The Camaro Dream

It was another odd dream. I think I have an odd dream one out of every three nights, at least a memorable odd one.

This particular dream featured the first car that I bought, a nineteen sixty-eight Camaro RS. The engine was the sweet 327 V-8. An automatic, it was a metallic copper color with black rally stripes and a black vinyl roof. It was a fun car to drive, and reliable as sunrise. Nothing fancy or power was on the car. It was simple, and it worked.

Besides the Camaro, my dream featured my father, my late father-in-law, and an older man who, in the dream, was known as a local criminal boss. As for me, I was the age that I was when I owned the Camaro, about nineteen.

The car looked gorgeous, as it did in real life, well-polished and maintained inside and out. With those details established, I was driving the Camaro when I discovered that the floorboards were gone. Rain mixed with snow was falling, and was spraying up into the car interior from the road.

Well, that’s it, my father and father-in-law each told me. They’d been good friends in life. I’d met my wife through Dad and his relationship with the man who would be my father-in-law.

You can’t drive that car like that, each told me. I think you probably need to junk it.

I didn’t. Taking my own route, I found someone to build me new floorboards made out of wood. That’s what happened. They did a beautiful job.

I showed my father-in-law and Dad the solution. They were astonished and amused. The crime boss appeared, because he’d heard about it. Although he laughed, he said, “I’m really impressed. Good job, kid.”

I then took the car on an inspection. Already familiar with the car, they were preparing to declare it salvage when I showed them my new wooden floorboards. All were flabbergasted and disbelieving. I took the car around and showed everyone how I’d had new wooden floorboards made for the car, and how well they worked.

Further, I said, I planned to drive it across country. Snow was falling, as were the temperatures. People shook their head at my apparent insanity, and dismissed me. With alternate periods of snowfall and sunshine, and slush and snows on the roads, I set out, certain in my decision.

That’s basically the dream. When I awoke from it, I found that it felt tremendously affirming. I thought the dream encouraged me, keeping doing your things. As a writer, I work alone. I hear others’ doubt; I worry about others’ doubts about what I’m writing, and how it’ll measure up to expectations. In the dream, I sought approval from the two primary male authority figures from my young life.

They hadn’t approved, but nor did they disapprove. They accepted and said, go on.

That’s why it feels so affirming.

On This Day

I was looking at a “On this day in history” timeline. Joan of Arc executed. Andrew Jackson’s duel. First Indy 500. Babe Ruth’s last baseball game.

Seems like May 30th is a good day to make history. Carpe diem.

Wednesday’s Theme Music

I was streaming this song in my head this morning after having a wild, wild dream during the night.

“Wild, Wild Life” by the Talking Heads isn’t my favorite TH song, but I always enjoyed these lyrics. I thought they observe and mock modern complexities, hypocrisies, and ambiguities. I’ve often encountered Americans dissatisfied with life and their work, people who want to shake things up for themselves, something to give their life a more satisfactory edge as youth’s dreams fossilize into adult reality and the ruts become traps. So people party, have affairs, or do crazy things.

Well, that’s how I interpret life and this song. Your mileage may vary.

It was years before I saw the video for the song. Although the song came out in 1986, I was traveling across America, visiting Africa and Korea for the military, and never saw the video until much, much later. Its pop culture references are good for a laugh, especially the Billy Idol and Madonna imitations.

On the way to the coffee shop, to get some wild, wild life.

Bot-tender

I followed my robot vacuum around today. Using it for spot-cleaning, I’d move it, turn it on, and then stand over it like a football coach on OTAs. “Move left,” I’d tell it. “Get that fur. Come on, pick it up, pick it up. That’s it. Good job.”

Doing this presented me with a feeling that I was cleaning, but I also felt empowered. I controlled the bot.

Maybe, too, I was seeing the future. Robots and automation are taking over more jobs each day, with plans for greater shifts on the near-horizon. But bots and automation might require intervention and guidance, as my Roomba does. We may have a new job category opening, bot-tender.

It could be the hot new thing, but I don’t think it’ll pay much.

Tricks of the Mind

I ran into a friend who is also a writer. She and I, along with a few others, used to meet for drinks and conversation. All writers, we talked about what we were writing and our writing processes, and complained about the non-writers and our struggles with them. Non-writers are rarely interested in our WIPs and processes. I can appreciate that. I’ve gone into eyes-glazing-over mode when others have gone into explanations about their processes about things like making soap or quilting.

Our outings were wonderfully healthy and happy times. Everyone in the group moved, though, leaving us to find other avenues or go without. I turned to posts like these to help me cope.

When we encountered each other on the street, we resumed our writing relationship, spending fifteen minutes catching up. Both had elsewhere to go, though, so we had to cut the encounter short.

One thing she revealed was that she’d begun using a typewriter to write. She’d slowly stopped writing as much as she used to write, and thought that part of her issue was that she found herself editing as she wrote when she used a computer. That process curtailed her productivity. Typing the work in progress, at this point essentially defining the concept, helped her because she held tangible evidence in her hand each day.

It was an interesting issue and approach. I can relate. Sometimes, when the writing way becomes denser, as it has in the current chapter in progress, tangible progress seems elusive. I type, think, edit, revise, and repeat. It’s not as much fun, but I discover that I still achieve about fifteen hundred words a day. That’s not an amazing amount, but it’s tangible progress.

Once in a while, I’ve returned to writing in a notebook. I consider that much rawer and intense. I’ve done so when I feel like I’m stuck. I usually felt stuck when multiple paths to pursue were available, paralyzing me with indecision and doubt.

In the end, I applaud her typing effort. Whatever it takes to goad yourself to keep writing, you know?

Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Older

I’ve noticed that as I’ve grown older, the span of years among my friends is much greater. I have several good friends who are older than my parents. That enlivens some conversations when I say, “Mom is getting older.”

I struggle with imagining having a friend who was twenty-five years older than me when I was, say, five, but if I wrote a novel about it, I’d probably call it, Her Oldest Friend.

Floofvine

Floofvine (catfinition) – of or related to a feline deity; supremely catlike.

In use: “With carefully created ears and a long, floofy tail that twitched back and forth, her orange and white Halloween costume was floofvine.”

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