Tuesday’s Theme Music
Cheers.
Let’s turn this thing around. Get vaccinated. Wear a mask as needed. Test negative. Stay positive. Here’s the music.
That triggered the 1982 song, “Digging Your Scene”. Fateful words. When I answered, I knew who it was — recognized the number, yeah? — and said, “I just got your message.” Courtesy of a telephone call. Have the Blow Monkeys invading my mind this morning.
Temperatures are again expected in the upper nineties, maybe low 100s F. Air quality is moderate right now (76). (Remember that song?) Wildfire smoke is blowing in from the south, turning the sun into a red rubber ball. Sunset will be at 8:28 PM. Sunrise was at 6:06 AM. It’s already August 3, 2021. Today is Twisted Tuesday. Good morning.
Floofposter
Floofposter (floofinition) – Someone who writes or shares information about animals on the web.
In use: “With all the dispiriting news about pandemics, wars, fires, flooding, hurricanes, droughts, and politics, many people are drawn to floofposter sits where information is shared about animals demonstrating love and intelligence across the lines of species.”
Another Flash Dream
Recent dreams — or memories of them (probably more likely) — have taken on a flash story aspect. They’re short. Concise.
I dreamed of football again. American football, playing it. My team was a ragtag group of friend. Male and female. We had no uniforms. The rules were a little weirder, too. Our playing field was a funnel about ten feet wide.
The dream initiated me to the middle of the action. I’d been put into the lineup. Others doubted me and my role. Why me and not others? I heard their doubt. Shared it myself. I resolved to impress everyone. Show them wrong.
My team was down. Time was running out. Rain was falling. Desperation hung over us. We needed a first down. The ball was thrown to me. I caught it and ran down the field. Got almost to the goal line before I was brought down. Everyone responded, “That was Seidel?” Yes, it was me.
We huddled. I put forward an idea for one of the women to carry the ball. The rest of us would block. Straightforward power run. That idea was rejected. Something else installed. The results was a shambles. I made my pitch again. I was more forceful. This time, others agreed.
We ran the play. She was not going to score. I ran back and pushed her forward, gathering others to help me. We scored as time expired.
Did we win? We thoughts so. The larger question was, were we advancing to the playoffs? Other games remained in progress. Rain fell harder. We stood as a team, awaiting word. We were told, our record was either oh and three — no wins and three losses — or three and three — or six and three. We didn’t understand. It depended on others, we were told. Wait.
Dream end.
Monday’s Theme Music
“Monday, Monday.” Some of us from a certain era will go on auto, bringing up the Mamas & Papas song. Or maybe it’s just me.
Today is Monday, the first of its kind in August, dubbed August 2, 2021. Our heatwave continues as our daylight hours decline. Sunrise in Ashland was 6:05 AM. Sunset will come at 8:29 PM. We’re again expecting our high temperatures to nip into the upper nineties/low 100s. Red flag alerts for fire dangers continue.
In COVID-19 matters, many of us are quietly preparing for another lockdown. Have some safe quiet gatherings. Stock up the frig, freezer, and pantry. Numbers are climbing. Vaccinations have stalled. ICUs are filling.
Enjoying the early morning light and wind, a 2012 song by the Swedish House Mafia began looping through my thinking.
Upon a hill across a blue lake,
That’s where I had my first heartbreak.
I still remember how it all changed.
My father said,
“Don’t you worry, don’t you worry, child.
See heaven’s got a plan for you.
Don’t you worry, don’t you worry now.”
h/t to AZLyrics.com
Of course, I am a perpetual worrier. No plan is ever perfect. Execution brings out more flaws. Others don’t share agendas, visions, and dreams. Clashes arise. Accidents happen. Nature interferes via disasters and disease. Stupidity, ignorance, and obstinance — sometimes by me, frequently by others — in my view, but this is my post — creates greater difficulty.
But I’m also an optimist. A believer in the long game. The arc’s inevitable bend.
Stay positive. Test negative. Wear a mask as needed. Get the vax. Here be the music. Cheers
Sunday Setting
- The kale started growing again. We’d grown and harvested it. Well, my wife, really. I helped buy supplies. Provided extra hands as needed. The kale took off initially, then wilted under a combined attack – heat, insects, sun. Wife battled on, then clipped it back. Per her orders, I moved its planter off the patio. I put them in the bush’s shade. Matter of convenience. Surprise: the kale is back. Hasn’t been watered since harvest two plus weeks ago, so she began watering it. It seems to like that shady spot.
