Roses are red,
the leaves are green,
what you’ll write next
remains unseen.
The Towel Dream
I found myself as a young man at a wide, flat river. Dark as a winter night, the river didn’t reflect any light.
It was a cold day. Swimmers filled the river. They were heading downstream. I was not a swimmer, but walked among them as they came out of the water, giving them towels, talking to them and encouraging them.
Three swimmers caught my eye. One female, two males, all young, one black, one brown, one white, nothing extraordinary about them. Like the other swimmers, they wore swimsuits, and these weren’t anything special. Yet, watching them, I thought, keep an eye on them.
Seeing them leaving the water, I rushed to get them towels. All the towels were blue or gray; I wanted different colors for these three. I thought different colors would highlight them and help me keep watch on them. I ran around asking for other colored towels, and then demanded those towels. At last, red, yellow, and white striped beach towels were brought to me. I hurried over and gave the towels to those three.
Someone else with towels asked me what I was doing, etc. I explained that I wanted to keep an eye on those three. The other queried, “Why?”
“Because they’re special,” I explained. And then I knew, “They’re not part of this world. That’s why I wanted to give them special towels.” I gathered insight that the blue and gray towels muted people. Colors brought them more alive, bringing out talents. I said, “They’re shapeshifters from somewhere else, but they don’t know it. They can be anything, but the towels are keeping them unaware.”
After saying that, I took in the rest swimming by or toweling off and wondered, why don’t we give them colored towels, too?
Sunday’s Theme Music
Winter wonderland has returned to Ashlandia. Temp flutters around 29 F. Fog, ice, and frost lick the environment white. Sun participation was brought in at 7:11 AM. Not that you can swear it. Visibility is sliced to a hundred feet. The sun is much further out, not even a pale orb behind the scenes at the moment.
It’s Feb 12, 2023. Sunday. Today’s high will be sixty-two, the weather gossips whisper. What? 62 F out of this? Don’t make me laugh. It’ll probably happen. Weather, you know. Changeable. Ashlandia’s sunset is due at 5:40 PM. Winter storm warning out for the week’s start. Buckle on cold weather gear as temperatures shift into the freezing zone and clouds deliver rain and snow.
With winter in mind, The Neurons cranked up, Winter – Edgar — “Frankenstein” — and then Johnny and Edgar with “Tobacco Road”. But the little ones finally settled on “Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo” out of the seventies of last century. The question always worrying my gray functions is, what exactly is a Hoochie Koo? Miriam-Webster’s online dictionary isn’t helpful on the matter. I’ve always associated Hoochie Koochie with belly dancing because that’s what an aunt told me when I was young. But “Koochie koochie, koo,” was used by Mom to tickle and play with us when we were toddlers. My brain is confused.
Anyway, here is the music. Johnny and his band bring it. Hope you have an entertaining Sunday. Coffee is at hand. We have launch. Hoochie koochie.
Saturday’s Wandering Thought
Their household waste keeps declining. It’s a judgement he makes by observing how much is being rolled to the curb. Garbage collection is every week. They usually have less than a full bag to put in there. Recycling, done every two weeks, is typically less than a quarter full.
It’s like their waste is wasting away. It probably helps that they’re in their mid-sixties. They’re no longer inundated with mail inviting them to a new credit card, offering funeral or cremation services, hearing aids, living trusts, cable and satellite television connections, Internet deals, financial management services, or offers to join AARP. It’s just another way in which growing older pays off.
The Writing Moment
His backside had landed on the writing seat. Critically, fresh coffee was at hand with its inspirational aroma. Writing yesterday began like he was trying to unlock a rust-infused iron lock. It became an enjoyable and productive session. In a better mood today, he hoped for like success. You could never tell how it would turn out. The important thing was to attack it and get it done, day by day, session by session.
Saturday’s Theme Music
Saturday’s broken, like the first mornin’. We’re up to Feb. 11, 2023. Plenty of time for this year yet.
Sunshine cracked the day at 7:13 AM, fulfilling dawn’s potential in big way. Blue sky with striations of clouds like towels waiting for the laundry hover around Ashlandia. Sitting at 42 F., the cats are pleased with the sunshine, dry conditions, and temperatures. My spies tell me the weather prophets think we’ll see 52 F before sunshine is put behind Ashlandia’s horizon at 5:38 PM. Tomorrow, the spies whisper, it’ll be in the sixties before another front rolls in and drops us back into the land of rain and snow.
My wife continues her diet. She’s at 21 days and is enjoying its effects. Her RA pain and flares have subsided. Worst part is low energy in her opinion. I note that she’s not as mentally sharp. It’s not mentioned to her because it would depress her. She’s on a huge reading streak, going through two to four books a week, all fiction. She read Four Treasures of the Sky for her book club this week, along with Blake Crouch’s Dark Matter and Becky Chambers’s A Psalm for the Wild-built. She passed the last two on to me, recommending I read them. Dark Matter is on the pile behind Ancillary Sword. A Psalm was read and enjoyed. Fascinating and different concept and interesting story-telling style.
The Neurons have Three Dog Night singing “One” from 1969. I enjoy its drive and harmony. Harry Nilsson’s original version, meanwhile, is harmonically interesting, with a slower tempo, a more thoughtful but sadder experience. The Neurons went with the Dog but I included Nilsson’s version for comparison.
Coffee’s been drunk, breakfast consumed. Time to go write and roll. Stay pos. and have a solid Saturday.
The Writing Moment
Countdown commenced. Issues such as needing more coffee put the launch on hold once, twice. Finally, the writing day sluggishly took off. He wanted to be done but he wanted this to be good. Work remained before the novel in progress could be considered done or good.
It felt like it was going to a be a long, tedious writing day.
Michael Seidel, writer 