The Publishing Dream

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.

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

Sediflooftary

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.”

Thursday’s Theme Music

Mood: spirited

We’ve reached the final Thursday of September. It’s the 28th now; this weekend, we turned over our pages to October.

Chilly damp weather continues its supremacy. The night showed a cool hand, pushing the furnace to turn over. It’s 46 F outside, 68 F within. We expect bounteous sunshine today but only a 69 degrees F ceiling. I reckon that’s pleasant fall weather, and good for taking a walk and doing some landscaping tasks.

Well, last night’s GOP debate was a sharp reflection of the party’s state: muddy and limp. This was the debate between the Republican nominees for POTUS for the 2024 election. Parts I saw was of lackluster candidates not debating much policy but eagerly attacking each other. A few shots were thrown at the favorite, DJ Trump, but he wasn’t mentioned much. The candidates preferred to beat up one another.

I’ve always contended that this field is not about establishing their bonafides as the party nominee. No, they’re shooting to be the Trump replacement. They look at Trump’s speech, grandiose boasting, erratic behavior, and his obese being, and think, “He’s gonna die soon. When he does, I’m going to fill the void for the MAGAts.”

A few of the candidates know, though, that they need to appeal to independents and Republicans who are never Trumpers. Hence, the shot by Florida Govenor DeSantis, demanding an explanation by Trump about why 7.8 trillion dollars were added to the debt during Trump’s administration and caused the current inflation. I’m surprised he took that tack; the GOP rarely acknowledges how much they add to the economy’s woes. They prefer to declare that less taxes will fix everything even as problems mount, and shove those problems onto the Democrats’ plate.

Also never mentioned were any of the 91 indictments against Trump, or his four court cases. In not mentioning that, they stayed within the Republican talking guides, never mentioning the criminality spreading through the GOP like a cancer.

Well, enough GOP bashing. On to the music. The Neurons have “You Dropped A Bomb On Me” by the Gap Band from 1982 playing in my morning mental music stream (Trademark shady). I must say, I don’t know why Der Neurons are playing this funky tune. I’ve always enjoyed the song’s playful verbiage and its beat but there’s not reasons for it to be in my head. I guess I could blame an unremembered dream for opening the musical stream.

Well, I’m not going to solve that now. Maybe I can do that after more coffee. Stay positive, test negative, be strong, and press forward. Here’s the music. There’s my coffee. Away we go.

Cheers

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