- Tomatoes are doing well. Great to go out and pluck tomatoes as required. Ditto, the squash. Romaine is all gone, though. Sad face.
- Did some wardrobe culling. My wife’s simplify switch suddenly turned on. Ergo, I am expected to participate. Out went five bags of clothing between her and me. Two bags of books. Book sellers aren’t buying. Those like Powell’s who buy wouldn’t accept these books. The books are too worn. A bag of shoes. Old blender.
- Culling is a serious matter. Embarrassing, too. How much do I need? Well, I’m sixty-five. Things have been acquired for different eras and their needs. Much of it is from my suit and marketing days. Yes, wore suits. Did trade shows. Visited customer sites. Also required for when I returned to company headquarters. That was my U.S. Surgical Days. I worked in California. Headquarters was in Connecticut. Tyco acquired us. Talk about a crazy time. Yeah, time to get rid of those shirts. The ties were already gone. I left Tyco in 1999. Still did marketing work after that for a period for another startup involved with coping with peripheral and coronary chronic total occlusions. It was going under so I went on to Network ICE in 2000, where suits were no longer required.
- Also departing my wardrobe were my jockstraps, sweat bands, and racquetball gloves. Haven’t played in two decades. There it all was, buried at the drawer’s bottom, waiting for daylight.
- Purged underwear, too. I had enough underwear, I found, to go without washing them for fifty days. Why so many? Well, a large number was undies which no longer fit. Good-bye, I told them. Blew them a kiss. Now I have enough for twenty days. Don’t judge me. I judge myself enough for all of us.
- Ten belts were surrendered. All leather. Browns, tans, blacks, burgundy. Tested first. I could see where I wore them. What holes were utilized. Usually the third or fourth. The test today was that the belt must reach at least the second hole. The results amazed me. I generally couldn’t get the tip to the buckle. I had no idea that leather would shrink so much. Only four belts now remain. Black, brown, fancy, and plain.
- Catching up on the wildfire news in the U.S. west. Bootleg Fire still burns. Sixty percent contained. 420,000 acres. Drought is spreading. Deepening. Lightning strikes are causing more fires. I turn to other world news. Move beyond the Olympics. Past the spiking — again — COVID-19 numbers. Past the tales of regretful vaccine hesitant folks who are woke after suffering themselves or losing someone close. On to Europe, where Italy, Greece, and Turkey are evacuating tourists due to wildfires. It’s a hot, hot, hot world, and it’s getting hotter.
- Absorbing how much floofitude is on exhibit by a cat’s encounter with a spider or cob web. We have loads of them. Webs, that is, not cats. Just have three cats. Probably have so many webs because we have a strict no-kill spider policy. It’s an unending chore cleaning webs out of corners and from ceilings, walls, patio, porch, and garage. Spiders love throwing up webs. I opened the living room patio door this morning. Stepped out. Breathed in. Considered the browning landscape. Then turned to return inside. Walked straight into a web. Some spider must have seen the door open and hurried a dragline across there.
- The cats have different reactions to webs. Papi, aka Youngblood, the Ginger Blade, and Meep, is the youngest and most graceful. When he encounters a web, he immediately backs away and goes around it. Boo, our large-size bedroom panther with the small velvet paws, hurries through the web while shaking his head. Tucker, the big black and white alpha cat, stops, shakes his head, washes, and then shoulders on. I’ve witnessed this several times over the months — seriously, the number of webs and how quickly they emerge staggers me — spiders are productive little critters — and I’m certain about my assessment on the cats’ behavior.
- Writing has been entertaining. Yes, that’s the term I’ll employ. Absorbing will work as well. I’ve gone surprising places with the story. Then pause as I think, oh, WTF, and ponder the direction. I keep telling myself, just get out of your own way, fool. Don’t overthink anything. Just write. That works. Just need to hurdle myself. An interesting noir style has emerged. So I have a science fiction mystery thriller noir going.
- Got my coffee. The day’s second cup. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. Then I’ll go clean off spider webs. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 