Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
86 F outside. That’s supposed to be our high in Ashlandia for this Satyrda, July 26, 2025.
I haven’t read much news today. Haven’t been up much and haven’t been inclined. Dreams provided me with “Red, Red Wine” as today’s theme music. Neil Diamond wrote the song and originally recorded it. Much as Neil Diamond has said, I prefer UB40’s lighter, reggae arrangement. That’s what I’m going with today.
Hope you have a great day. Cheers
Yes, it’s Satyrda, July 19, 2025. I’m about as amazed as you. It’s gonna be a cool one here, just 90 F as our high, up from the current realm ruled by the low 70s. Clouds have abandoned the blue sky and the sun rules.Although fourteen fires are being addressed in our southwestern Oregon region, we’re fairly smoke free. Wind patterns, I guess. Air quality is good.
I glanced at the news but it’s Satyrda. Not much churn going on at this point. Trump is suing Murdoch over the WSJ’s Epstein story. It’ll be interesting if Murdoch backs down. That’s the usual Trump MO. Sue and force the others to back down. Rarely seems to be about truth; more about pressure and money. In this case, with MAGALand clamoring for the Epstein files to be released, Murdoch might have the upper hand. Will he press it?
Today’s music is “While You See A Chance” by Steven Winwood. I heard the1982 song on television last night and The Neurons are not letting it go. They’re focusing on the lines, “When some cold tomorrow finds you, when some sad old dream reminds you, how the endless road unwinds you. While you see a chance, take it. Find romance, fake it. Because it’s all on you.” And this might also be dream related, now that I think about it a little.
Hope this Satyrdaz find you doing well and taking care of business. Off we go, one more time. Cheerz
Young, I was outside at a gathering surrounded by friends and many other festive souls. I was waiting to begin a trip, but I didn’t know any details. Seated at a small white table with matching chairs, people would come by and say hello or they’d pass and I’d call out greetings. It was all very carefree and relaxed. At one point, I decided to make some of my hair light blue. Then, tiring of it, I’d wiped the blue hair almost completely out, leaving just a streak of light blue.
On the white table were three tall glasses with ice. I knew that these had been Long Island Ice Teas, and I’d consumed them. A fourth glass was 3/4 full with another Long Island Ice Tea, but I’d decided not to drink it. Besides those was a flat white napkin thick with light blue; that had been my hair before I wiped it off.
I’d met a new person, a young man named Robert. We chatted and got along. I started calling him Rob or Robby. Then I heard someone called him Bobby. I asked him about it and he said, “Yes, I prefer Bobby.” I said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bobby was going away, to the same place where I was going. But Bobby had all of his details about when he was going and how, and he was leaving the next morning. People asked me, “Why does Bobby know but you don’t know. That doesn’t make sense.” I shrugged it off but it began to bother me.
Several things I did know was that I was leaving on 11/22, and that was a week away, and I was flying, and someone else was making my arrangements. I decided to try to find out more. I brought out my laptop and then inserted my hard drive, which I’d removed for safety. But then, I lost interest in knowing, thinking, they will tell me and there’s no hurry.
Dream end.
June is going out on a heat wave in Ashlandia. Topping out at 99 F today, Sunda, June 29, 2025. It’s okay out there for now, 62 F but the sun is already flexing its heat. Went out there for my morning circadiam rhythm adjustment and the sun heat drove me into the shadows fast. It’s not to last; by Wenzda, we’ll see it drop back down into the mid and upper 80s.
Active dream night. From one of them comes today’s theme music. The dream was about delusions, illusions, magic, and tech. Hearing of that, The Neurons came up with a few songs for the morning mental music stream. First up was “Abracadabra”, a 1982 rock song brought into the world by Steve Miller and his band. It’s pretty standard rock radio fare. Diana Ross apparently partly inspired the song. From Wikipedia:
The song is said to have been inspired by the American singer Diana Ross, whom Miller had met when they each performed on the same episode of the pop music television show Hullabaloo in the 1960s.[3] The lyrics “Round and round and round it goes, where it stops nobody knows” are a reference to the spinning wheel segment from The Original Amateur Hour.
Speaking on The Howard Stern Show in June 2016, Miller said at first his record company Capitol Records did not see the potential hit it would become. “Capitol didn’t believe in it and didn’t want to release it. I had a different deal with Phonogram in Europe. When it came out in Europe, I cancelled my American tour because it was No. 1 everywhere in the world, except the States.”[citation needed] After seeing its success overseas, Capitol released it in the U.S. and it also climbed to No. 1.
Ah, good ol’ “Hullabaloo”! I remember watching that with Mom and my sisters.
