Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Just for the record, my preferred pronouns are he/him.
I respect others’ choices. The idea of gender is a wholly human creation, a long-ago first stab at categorizing creatures as we sought to understand their roles. Like many things in science, it was an okay first guess. I’d say that it’s a better guess than the idea that the Earth is flat, that fish went underwater for the winter, or that the universe revolves around the Earth. Those were all accepted scientific truths.
But we evolve, study, and learn. We test ideas and form new ones. New angles and insights develop. What we know about sex and gender, and gender identity, is much different today than what was known a hundred years ago.
It all becomes problematic because it’s hard to let go of things we previously learned, to understand that we made some conclusions which aren’t quite right. It’s also challenging because so many of our mores, roles, and language is tied up with gender and sex.
As societies, we’re struggling now, much as we’ve strugged to learn and change in previous centuries. Eventually, we’ll grasp the complications and grow to understand that it’s not just about male and female. By then, of course, the needle will have moved, and we’ll know yet more that will force us to face new challenges.
Such is the beauty of science and our existence. As much as we learn, we come to understand how little we know. Assumptions and conclusions which we consider solid and resolve are proven to be wrong. And that gives us the opportunity to keep striving to learn and keep up.
I, for one, am always falling behind. But I’m gonna keep trying.
Mood: positive
Let’s close our eyes and bow our heads; September, 2023, is passing. Today is Saturday, September 30, 2023. A fresh month — October — begins tomorrow.
“Alexa, weather,” I say.
“It’s 49 degrees in Ashland. Today’s high will be 62 degrees. Today’s forecast includes showers.”
I’m boiling her response down. Alexa is one of three sources for my daily weather info. The other two are my home system and wunderground.com online. I also often scan MSN’s weather forecast for us.
I do this because we’re located on the fringe of a small town, about three and a half miles long, with a population of about 20,000. I live on the southern end. The town is in a valley alongside Interstate 5. The southern end is where the valley pinches together and becomes a pass. For all these reasons, getting precise weather forecasts is troublesome. We’re usually a few degrees warmer than the forecast in the summer and a few degrees colder in fall and winter.
I don’t doubt Alexa’s forecast for today. It rained off and on through the night. Rainclouds are as thick as a Black Friday shopping crowd. Those clouds don’t look like they’re going to wander off without dropping more rain on us.
The cats are happier and more mellow with this weather. Both come in for shelter, washing before napping. Papi’s preference is the master bed where I keep a folded blanket at the foot for the cats. Tucker will used that at night, but it’s Papi’s during the daytime. Tucker prefers being with us in the daytime. He’ll haunt the desk in the snug, sleeping to the right of me, shoving around papers and rearranging equipment. I enjoy having him there, with his cute little black and white face and long, whirly whiskers at repose as he sleeps.
My wife and I have plans for the evening. Scienceworks is doing an outdoor showing of the movie E.T. Show starts at 6:30 PM. There will be food and beverage trucks, along with an ice cream truck.
Forecasts for that period tell us it’ll be colder by then, and it’ll be raining. Should be fun.
My wife particularly wants to go because she only saw E.T. once. This was when we were stationed on Okinawa, Japan. We saw a VHS bootleg copy of the movie, and the production values were terrible. Bootleg copies of films and TV shows was how we saw a lot of things in those pre-net, pre satellite TV days. Phoning home was still a major production that required us to go to the USO and use one of their expensive long-distance lines.
Well, with talk of “phone home” and memories of the way it was in 1982, Les Neurons have cranked up ELO’s 1977 song, “Telephone Line” for the morning mental music stream (Trademark fantasy). Makes sense, and I will allow it.
Stay pos and be cool, and strong. I’m refreshing my coffee — do you want a topoff? Here’s the music. Let the real day commence. Cheers
Note: this is about a nocturnal dream about being published, and not a RL goal.
It was a pleasant fall day. Walking among a bustling crowd, my wife and I met with my mother and stepfather (SF). All of us were much younger than RL by a margin of several decades, and my stepfather has been dead for a decade.
We were going to watch a soccer game and have a meal. As we met, we came up on a large box. Cast iron, it was painted with black enamel, and contained hundreds of post office lock boxes. SF said, “By the way, Mike, you received some mail at my address.” He made a vague gesture toward the black box.
“I did?” I was surprised beyond words. Receiving mail at his address seemed as implausible as a demon army invading.
“Yes, two, I think,” SF answered.
“Can I have them?”
“Yeah you can have them.”
But SF was going on. Mom had already gone on. They didn’t want to miss the game’s start and were impatient. I asked my SF for his mailbox combo. He didn’t answer and kept going.
But I saw a key. I assumed that what I’d received was too large for his lockbox, so they’d put it in a larger one and gave my SF the key for it. Seizing the key, I went and opened a larger lockbox and withdrew a large yellow envelope with my name on it. Tearing it open, I learned it was an acceptance letter from a publisher. They’d accepted my submission, “Beyond the Lines”, and wanted to publish it, and were offering me a contract for three more.
