One rated a prospective place “10/10 – Excellent”. But their comments made him wonder:
“The room was good and bed was super comfortable however there were areas needing a little updating . Looked like there had been a roof leak in the bathroom over the shower area and the exhaust fan in the bathroom sounded like it was dying. Also the lighting in the bathroom was not very bright . The breakfast in the morning was good. Overall I’d say it was ok.”
Head shake. ‘Okay’ is far away from ‘Excellent’ is his mind.
Floofenriched – (floofinition) Experiences, lives, or individuals improved by the presence of, participation of, or interactions with, animals.
In use: “During the COVID-19 pandemic, many individuals found that animals in the house floofenriched their cloistered existence, and adoptions rose sharply.”
Burping blue smoke and violent noise, a pickup truck pulled into the line of stopped traffic.
Tan with brown accent panels and chrome wheels, the pickup truck was elderly, maybe an eighties vintage, dated as far as motor vehicles go. The right-side door – that’s where the passenger is in America – was smashed in. Broad black tape all around the door held the door shut against the body.
It looked to me like he’d been run into. I could see how another vehicle had slammed head on into the pickup truck’s side. Imagined scenarios easily rose. Maybe he ran a stop sign or red light. Then again, maybe the other vehicle ran the traffic order to stop and hit him, who was innocently motoring along.
Or, it could be the result of passion. He and his wife – or his girlfriend, boyfriend, cousin, sister, brother – argued. He fired up his truck to leave. As he was slewing the vehicle around, dust flying, the other person leaped into their vehicle and drove it into his truck, trying to stop him.
Perhaps it wasn’t passion, but a broken drug deal, or an attempted theft. Television tales and real-life reports fertilized possibilities.
Maybe, though, the driver wasn’t involved at all. Perhaps it wasn’t his truck; he was just borrowing it to move some junk.
The maybes are endless, and I’ll probably never know.
After an outrageously fun dream that had me grinning when I awoke, a later dream stamped its imprint, unsettling me.
The second dream was about a friend. Oddly, I can’t recall ever clearly seeing him. I can’t give any description to him except to say he was a contemporary, male, white, and both in our early twenties.
He came to my house and told me that he’d stolen twenty thousand dollars. No details about that were shared. The dream and I focused on what I should do, how can I help him? He’d already told me that he’d told others.
He suggested that he needed to hide the money. I agreed, telling him that I would help. Next thing I know, we’re at his house, a suburban home, in a lower level, in a small den. There’s one oblong window at ground level; I keep looking out it. Dusk is falling.
Green shag carpet covers the floor. He lays down on the floor, face down, legs stiffly together and straight, arms out at ninety degrees, like he’s on a cross. He’s wearing a yellow top and red shorts. I tell him that I think he needs to get out of there. He doesn’t answer. I’m pacing, worrying, and tell him the same thing. He seems to have given up.
I start telling him, “Give me your money and I’ll hide it for you.” That’s when I realize that I stole the money with him, bewildering me. I don’t remember doing that, so how was it possible?
I’ve hidden my share, which was also twenty thousand. I repeat, “Give me your money and I’ll hide it for you. Where is it?” Sirens are getting louder. I don’t doubt they’re coming to his house. He’s given up, so they’ll catch us both. Even if I have escape, I’m sure that he’d tell them who stole the money with him. He’s already told others. The dream ends with the sirens growing louder, me pacing, glancing out a window, running a hand through my hair, trying to understand what to do, and him still in a cross position on the green shag carpet.
Saturday is being served in Ashlandia, where it’s warm and getting hot. Not 110 F hot, no, none of that crazy stuff here today, just 96 today, 100 tomorrow, 103 Monday, and so on for the week.
It’s August 12, 2023, and this is when the region usually heats up in the year, so we’re not surprised. We metaphorically hold our breath and cross our fingers that some wildfires don’t arise from the heat and dry conditions. We’re not special with this high hot so far as the US. Over in Texas, they’re in the hundreds all over the state. Northern California will lounge in low triple digit heat, as will parts of Nevada, southern California, and New Mexico. Of course, in Hawaii, they’re literally on fire in several areas. Then my sister sent me notice that a house in one of the neighborhoods not far from her in the Plum area outside Pittsburgh PA exploded and a house is on fire. You feel for the people of that neighborhood.
And then I went on and caught up on Ukraine news.
Reading the news and weather reports brought my spirits down. More killin’, of course, and lots of general craziness being reported out there. The Neurons delivered “Crazy On You” by Heart to the morning mental music stream (Trademark crazy). The song is a classic rock offering from waaay baaack in 1976. Wow, that’s a thought that momentarily makes me feel ancient.
Then I think, hey, 1976 wasn’t even fifty years ago, so it’s not really that long ago, right? Yes, the optimistic Neurons reply, bobbing their heads. Then I think, and isn’t it cool that this music style was discovered? Isn’t it terrific that we have so many talented people in the world? And, hey, we have the technology to bring these stuff to us across time, although this recording is of a performance Heart did just a few years ago.
But then I think, gosh, with the brains for such technology to be advanced, shouldn’t we be able to solve other problems?
How do you solve a problem like a human? Tech doesn’t seem to be the answer there.
Okay, let’s get on with the day. It’s not going to live itself. Stay pos and be strong. Coffee is available in the kitchen. I got enough in there for at least one other cup. Here’s the music. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 