Changing Times

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

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.”

The Dream of Getting Lost

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.

Friday’s Theme Music

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

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