But, as The Neurons will do as I’m busy humming “Abracadabra”, they thrust the Lady Gaga song by the same name from 2025 into the morning mental music stream. Jarring as a train wreck as the two songs are well different. But singing that abracadabra refrain with her is fun.
Got my hot coffee. Keep cool or warm, safe and dry, whatever need be, wherever you’re at. Here we go. Cheers
One of my dreams last night left me puzzled but optimistic and in a better mood when I awoke. As I went over its details with myself, one part that captivated me was it featured my first car.
In the dream, I was a young man again, and I was driving my first car. This was a 1965 Mercury Comet. Forest green, it was a four door automatic sedan with a 289 V8.
Dad gave me the car. He’d recently remarried, and this was his new wife’s transpo. Dad bought himself a used service van at an auction to drive to and from work, and turned over his 1974 Chevy Monte Carlo to her to drive. I was completely blown away by their decision. They’d not talked to me about it ahead of time. Until then, I’d been hitching or walking to get around.
With a car, I suddenly had a dating life and began dating the girl who is my wife. Our dates were never much because, car or not, I didn’t have much money. Dad did give me gas money and a few bucks besides. But I was in high school and on sports teams, and local jobs in our rural region were scarce.
After graduating, I joined the military and went in for training. After I returned home from basic training and tech school, I drove that car three hundred miles through a snow storm to my new duty assignment at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Fairborn, Ohio. It was a taxing drive. Ice and snow were thick on the car by my journey’s end.
One day, the car wouldn’t start. It was probably a starter or selenoid switch. As it was a 1965 car and this was 1975, and it was a four-door sedan, I did what many guys would do, and bought my first used car, a sleek little 1968 Chevy Camaro with a 327 V8. Ah, fun car! Young car!
I left the Comet sitting in its parking spot. A man saw it sitting there without movement, hunted me down, and bought it. I’m not sure how much he gave me but I didn’t haggle. The thing is, though, when he went to change registration, he learned it was still Dad’s car.
Oh, yeah.
Dad was pretty pissed but the sale went through. I still laugh about it, and he still shakes his head.
Two nights past, I dreamed I was being snatched. I was arriving at work each time, which amounted to showing up at a desk where a computer was set up. Others were there — all men, most in suits and ties — setting up their own computers or opening briefcases, talking on phones, or grabbing one another for a quick consult. No one noticed me. I was fine with that.
In the first snatch, a white, muscular man with short hair, wearing a sky-blue shirt, came up and grabbed me. As I struggled against him, demanding who he was, he carried me away. That’s essentially what happened with each snatching, and I think I was snatched a dozen times. A different man grabbed me every time but they were always white, with short hair (usually brown or blonde), wore a sky blue shirt, and had red arm tattooes.
But my reactions grew different, and I grew aware of the impending snatch attack, so the circumstances varied in degrees. During that first one, I was completely surprised. The second one, I was briefly startled but had time to worry about my wife, who was working at another space some distance away. The third time found me exasperated that it was happning again, and had me telling others to inform my wife what happened. The fourth instance, I was more resigned but appealed to the men around me to help me stop what was going on. That happened several more times. Each time I was taken, I was irritated that nobody paid attention, but that’s essentially where it ended; then I would arrive at work and get taken again. By the ninth time, I was expecting it and trying to figure out what to do to stop them. By the twelth, I tried immediately running away when I arrived. My captor expected that and I was easily taken.
Thinking about the dream the following morning, I thought it represented frustrations. At home, executing my budgeteer persona, I fix things and more things break. Likewise, I go to the doctor for one issue, get it resolved, and another arises. I feel like I’m on a bad news conveyor belt. My wife’s health is declining. Mom and Dad are both in spirals of decreasing health and increasing concern and have been for half a decade plus. Personally, I feel frustrated and thwarted by my fiction writing efforts. Politically and economically, I see my nation and the greater world becoming mired in increasing chaos of growing intensity. Personal rights and responsibility seem to be shrinking. I don’t feel like I can do much about any of them. This, frankly, pisseds me off.
So, last night, I dreamed I was tearing things down and rebuilding them. This was being done via huge slabs. I don’t know the slabs’ materials, but they were sized like large pizza boxes. Extremely hard and heavy, they were in shades of gray or black. Light didn’t reflect off them. Each was marked in large bas relief with ‘2804’. I’m clueless about what 2804 means.
At first, I was simply moving them. One at a time, I’d picked one up and relocate it to a new position. As I was doing this, I began pausing to consider my actions and be more selective about what slab I picked up and where I put it. I also started re-arranging some slabs that I previously moved. After some period of doing this, I wondered, what am I doing? I heard a voice respond, “You’re rebuilding.”
