “Somebody must need a beater.”
I nodded. “Yes. Everyone should own a beater at least once in their life.”
Washing my car, I thought of my beater. That horrible brown Oldsmobile was at the top of the list. What a mess it was but my wife and I were both working, and had needed a second car. Other beaters? None came to mind. The cars I owned in Germany, an Audi, BMW and Merc, were over twenty years old by the time I gained title to them but all were robust and well-maintained vehicles. My wife fondly remembers the BMW 2002 as one of the best cars we ever owned. The newest of the trio was the 1980 Audi 100. It was the one that failed us, throwing a rod while blazing down the Autobahn. Likewise, the Toyotas we owned in Okinawa were more than ten years old but mechanically and cosmetically fine. I didn’t consider them beaters. I trusted all of them. Of course, Okinawa was an island. We couldn’t drive far without running into ocean.
The woman finished. “Have a good day,” she called, getting into her car.
I nodded. “Good luck selling your car.”
She laughed. “Thanks.”
I watched her drive away. The car looked okay.
I hoped she sold it. Somebody probably needed a beater.
Michael Seidel, writer 