Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A group of us — all men of various ages, builds, condition, etc. — were gathered. A tense but excited current ran through us. We were being given an opportunity to race a Formula 1 car. These were not the current cars but vintage vehicles from the eighties. All of us could attempt to qualify but only twenty-three could race. My father was encouraging me to participate. I asked if he was, too, and he said, “No. Too old,” with a laugh.
I was in my early twenties and eager for the opportunity. An overcast sky murmured, it might rain, and a cool breeze kept us shivering. The track could barely be described as one. A run-down, overgrown place, we would-be racers walked about, attempting to clean off the track a bit, kicking off gravel, twigs, and leaves, removing old, rain-sodden black branches. Several drivers seemed much larger than me. Most were older. We chatted in knots as we impatiently awaited our chance. I was more knowledgeable about F1 than others there so I asked more questions and pondered things. One older, larger care took note and started asking me for advice to help him. Each time he asked a question, I asked, making a suggestion. When he thought the suggestion didn’t help, he wanted to take it out on me. I told him, “Look, I made the suggestions but you made the decisions. Own your decisions.” That seemed to take him back.
Meanwhile, I was becoming annoyed with the organizers. I understood that we were to be given cars randomly. Okay. Then we would practice, qualify, and if we were fast enough, we’d race. Okay. But the organizers were also issuing us old racing coveralls to wear, and helmets. Shouldn’t we have a chance to pick those out ahead of time and get used to them some? Why not? In my mind, the uniforms could be important because they could be too tight and hamper our movement, you know, like shifting gears and turning the steering wheel.
I was mentioning these things to other participants. None of them could answer it, of course, so I went in search of the organizers. The dream ended.
Today is Friday, August 27, 2021. Had some issues figuring out the day yesterday. Thought it was Wednesday. Had a Wednesday vibe. My wife’s comments abetted the Wednesday vibe. But it cleared up. I’m flying right now. Because, you know, it’s important what day of the week it is…isn’t it? Well, that’s how I was raised. Chores, school, vacations, holidays, work, it’s all built on the calendar.
Sunrise was at 6:31 AM. Sunset will come at 7:53 PM. Temperatures will range into the low 80s F today. They claim that our air quality is good today – first time it’s hit that mark in weeks – but the looks and smell don’t align with a good reading. I kept the kitties in and the doors and windows closed.
I’ve been thinking about the 1900s today. Started with wars. Progressed to a pandemic. Then the dust bowl struck. Obliterated millions of acres and displaced families. Thinking of all of that due to comparisons with now. The 2000s. Started with war. Then COVID-19 struck. Half of the western U.S. is suffering drought and fire. (Might be a little hyperbole there.) Thousands are being displaced.
Also been thinking about the Rolling Stones. Of course. Watts, their drummer, passed away. Long life. I think he would say he had a good one. Better than many, for sure. His passing has prompted me to listen to Stones music. A universe of Stone songs are out there. I’ve used many favorites as theme music already. What to do? How ’bout “Living in A Ghost Town” from last year. Fits the general mood. Smoke casts a ghostly pall over my world. COVID-19 lockdowns and smoke slash unhealthy air forces cancellations. Businesses are closed or hours are reduced. Activity slumbers. Why not, right?
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, get the vax, celebrate life, remember that it’s Friday. Time for coffee. Enjoy the music. Cheers
Exflooftrate (floofinition) – 1. To remove oneself from an animal with stealth.
In use: “Many people fall asleep and awaken to find a favorite pet asleep with them, looking as sweet as fresh cinnamon rolls, forcing them to exflooftrate themselves so as not to disturb their slumbering fur friend.”
2. To covertly or surreptitiously move an animal, preferably without disturbing them.
In use: “The sick dog was asleep on the floor. She exflooftrated her canine friend to the bed, where a heating pad would help warm his tired, old body.”
Began with my wife and I establishing a home in a new location. Part of a community, seemed to be part of an apartment complex or condo. Outside, but up in the condo (that’s what I’ll go with) (and yes, it was both things – I was inside and outside at once), I set up reaffirming our place’s boundaries. This involved setting up green wooden railings on decks. Just trying to ensure that we were living up to our agreement. There were also storage units. Did we want those? someone asked my wife, who asked me. Yes, we did, I answered. She relayed that back.
Then we were inside. She was going off on some activity. I was working. A journalist. For some reason, it was important to keep my identity and work secret, along with my marriage. My wife and I were living together as husband and wife, but it was important others didn’t know that. Don’t know why. Other women approached, observing me. Wanted to know who I am. What I was doing. I kept responses to a minimum. They peeked into my home, attempting to see more. Fortunately, they didn’t see my wife’s clothing and items. She was worried about that, but we were safe. She kept coming and going.
