Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
First was a non-related prelude.
I was with my wife at home. We had a large ginger tabby. He was grooming himself. I thought I saw a flea on his back. I attempted to pluck the flea out, but it moved away. The cat became agitated. After I calmed him, I attempted to get the flea again. Spreading his fur, I saw three fleas. I realized his issue was more pressing than thought, and went to get some tick and flea control. That segment ended.
What I remember of the main dream is pausing from other activities to kill time by playing a card game. I don’t remember anything of the game. Me, my wife, and a friend were playing.
The friend was teaching us the game. In real life, he’s a retired spokesman for Oregon Department of Forestry, dealing with wildfires. He’s a big guy, bearded, with a deep, booming voice, memorable in the dream.
We played the game, and he won the first hand by using all of us cards. He was then dealt cards from the remaining pile. When no cards remained, he played the last of his cards and won the game. He then explained, “Normally, when one person wins by going out, the other people pay them a dollar a card for each card in their hand. What do you guys want to do?” He was smiling as he spoke, and said, “I’m alright if you guys don’t want to do that.”
I only had a few cards but my wife was carrying twenty cards. My personal (dream) opinion was that we shouldn’t play by that rule, not because we were new to the game, or that she had so many cards, but because there were only three of us playing.
That’s where the dream ended.
Today, I applaud St. Seata.
Like St. Asphalta, St. Seata was originally a human who became a saint who attained a godlike presence by fulfilling others’ needs as expressed through prayer. St. Asphalta was all about cars, transportation, and traffic; you appeal to St. Seata for sitting issues. Sometimes, in mass transportation, such as trains and commercial airlines, St. Seata and St. Asphalta work together to address people’s prayers.
St. Seata’s origins stretch back into the caves of antiquity and are known through ancient cave paintings discovered in Europe. One of the first human cave dwellers, others often came to St. Seata’s cave and asked, “Hey, can you fit one more in there?” St. Seata always found a way to oblige.
As with many of the ancients, St. Seata fell out of favor for a period as organized religions and wealth dominated the seating scene. He eventually made a comeback via as major disasters like the great fires of London and Chicago, or wildfires, typhoons, hurricanes, and earthquakes that took down populated areas. As space and safety became scarce, people found themselves appealing to find a place to sit.
Entertainment has fortified St. Seata’s presence. People looking for tickets to events such as soccer and football games, the Olympics, music concerts like the Beatles, etc., draw him forward to help them with their pleas for seats, too. St. Seata tries to help them all.
My prayer to St. Seata was for a much less dire situation. Sunday morning, and I was late to the coffee shop. Spotting the full parking, I worried about getting a seat where I could sit with my coffee, plug in the ‘puter, and do my writing thang.
St. Seata obliged with my second favorite space. Thank you, St. Seata.
Floofboozle (floofinition) – The act of cheating one animal by another animal.
In use: “The treats were set on the ground in front of each canine. The three were arrayed with the smallest dog, a terrier, in the middle of the two big retrievers. When the signal was given, the terrier raced forward, grabbed all three treats in his mouth, and hurried off, floofboozling the others of their goodies.”
Related: Bamfloofzle
“Sunday morning, rain is falling.”
Well, it had been falling. It’s stopped but clouds shroud the mountains and teases the sun with promises of more light rain.
That’s part of what brought Maroon 5’s song, “Sunday Morning”, to me. I never think of this as a Maroon 5 song. The mellow, mildly jazz tune reminds me not of all of them, but more like something out of Stevie Wonder’s catalog. But, here we are.
Michael Seidel, writer 