The offer letter also said that I needed to respond by the deadline. The deadline was today. Fortunately, they included a link to type in to accept the agreement electronically.
I was tremendously excited. I’d forgottent that I’d submitted anything. I didn’t understand how my SF’s address was mixed up with it. Naturally, I didn’t want to go on to a soccer game. I wanted to go and celebrate. But my wife pointed out that I’d made committments, so we continued to the game.
Dream end.
The dream surprised me. My stepfather and I did not get along. He was a major reason for moving away from Mom in my mid-teens. He is the father of my two youngest sisters, and I love them dearly, but I have no love for him and had not seen him in decades before he died.
Also, we never went to a soccer game. He showed no interest in soccer. I showed little myself, for that matter. And he never met my wife.
So, I take hope and insight from the dream that publishing help will come from unexpected means and directions. I remain an optimist.
Everything is changing. I’m not stupid. I know that it’s not unusual for things to change. Weather changes, clothes, all that. I’m not stupid.
This is different, you know? This is real change.
I was born in 2032. May, a taurus. I can’t remember much of my early life. I guess it was okay. Then the crumble began. You know, bridges collapsing, blackouts, gas and electricity shortages, water shortages.
I remember that from when I was around ten and our school was shut down. Dad said that taxes had been cut, so you know, the government didn’t have the money for schools, and we couldn’t afford a pay school. Dad was working a full-time job and two part-time jobs. Mom was working three part-time gigs. Working their asses off, both of them. My auntie, who was disabled from diabetes, schooled me and my sisters and cousins in our family room. That’s where she lived.
I did what I could myself. Made some change from helping with cleanups. People would abandon their cars and places, and I’d pirate things and sell them door to door. Tapes and books, old computers, that kind of thing.
We were always hungry, picking berries, apples, plums, whatever we could find. Best time was when I was a teen. Used to be able to pay two dollars to bus tables for fifteen minutes in a restaurant. They let me eat anything that was left. I’d try to stuff things in my pockets for my family, if I could, but I was so damn hungry all the time.
That lasted ‘bout five years. Now I’m 31, and it’s all gone. I’m trying to find a new gig but all I got is my ‘lectric bike and clothes. Most days, it’s too hot to be outside, you know? Gets over 110 by noon, and then climbs twenty degrees more.
Like Mom used to say all the time, the times, they are a-changin’.
Floofnight (floofinition) – The secret and mysterious period in the night when animals became magically energized and gallop around, exploring, playing, and having adventures. Origins: First written about by Silence Floofgood in a letter to the editor of The New-England Courant in 1722. Silence Floofgood was later discovered to be the pseudonym of Benjamin Franklin’s cat.
In use: “Leaping from deep sleep to full wakefulness faster than a sneeze, Bob listened to the noises and realized, it was floofnight once again, and his fur friends were having fun.”
In use: “Although first-time pet owners are warned about floofnight, many don’t fully appreciate it until they’ve experienced a two or three AM awakening from their furry housemates running up and down the halls and leaping up on them in bed.”
This dream began with my wife naked in front of me. She was on her knees in a room when I walked in. We flirted and I began kissing her and nibbling her ear lobes. She said, “Let’s move this into the other room.” Aroused and ready, I agreed.
We went into the other room, which was the living room. She said, “I’ll be right back.”
While she was gone, I stripped off my clothes. When she returned, she was fully dressed and had two other women with her. I knew both of them.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
My wife replied, “My book club is arriving.”
Well, that took me aback but I didn’t feel like now was the time to discuss it. Discreetly, I made my way out.
Dressing in the other room, I took off through the local area. It turned out to be a village built on several hills thick with pine and oak trees. The roads were narrow and winding, but I was enjoying my walk.
Going up a steep hill, I found a huge border of tall, trimmed bushes. Slipping through them, I discovered myself at a palatial estate.
A young boy approached. He seemed like he was ten years old. We briefly tossed a baseball back and forth. He told me that this was his house and invited me in to see it. “It’s like a museum,” he finished.
My curiousity had grown. The house presented a huge, jumbled, modern appearance of arches and glass, with multiple types of materials finishing the facade, complementing the many large, dark windows.
I entered the house with him. The boy was right; the first room we entered was tall and broad. Art and aniquities filled the space. Walking around, I gawked at art pieces. Several were Picasso pieces, from the cubist and blue periods. I was astounded to find them in a house in a small village and thought the people who owned the property must be very wealthy.
The boy who was my host had left. Nervous about being alone there, I was accosted by a woman coming down a large spiral staircase. Brunette, slender, not tall, and very attractive, she wore blue jeans and a red top. She seemed to be about the same age as me.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
I explained why I was there. Her son came down and verified my story. Nervous, I decided to leave. She protested that I didn’t need to leave. We began walking around, looking at art and antiques. Standing very close to me, she told about how they came to own the pieces. Acting on impulse, I kissed her.
