Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I have routines. Mostly moored in sanity and routine, they help me navigate days and night and months, seasons, and years.
The regular recurring four dominate: dressing, eating, exercising writing. Dressing is actually showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, all that. We just call it dressing in our household. Why get bogged down in details? Same with eating. I’m talking about three meals, snacks, etc. All aimed in a healthy direction, based on medical limitations and bodily needs. Cooking or procuring food is part of ‘eating’.
Writing, ditto, is just something burned into every day’s DNA. I passed on it while vacationing recently, a grueling time for me. I kept writing in my head. That’s an activity that takes me out of the moment. So I made fast notes, lopped off the process, and pressed myself back into local, ‘real-world’ events, like going for a walk at sunset and admiring the waves.
But I also have a habit of deciding what three things I will do besides those things. It’s a mental list I assign myself as I talk to my wife and walk around the house each morning. Weather and other plans are taken into account. Like yesterday’s three things was hanging this new hook we purchased to drape a towel on in the bathroom, then dusting and polishing all the wood cabinets and furniture in the kitchen, dining room, foyer, and living room, and tidying paperwork. Today is a lazier day. Wash and shine the car, gas up my wife’s car, yardwork. A bonus offering is clean off some pint containers and drop them off at a friend’s place.
I’ll also read. Surf the net for news and read some fiction. That, too, is just part of my current DNA. Do both of those every day. Pet the cat, of course. Clean up after him. Also DNA-driven. He enforces it, though. Oh, and take a walk. Do that daily as well. Just who I am.
What are your plans and routines for today?
It’s Sunda, so is a week ending or a week beginning? I’ve always considered Sunda as the week’s start. That’s what Mom taught me, and her mom taught her.
I’m sure it’s the end of August. It’s August 31, 2025. The year is half over. Summer in the northern hemes is leaning towards the finish line. Today is cooler again, with a night which Papi described as chilly but brisk at 58 F. Of course, he has fur. I think that makes a difference. On the high end, we’ll see 91 F today. Sunshine is holding forth in a blue sky where clouds have been dismissed for the moment.
An email has us trying to help another. A friend’s husband is beginning hospice at home. She’s looking for a shower chair and bedside commode. As it’s a holiday weekend, she has found many places are closed until Tuesday. Her need is more immediate. The bedside commode has been located; a friend’s mother died a few months ago, 104 years old, and he still has the commode. A shower chair is more elusive.
“Money Talks” by AC/DC is today’s music. Watching Trump’s open Offal Office grifting, coupled with a news article, about triggered this choice. The news article was out of the NYTimes. Its headline reads, In Budget Logs It Tried to Hide, White House Wrests More Control Over Spending. The article added, “Deep within obscure footnotes, the Trump administration is claiming more of Congress’s constitutional power of the purse by threatening to block funding.”
The article goes on:
“In more than 100 cases this year, Office of Management and Budget officials who sign off on funds for federal agencies have attached unusual conditions to the money, including requirements that funds meant to reflect Congress’s priorities be spent only if they align with the president’s views. The moves lay the groundwork for the Trump administration to choke off billions of dollars budgeted by Congress for education, health, housing and research programs.“
“In some cases, the administration has clearly blocked funding for specific programs. In others, the threat lurks in footnotes tucked in detailed budget logs that congressional appropriators are racing to decipher as their conflict with the budget office grows.”
We always knew it was all about the money for Trump and his regime. They use their anti-woke, anti-diversity, anti-equality, anti-integration agenda as a club to beat agencies and organizations into capitulation. These agencies and organizations were legally granted funding from Congress in accordance with established precedence and procedure. Legality matters less to Trump and his minions than diversity, equality, and integration. Legality matters less than truth, facts, justice, and logic to them. It’s Trump’s way, or no way. And they get their way by withholding money. Doesn’t matter what was planned with that money, how it affects anything else. It’s just Trump’s way or no way, the total antithesis of the idea of We the People being in charge.
Anyway, that’s how “Money Talks” by AC/DC ended up in my morning mental music stream today.
I hope peace and grace finds and keeps you and yours safe and healthy. Let’s throw in some happiness, too. Coffee is wending through my body, perking me up once again. Onward and upward. Or something. Cheers
I’m struck by Trump’s vision for the United States. He’s sending the military into cities and states, even if it’s just national guard units at this point. That makes it feel like he knows he’s unpopular, that his popularity will worsen, and he’s ready to attack We the People with weapons.
He wants manufacturing and factories to return to the United States. These will supply jobs. Yes, but imagine the jobs which factory work will provide. Having never worked in one, I’m dependent on others’ experiences to provide me with any sense of how it is. I understand they’re often noisy, that the work is frequently tedious, and that the repetitive style of work causes mental, emotional, and physical issues. So it sounds like Trump’s dream for our citizens is of a weary, broken people locked up in buildings, slaving for others.
Along with that skewed vision, his regime is removing protections to keep the air, water, and earth clean and safe. We can assume, since actions speak loudest, that he’s okay with people and animals getting sick from a polluted environment. Children and the elderly would be most vulnerable, so he obviously doesn’t give a toss about their health. That’s one reason why he’s letting RFK, Jr, wreck our health systems, too. An unhealthy population will struggle to fight back. They’re too busy just trying to live. Thanks to their actions, diseases will rise again.