I reacted, “Oh, okay, cool. That’s good.” Finishing, “I need to rebuild,” I resumed lifting and moving the blocks with new energy.
Dream end.
Good morning from Ashlandia, where the temperature has jumped 49 F. Thickened clouds lurk with dark intentions, prepared to unleash rain faster than can say “It’s Biden’s fault!” The clouds are forcing the sunshine to circumnavigate the clouds, so the sunshine is low energy and uncertain as Trump’s logic. Today’s high will be 59 F, or a little higher than Trump’s IQ. Or so I read on the net. So you know it must be true.
There’s not much change on Mom and Dad. Dad is going home with his wife. Mom is at home with her boyfriend. Mom’s pain is increasing. The source is sciatica. They gave her a steroid shot at the hospital the other day; that ended the pain. Now it’s wearing off and, as these things work, her pain is returning. I’ve not heard about what’s happening with the hospitalized uncle, Dad’s brother. Then there is also the case of the missing cousin. 72 years old, I’ve never met him but he reached out to me via Facebook. See, he met my sisters years ago, after I’d left home when I was fifteen. They kept in touch. A few years ago, he noticed me commenting on their posts and asked for clarification about who I was. See, Facebook does serve some good. Now, though, he’s dropped off of Facebook. Another cousin noticed first and asked if I knew what happened to him. Nope; I contacted his half-sister (same father, different mother). She had no idea what happened to him. So I’ve reached out to his children (who I’ve never met). I’m awaiting a response. He was hospitalized for heart issues last year, and we’re worried.
Today’s music came out of dreamland. I had an interesting, unresolved and frustrating dream. As I contemplated it while doing morning business, The Neurons introduced “Sunny Came Home”, a 1997 Shawn Colvin song that had a lot of radio play. I was puzzled about why The Neurons picked that song (but then again, The Neurons usually puzzle me by what they’re doing). Yet, as I reflected on the dream, some sort of parallels between the song and my dreeam were revealed. To me, the song is about a woman struggling to make sense of things who then becomes an arsonist to ‘solve her problems’. My dream was a reflection of my struggle to make sense of things, politically and personally. The Neurons agree that this makes sense. Who knows if it’s right?
I’m drinking hot coffee again, to which I raise my hands to the heavens and give thanks for small favors. Ready to rock another Saturday. I hope good things happen for you today. Cheers
Dreamed my wife and I went car shopping. I found a sleek new silver sports car. Turned out that it was a Chevy Camaro but it was completely unlike any Camaro previously produced. This car was low, wide, and fast. I didn’t see much of the exterior in the dream except that it was so brightly polished, its silver surface hurt my eyes.
I instantly like it and wanted to sell my wife on it. “Here, babe,” I said. “Take it for a drive.” I had to coax her because she doesn’t trust her driving skills. Finally relenting, she entered the car and got behind the wheel. The car was electric and made little sound. She was amazed. Then she began driving it. After a bit, she said through a big grin, “I really like this.” So we bought the car with dreamlike ease. The whole time, she remained behind the wheel. When I asked if she wanted to keep driving, she replied, “Yes. This is fun.” That pleased me.
We went to a parking garage. As she pulled the car into a slot, a group of young men came up and began hassling us. Annoyed, I told them to go away. At that point, I discovered that my wife had the car’s roof retracted. As I told her to put it up, one of the young men reached into the back and took out a brown folder of papers. I asked him to give them back. He mocked me and walked away with his friends. They began throwing the folder around as they would in a game of keep away. Getting angrier, I found a large orange and a large green papaya. I wrestled with what to do with them. As the man who first took the folder caught it, I hurtled the orange at him, hitting him in his ankle. He went down with a cry, complaining of pain. The rest didn’t know what had happened.
I went over and picked up the folder. A second man threatened me. I threatened him back with the papaya. Another guy laughed and said, “That’s just a papaya.” I hit him in the face with it, knocking him over. As he sat on his ass in pain and astonishment, I returned to the Camaro and my wife drove us away.
Frida, June 13th, 2025, breached with cold air and muzzled sunshine. 59 F, we’re pacing ourselves to climb to 74 F. It’s a chill day. Feels good out there.
Another night of dreams. They covered feeling lost and frustrated, ignored, and change that confused me. Awakened, I felt heavy with loss and disappointment, struggling to find direction and traction, like I’m spinning my wheels to stay in place.