I prepared to be slapped or rush out, and apologize. In response, she took my hand behind a screen and kissed me. I was both excited and worried. She kept leading me into nooks and niches, kissing me and encouraging my advances.
Then her son said, “Hi, Dad.”
I was horrified that the woman’s husband was with us. Dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, he was silver haired with black streaks, slightly taller than myself, and a few years older.
The woman introduced me to him. I thought any dalliance with the woman was over, but she continued leading me to secluded places, where we made out with teenagers. I saw the husban suspiciously eyeing me. Not wanting a confrontation, I left.
The wife caught up with me outside and gave me her number, asking me to call her so we can meet and finish what we started. I was dubious. The whole thing was crazy. I left her without promising anything but kept the number, sticking it into a pocket.
Darkened skies had taken over while I inside. Now going up another hill past throngs of people shopping in many small shops and boutiques, I remembered that a book store was up the hill and headed there to buy a book for my wife. After chatting with the owner, I purchased the book and headed down another stretch of hill. It was later and darker, and I wasn’t sure where I was. Thinking I knew a shortcut, I took a few turns.
I ended up completely lost in a maze of small white shops along an alley. Big raindrops began striking me and splattering along the ground. Stopping at a bakery, I bought pastries for me and my wife. The rain intensified while I was in the bakery. As I opened the door to leave, the shopkeeper urged me to stay inside until the rain stopped.
I declined. Going out, I was quickly drenched. I still didn’t know where I was and kicked myself for not asking for directions at the bakery. I kept going, though, believing that I would find my way. It didn’t help that the sun was behind clouds, and the rain was so thick that I couldn’t see far.
Then, unexpectedly, I saw two trees and knew where I was. Seeing my house, I hurried to the covered front porch. Sopping wet, I stood on the porch, ate a pastry, and watched the rain as dusk heralded night’s entrance.
Mood: lazy
Good day. It’s Friday, September 29, 2023. We’re on the precipice of October in Ashlandia, where the music is crisp and fresh.
It’s 54 now, with a solidly overcast sky, one that looks like off-white paint was spilled all over it. The high will be 64 F. It’s not supposed to rain, but it might. Rain is just like floofs, always doing things which it’s not supposed to do.
BoBtoberfest is in the air. The BoBs are my beer buddies. I’ve been meeting with them for over a dozen years. ‘BoB’ means ‘Brains on Beer’, as it was founded by retired engineers, doctors, and professors. We meet once per week, on Wednesday. Once seated, we catch up on our lives, politics, science, news, and the arts. Two hours later, we head back home. Part of our current structure is donations to local schools for STEAM projects. We’re always looking for new ones, and we prefer to help troubled programs and at-risk students.
Octoberfest is the famous celebration in Munich. We were talking about it a few years ago and decided that having our own Octoberfest would be fun. We had to personalize the name to avoid confusing others; they might think that our Ashlandia Octoberfest might be mis-identified as the real one, right? Sure. So we named our gathering BoBtoberfest. Aren’t we clever?
BoBtoberfest is going to be at Mouse X’s house this year. His house was burned down several years ago. His entire neighborhood was destroyed. So was most of his town, along with a large part of two other small towns. While recovering, he rented a house in our town. One of the othe BoBs got to know him and invited him to our meetings. He’s a biologist and botanist, retiring from BLM service just before his house was destroyed.
His house was finally rebuilt last year. He wants to show it off, so he’s hosting BoBtoberfest this year. Coming later in the month, he’s grilling salmon and we’re all bringing food and drink.
Next weekend is another BoBabration. One of our members, Julie, is celebrating her 70th. She’s a retired botanist who moved into town a few years ago. Her sons live in Sacramento and Portland. They wanted to throw her a birthday party; she agreed only if the BoBs were invited. We’re not required to donate anything for this fete. Red pandas mesmerize her, so we’ve bought a stuffed red panda as a gift.
Now, to music. I have “Changes” by Black Sabbath in my mental morning music stream (Trademark reluctant). The Neurons put it there after they overheard a convo between me and my wife. They’re like Alexa and Siri in that regard, always eavesdropping.
My wife and were talking about aging and its impacts, laughing about the changes. Next thing I know, I hear Ozzie singing “I’m going through changes” from the Black Sabbath album, Vol. IV, which was released in 1972.
Stay positive and be strong. Loaded with a cuppa java, I’m ready to stagger out into the world. Here’s the music. Cheers
Sediflooftary (floofinition) – Locations, habits, or practices relating to, formed by, or containing animals. First used in 1760 in Italy, in A Roman’s Guide to Floofs (translated). One chapter was devoted to sediflooftary issues, with insights about how house animals become protective of their favortite sleeping locations and how people often honor these sediflooftary spots.
In use: “A sediflooftary dip revealed Tucker’s favorite sleeping location atop the back of the living room sofa.”
In use: “Upon investigating sounds arising from a small cardboard box, four sets of puppy eyes revealed the soaked container was sediflooftary.”
Michael Seidel, writer 