Author: Michael Seidel

Science fiction, fantasy, and mystery writer. Singer (sorry, no shows) & nudist (in my home). Beer, cat, cheese, coffee, pie and wine friend. Left IBM and Silicon Valley for the southern Oregon life but I miss the ocean. We're too far inland. Gotta move.

Sunday’s Theme Music

4/3/2022, A Sunday, with a lazy, milquetoast sun, and a low energy motor. April’s first Sunday is gonna be mellow, it proclaims. Were this a thriller or murder mystery, or a disaster film, something would happen to shake the calm and enliven the day with screams. So far, nothing — but it’s early.

Not that I want it. I have coffee. Would prefer to just motor on in a quiet way.

Temperature is a chilly 42, and yes, others say, I’ll take that, because they’re freezing their butts off or dealing with snow. I hear you, and I understand. Supposed to reach 62 F here. The sun wandered in at 6:50 AM, scratching itself, mumbling “Whatssup,” through a yawn. It’ll wander back away at 7:39 PM. The clouds, like the sun and me, seem to lack the energy to be more than a white wisp of stretched thought, the kind of thinking when you say, “I’m hungry,” and someone else asks you, “What do you want to eat,” and you answer, “I don’t know.”

The neurons continue messing with my head. I don’t know what I’ve ever done to them but they’re a bit cranky, energetic and lazy at the same time, like sullen teenagers feeling their hormones and wandering what to do with them. First the neurons pushed Olivia Newton John music on me — “Have you never been mellow” — followed by Melanie singing, “Look what they’ve done to my song, ma,” followed by the German version that was a larger hit. I mumbled something about needing change, fast. The neurons responded with impressive speed, playing the Ramones, “Do You Remember Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio?” from 1980. It’s not speeding around and around the morning mental music stream like race cars at the Indy 500.

Got my coffee, yeah. Stay positive, test negative, and so on. Reading a novel where their future mentions in passing, COVID-19, COVID-23, and COVID-27. It’s a startling thing to do in passing.

Here’s the music. Cheers

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Saturday’s Theme Music

Sunshine petered into our valley for an hour and then the sun crested the mountains like a shining spring bloom.

Hi. Today is Saturday, March 33, 2022, or April 2, for the purists. We’re already at 52 degrees F today after the sun hit the valley with its warm light at 6:52 AM. The sun will ride our sky until 7:38 PM, pulling our temperatures up to a high of 66 F. No rain today; not a cloud in the sky right now.

The neurons continue having fun with me. This morning, out of nowhere, and I’m serious about that, it came from nowhere, they began singing a song called “98.6”. Released when I was a child, I had to search for who sang the song and the year. I was clueless about both. I know it sounds like a humbrag — and yeah, it is — but music is usually weirdly fastened to me via space and time, like details about who I was and where at the time I regularly heard the song, friends’ reactions to it, etc., along with the artist. But for this one, I knew I was a kid, and the lyrics were just sucked up. Of course, the lyrics are smooth and easy, following a simple rhythm, so I suppose that’s understandable. Turned out the song was released by Keith in 1966. I was ten. Such a different sound to pop in that era, innit?

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the jabs when needed. We are searching for another booster, and we’re still masking when in stores, etc. We’re not alone in that, either.

Here’s the music, which means it’s coffee time. Cheers

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The Philospher-Musician Dream

It began with a dark, rainy night. Walking along on a windy tar road under a tall highway overpass, I was looking for a specific house, one where a French philosopher and musician lived. I had some vision but it was extremely dark and wet. As I walked, I realized an animal was not far from me. I veered a bit to go around it and realized it was a large, black dog. I changed course again, then just shrugged off the dog’s presence and walked past it. The dog ignored me; I looked back and found it was two large, black dogs, but they weren’t paying any attention to me.

I arrived at the house I sought. Children let me in and led me to a bedroom. Her ceilings were low, the walls were wood-paneled, windows abounded, and the lights were soft, yellow glows. After a moment, a woman entered; this was the philosopher-musician I sought. She was short and fair, thin, with a black bob. I explained to her that I had an original song trapped in my head. I wanted to get it out but I wanted to duplicate it so others could hear it. Could she help?