We saw more Trump Justice Two Step last night. Judge said, “Illegal to put them National Guard into LA, Donald,” and another court said, “Keep doing it while we talk about this.” I laughed when Trump’s lawyers argued that California should not “second-guess the President’s judgment that federal reinforcements were necessary” and that a federal court should defer to the president’s discretion on military matters. Oh, they can rouse themselves to such pompous righteous indignation. Trump loves to say he’s leaving things up to the states. ‘I’m gonna wean them off FEMA.’ “The people on the ground know what’s going on and can take care of it best,” he said before.
But he’s fast to ignore the state’s rights and decisions when it doesn’t suit him and barge right in wherever the fuck he wants. The principle behind his moves are always, “Me Donald, you I hate.” In this case, he hates Gov. Newsom and California because he lost California. Didn’t get within sniffing distance of winning it.
TACO is very predictable in his lawless ways. “You spit, we hit!” But that wasn’t the case with the J6 insurrectionists. Yeah, they were attacking the nation, doing a lot more damage phsically and judicially, as the J6 gang attacked the police. No, that had TACO saying, “Me Donald, me love you,” because they were doing it for him. He’s sickening, and the GOP is sickening and shameful for going along with his twisted hyperbole. They won’t be happy until they burn the nation down and then they’ll blink their eyes wide and say, “Gosh, what happened?” Just as they did with multiple previous fiascos. See the Gulf Wars as a big fucking example. My contempt for them has surged out past Starlink.
I’m also having a good laugh at MAGAts. They’re trying to excuse the DC parade as planned BT: Before Trump. One MAGAt declared that President Obama became planning it, lazily conflating celebrating the Army’s 250 year anniversary with the bloated military display scheduled for this weekend. That’s the MAGAts, always bending over for TACO to screw them.
I have “Creep” by Radiohead in the morning mental music stream. Just that sort of morning. Here, little TACO. This is for you.
Pressing on with coffee to go get things done. Let’s be safe out there. Cheers
Wenzda is here, Wenzda is here! Yeah, I’m not that excited. I’m down today.
Regardless of my mood, it’s June 11, 2025. 66 F now, 86 F is the expected upper realm, a nice takedown from the 90s where we’ve been living. The high temps will be back, though. This is Ashlandia, and summer is coming.
My normal awakening process is to stir from sleep, reflect on dreams and then move into the realms of current events going on, personal issues and family, plans for the day and week, and so on. I’m not sanguine about any of those aspects of life. I feel like I’m teetering on depression. But, for me, it’s probably part of my regular cycles. My schedule didn’t permit me my luxury of writing, so I’m likely feeling that. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to do what’s wrong, trying to stand up for others and help others, trying to move us as nation, as a species forward. I wasn’t alone. Many others led the way and inspired me. It feels like everything that we did before now is being callously and stupidly clawed away by Trump and the right wing. To paraphrase Ceelo, “Fuck him, and fuck them, too.”
My version of the Statesboro Blues. Papi seemed to have them, too, incessantly talking to me for attention. I played with him with red dot. Got some lackluster results. Searching for an answer, I whipped out a long shoe string. Man, he went nuts over that, attacking and pouncing, racing away and coming back for more. It was a good time for both of us.
For a whim, I turned to the net and asked, “What was the number one song on billboard fifty years ago in the United States?” And this marvelous technological function called AI said told me it was “Me and Bobby McKee”. Now I know some brain cells have abandoned me but I know that wasn’t the song. Fifty years ago would have been 1975. The cited song came out years before. By 1975, the performer, Janis Joplin, was dead. But, of course, the jackass AI, just like so many other jackass search engines, focused on just one piece of the query and spit out a jackass answer:
“Fifty years ago today, March 23, 1971, the number one song on the Billboard Hot 100 was “Me and Bobby McGee” by Janis Joplin. The song was written by Kris Kristofferson and originally performed by Roger Miller, but became a hit for Joplin after her death.”
Like, hello, you fucking piece of technology, why are you giving me an answer for another month, day, and year? You trying to gaslight me OR are you just that worthless? All those Google answers, and none answered what I asked. But I THINK that had I asked that five years ago, the right answer would have been giving in .0217 seconds. Not this year, not in the year of the Great Trump Enshittification.
For the record, I asked Microsoft Bing the same question. Here’s the top answer:
The number one song on the Billboard charts fifty years ago was12345:
Seriously, WTF Internet land. You guys have lost your way.
Try it for yourselves, please, kind readers. If you get some sane results, please let me know. I can use a little ray of sanity today.
Dark dreams flavored with bitterness and frustration ruled my night. From that mental morass, The Neurons brought up The Black Crowes with “She Talks to Angels” from 1991.
Nothing to do but push through. Have coffee. Enjoy the cool breezes coming through the windows right now, licking me like a giant dog. Drink more coffee. Write.
Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 