Trump doesn’t like protests. He dislikes dissent, such as free speech. He wants everyone to agree with him and idolize and adore him. He enforces this through his regime’s demands on the press, states, cities, universities, and businesses to align themselves with his policies, or else they’ll pay some price. We can basically discern from that that his United States would have little to do with the Bill of Rights and the freedoms embedded in them, other than amendment number 2. Trump’s staunchest MAGAts love their guns.
To make it all work, to make United States citizens willing to accept being sick and working in factories for little pay, Trump is cutting education for the public and the poor. Trump doesn’t want a thinking, intelligent electorate. He wants an ignorant and malleable population.
So that’s his vision for We the People: uneducated, poor, hungry, and sick work slaves struggling through filthy air, drinking poisoned water, all so we can sell more goods in other nations and enrich the already wealthy and well-to-do.
I think it’s one of the cruelest and ugliest visions a human being can devise. It doesn’t matter what Trump says. This is what he’s doing.
Watch the spiral
Sigh and mourn
Think about all that’s happened
Since the day you were born
Remember the places
Where you visited and stayed
The people you played with
The ones who led the way
And the music that you knew
How you sang and played along
Never quite realizing
That time would soon be gone
You lived like it was forever
Sometimes you still do
Thinking about the past and future
Wondering about what is true
Welcome again to Satyrda, home this month to August 30, 2025. The sky is blue but small white clouds are sneaking in, then slowing to loiter, waiting for other clouds. I think they’re up to something. 61 F now, we’re peeking at a coolish day, with a high of just 91 F. Smoke free, our Air Quality hovers around 28, a solid green and healthy showing.
My sis-in-law and her boyfriend of six months are visiting this week. They met through a senior dating app. My wife is already annoyed with the new BF. He’s rejected all advice and insights offered but then asks for more advice. They’re arriving in SFO and driving up to Eureka for a night. Then they’re driving on to our place via Highway 101 and 199. They’re staying in a spa resort that’s actually outside of the town. Little is around it except a car dealership. We suggested places in town to stay where they can step out the front door and enjoy our small city. No; BF didn’t want that. They also specified no hiking and no walking, no river floats, no boat rides. They want to drive to Crater Lake, drive around it, and then back. Okay. Then, after three nights here, they’re driving to Carmel, south of San Francisco. O-kay. Sounds like a plan. Not a fun one, to me. They’ll be in a car quite often. We shall do what we can to provide them with good memories and a pleasant visit.
Today’s music is “Desire” by U2. Papi the ginger blade prompted it with a request for his special treats. Checking out Trump’s plans and disgusted by his love of money, The Neurons agreed that “Desire” is a good choice and thrust it into the morning mental music stream. After all, the band sings, “For the love of money, money, money, money, money.” For the love of money, power, and adulation, Trump and the GOP will do anything except anything good. Their love of money and power perverts their sense of justice and stacks their sense of entitlement and privilege to higher levels. Nothing is beneath them in their pursuit of money and power. Just when I think they can’t be an crappier as human beings, they lower the bar.
Hope that grace and peace find and hold you today and always. Coffee has found me once again. Here we go, onward. Cheers
In the first dream, I was traveling with friends and my wife. A small group, I don’t know the travel’s purpose nor the means. At one point, we encountered a storm. Seeking refuge, we found a house. The house unlocked. We went inside. It was solid, warm and comfortable, but completely unfurnished. There was one book in there. A soft-cover trade book, it was open to a page.
We decided we’d stay there and outwait the storm. Meanwhile, we each went by and checked out the book. I don’t recall any name, title, or colors associated with it. But when we each read the book, we discovered it was different for each of us. I thought it was a thriller/adventure. Someone else thought it was a cookbook. Another deemed it a book of poetry. I read through the book quickly but when I came back to look at it again, it was a different book. It looked exactly as it had and was still open to a page, but its contents were completely different.
We’d stayed in the house longer than planned. Although no food was there, we didn’t get hungry. In fact, we were all in very good moods. Despite the lack of furniture, we were well rested. But we decided to move on if the weather was good. The weather was good. After going out and looking around, I realized we were in a different location. Another noticed that the season was changed. Trying to figure out what was going on, we went back into the house. Through testing and talking, we concluded that the house was a time machine and also moved through space. (Yes, like Doctor Who‘s TARDIS, except this was a house, not a phone box.)
A young couple, people we didn’t know, arrived. Like us, they were taking refuge from a storm, We decided not to tell them what we’d learned, to see what they discovered on their own. Then we’d compare notes.
Dream end.
In the second dream, my wife and I were sitting at a small metal table by the side of a road. Another woman was with us. We were chatting. The table was right off the road’s shoulder and the road was lousy with traffic. At one point, my wife saw a big box truck coming. As it went by, she said, “Oh, there’s the artichoke man. I want to catch him and tell him something.”
Leaping up, she ran after the truck. I was wondering if she caught him and what she was telling him, when a second artichoke truck, identical to the first, roared up the road. This was on a hill and a tight curve. He was going way too fast. The driver slammed on his brakes. He went into a skid and fishtailed hard into a hillside. My wife’s body went flying through the air. She landed on some rocks on her back, her head dangling backwards, unmoving.
I leaped up. A car went by, down the hill, oblivious to the scene. Shouting at the person at the table, “Call 911, call 911,” I looked up the hill. People were running to help the truck driver and another car involved in the accident. I sprinted toward my wife, thinking, I’ll check for her pulse and look for breathing, but I don’t think I should move her.
Dream end.
Michael Seidel, writer 