Meanwhile, I’m writing. Outside the place, I see others reading my previous material. I’m afraid they’ll realize it’s me. Can’t have that. One person, a male, worries me most. Younger, he seems overly interested in me. I attempt to avoid him.
People are discussing my work. They don’t know it’s my work. Then they want to know what I’m doing. What am I working on? Can’t avoid them seeing that I’m writing, so I tell them that I am writing and revising. I downplay what it is. They’re insistent and prying. I finally tell them, I’m writing and revising. This is who I am.
Dream ends.
Welcome to As The Planet Turns. Today is August 26. 2021. Thursday. Cats are fed. One sleeps. Two others wash and supervise human activities. Breakfast is et. Coffee is brewed. Sunrise was at 6:30 AM. Sunset is planned for 7:55 PM. It’s about 62 F now. We expect a high of 81 to 84 F.
Blue skies are out there! Huzzah! Smoke has finally dissipated. Happened last night. I crept out, blinking at the sun, mask in hand, sniffing for smoke. A wind blew The sun was visible! And white and hot instead of orange or red. Windows were opened. Fresh air flowed. Well, sort of fresh. Fresher than it had been in weeks.
Today, even better, at the moment. Air quality hovers in the low sixties! We can see the mountains. But, yes, smoke is starting to screen the scene. Windows are open now but we’ll remain vigilant.
Vigilant is today’s key word for COVID-19 efforts. We’re back to masking outdoors in Oregon as of tomorrow, along with indoors. Had to be done. Hospitals are full. The crises grows like a mushroom cloud over a nuke. Too many are dissing the vax. Refusing to do it because…take your raison de jour. Religion. Philosophy. Politics. Ignorance. Freedom. Whichever it is, the majority who end up sick eventually flip. They wish they had received the vax and regret past actions. They were wrong, they’ll tell you. Too late for them. They’re hoping to save other anti-vaxxers.
The numbers tell it all. 10,000 unvaccinated, 500 will die. Along the way, ICUs and hospital beds will fill. The economy takes a hit because workers and customers are sick. Healthcare workers are exhausted.
With vaccinations, the infection rate falls. So does the death rate. Try .0046%. Which means, with vaccinations, one in 434,000 dies. Much different isn’t it?
“Murder by Numbers” comes to mind today. The 1983 song by The Police has lyrics by Sting, music by Copeland.
Now you can join the ranks of the illustrious
In history’s great dark hall of fame
All our greatest killers were industrious
At least the ones that we all know by name
But you can reach the top of your profession
If you become the leader of the land
For murder is the sport of the elected
And you don’t need
To lift a finger of your hand
h/t to Genius.com
That’s what I think of the governors in several states such as Texas, Florida, and North Dakota, along with other leaders who shout, “No mask! No vax!” These aren’t leaders. They are murderers.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Here’s the music. Cheers
Dreamed I was on an installation that almost felt like an army place. No weapons or anything. But institutionalized structures. Parade grounds.
Me and others. All male. All green. In green uniforms. Like toy army soldiers. I was a small boy. Chubby-cheeked. But green. I learned panic was roiling the place. A large statue had taken up life and grown taller. Men, including my father, were discussing this. “What do you think he wants?”
“Who knows?”
“He might be angry.”
“I’m sure he’s angry.”
“Of course he’s angry.”
“We have to find out what he wants.”
“I’m sure he’ll let us now.”
“He’s huge.”
“Huge doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Somehow, thinking of the green giant statue — for that’s what it was, one of us, made into a statue at some time, now come to life but much larger — I was doing math and trying to tell them, it’s easy to know how big he is. It’s multiples of seven. He was a three-quarter replica. The original was twenty-eight feet. So the statue was twenty-one feet. Now he’d grown to three times that size when he came to life. I knew that, I thought, because it was he was three/fourths of what of the original. So he was now three times taller. Dream logic, right?
I was trying to tell them, the statue was sixty-three feet tall. That he was hollow. I knew because the statue was hollow. All were hollow metal. Anything else would have been prohibitive. The statue had been made, piece by piece welded onto a frame and then shaped. Bronze, I thought, stained green. Green bronze.
They were not listening to me. Other boys and I commiserated. Fathers. Never listening. Never hearing.
The giant green statue strode into view. Towered over us. Threatening with a scowl. Contemptuous. I kept saying, “Just ask him what he wants.”
Dream end.
Michael Seidel, writer 