Yes. I sat on her bed on white sheets. She asked me to describe the song. I listened in my head and described soft violins that swelled and fell. She began playing music, asking, like this? That kept on until she had that piece down with my corrections. So it went, with different instruments, until she’d captured the entire song in my head. The children sometimes interrupted, coming in to peek at me or asking Mom for something, but it was overall a very productive but intense session.

She gave me a copy of the recording for my use. I left, retracing my steps through dark pouring rain. Seeing a shortcut through a yard, I ventured to follow it, where I saw a bird riding on the back of the turtle. The turtle went through a pool of water and then out onto the land again. The bird was almost dislodged but resettled. Both looked at me. I wondered if the bird was a burden to the turtle and considered trying to remove it but decided against it.

I went on and came across a large party under sunshine and tents on the grounds of a Marriott Hotel. I knew it was a Marriott because of the big, red letters. It wasn’t raining; I was dry and the land was dry. I saw two of my tall cousins. Going to them, I said, “Hey, let me buy you a drink,” and handed one a twenty. Each already had a drink in their hand but stopped and looked at the money.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s not enough,” one cousin answered.

“Isn’t this happy hour?” I returned.

“Yes,” the other cousin said, “But my vodka is nine dollars a shot, and this is a double shot.”

Dream end.

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♫ Mockingbird ♫

A fun watch that started my mouth grinning and my blood flowing. It was almost like a musical cuppa coffee.

jilldennison's avatarFilosofa's Word

My friend Jerry often sends me ideas for my music posts.  He and I do not generally share the same taste in music, so it’s rare that I use his suggestions here, but a few nights ago he sent me one, saying …

“I know you’re not doing much on the music posts, but here’s one I think that YOU will like. I heard the song the other day and was curious if they did it live. The harmonies are hard to do the way they did it on record, but they sure did pull it off live. Impressive!!”

The song was Mockingbird, the artists are James Taylor, whom I adore, and Carly Simon, and he’s right … they sure did pull it off!

It turns out that Inez and Charlie Foxx initially recorded this in 1963.  According to SongFacts …

  • This is based on a traditional American folk song…

View original post 548 more words

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Flooftoral

Flooftoral (floofinition) – Of, or relating to land, area, or space around animals.

In use: “The bedroom master bed was bathed in sunshine each morning, becoming the flooftoral post-feeding napping zone.”

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The Room Dream

I arrived home as a young man. Mom gave me a room. I was happy to see her and happy to be there. We were living on a train, and the room she gave me was an entire train car. Long and narrow, I had a bed, desk, dresser, bookcase, chair, and wardrobe. I set them up to provide separate sleeping and living areas, using the bookcase and vanity as a makeshift wall. As I set it up, my young sisters came in and visited. Sometimes they brought young neighbor boys that they were watching. Mom would also occasionally come by.

I stacked my books and organized my desk, made my narrow bed, and slid against one wall. One side of the train had windows, and I set my desk up under them so I could look outside.

Young people in a sixties era Chevy Impala convertible (after the fins were dropped) began driving by. Whenever they did, some of my things would get shifted, annoying me. This worsened; even as I cleaned and organized again, they drove by, knocking things over. They never reached in or anything, but I knew it was them, as they were laughing about it.

I decided I’d put a stop to that and devised a way by changing the room around. The new arrangement was less satisfying, but it was staying neat and still workable. However, one of the little neighbor boys my sisters were watching kept sneaking into my room and tearing things up. He was fair and blonde, giggling often, but crying whenever he was stopped or reprimanded. I kept putting him out, warning him not to do that, and warning others to keep him out, and then cleaning up again, and again, but he kept getting in there. Mom came to me and told me to be more patient and tolerant because he was a small child and had mental and emotional health issues. I complained to her but took her point and promised I would try.

The train with my room went on the move. That pleased me because I thought we’d moved away from the boy causing the problem. But he got in there again. I was bewildered. My sisters explained that he’d come with us. I felt that I had no choice but to close and lock my doors. After I did that, I discovered him sliding in under the door. It looked like he could completely flattened himself, becoming as pliable and flexible as a sheet of paper.

My exasperation and irritation spiked. How was I supposed to deal with that. I took hold of the boy to take him out of the room. He immediately screamed, writhing and crying in my grasp. Others came running in. I said that I hadn’t done anything to him, that he was overly sensitive, defending myself with the claim, I was just stopping him from ruining things again. My sisters took him out of my room.

Dream end.

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