Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Subfloof (floofinition) – 1. A physical object underneath an animal.
In use: “They knew the remote was subfloof again because the dog started moving around in her sleep and the channels began changing.”
2. Food or behavior that’s considered beneath an animal’s dignity.
In use: “Trying to entice the cat back into the house, he opened a can of food and called the cat, who sat down, watching him, clearly deciding that falling for such tricks was subfloof.”
I was split about what I was calling this dream because of its varying facets. WTH.
I was a teenager. I’d biked back to visit an area where I previously lived, to see the friends still living there.
But my friend wasn’t home. Platinum blonde and white, with hair and clothing styles lifted from the 1960s, aunts and older female family friends were there and told me, “Make yourself at home.” I was in the kitchen with them and felt uncomfortable because it wasn’t my place. They scoffed away those protests while they stayed busy chatting and doing things.
The large, bright kitchen was fresh, airy, and uber-modern. Hidden doors and cupboards were everywhere. The refrigerator opened and unfolded like a transformer toy and held an amazing amount of food. My astonishment rabbited higher with every revelation.
One aunt was looking for cheese. Announcing, “I can’t find it, I have to go to the store for it,” I replied, “Wait, no, I know where it’s at.” I showed her some unfolding refrigerator section that she didn’t know about where the cheese was tucked away.
After that, I walked around the home’s bottom level. My friend’s mother returned home at that point. Short and fair, blue-eyed, with pink lipstick and white gold hair cut like Marlo Thomas in “That Girl”, she told me that I was welcome to stay as long as I like. I demurred but walked around because the house fascinated me. The living room had two large, comfortably furnished conversation pits, but the back of the living room had two natural reflecting pools surrounded by cliff walls. I saw my friend’s Mom take her bikini top off and sit back, relaxing and meditating, but looked away, not wanting to impose on her.
Going on through the house, I found a large green lawn adjacent to the living room. No walls separated them. Another front door led into that area from the outside. Two front doors! I was quite impressed and thought, every house should have two front doors. It made sense.
I had my bike now, and pushed it toward the house’s back, where I encountered the ocean. Yes, there was a large beach, reminiscent of central California, inside their house, or the house wasn’t closed in on that end. I couldn’t decide which it was as I enjoyed the crashing waves and different bird varieties.
My friend still hadn’t returned. I decided to head home. I pushed my bike back up into the living room. Seeing his mother, still topless by the reflecting pool, I called out to her, “I’m going home now. Thanks for everything.”
She came to me, putting a tee shirt on as she did, and asked questions about my planned route home. Announcing she was going that way, she said that she’d ride with me, and pulled her bike out. She was doing some shopping that way.
We rode our bikes along a rutted narrow dirt road filled with potholes and talked. She asked me why I liked her. I told her because she was intelligent, clever, charming, and beautiful. I raved a bit about her house, which I thought was amazing. She was distant in reply; I realized she wasn’t paying attention but was focused on riding her bike.
We arrived at a little market where she wanted to stop to buy bubble gum. Small wicker buckets at angles on wooden platforms abounded in a cramped, small stall. She told me to pick out some gum for myself and then said, “Oh, I need to get tongue for the dogs.”
“Tongue?”
She was holding up several packages. “Oh, yes, they love it.”
I was bewildered. “But isn’t that bubble gum?” Then I thought, who would make tongue-flavored bubble gum? I must have misunderstood.
That’s where it ended.
It is mostly such a mundane dream. My wife and I are outside our home. We’re youngish, roaming about in our middle years. This is not the house we live in, nor a place we’ve ever lived in, but easily recognized as a standard, pleasant American middle class dream place, part of a planned development, a few stories tall, with a yard and neighbors in like houses. Not quite homes cut from the same design, but homogenized with individual flares and nuances. Our home is stucco and off-white.
As I say, we were outside, in sunny weather, in the backyard. Our cats walk about, being cats. One began scratching his claws on a headboard. “No,” I chase him away, telling my wife, “Don’t let him scratch this.” I set about repairing it. Adding a strip of wire grid that will keep murder mittens from scarring the wood. I pursue this past time for a period. It’s more tedious than I expected.
Railroad tracks are laid not far from our backyard. I’m up in the house, on the second floor, looking down when a train comes by. It’s an old-fashioned steam locomotive. I can see into the neighbor’s backyard on the right. They have a little train, about knee high, just an engine and coal car, that goes out and greets the train when it passes. I see this several times in the dream and conclude that the neighbors have a motion sensor along the rails. Or maybe they’re just sitting inside, waiting for a train. I never see them, though I know the man is bald, in his late fifties/early sixties, white and wears glasses and flannel shirts.
I’m back in the backyard, working in the bed headboard. It’s an old piece but mass produced, one we purchased from J.C. Penney when we were young, with decoupage flowers.
The cat, a ginger, starts talking to me. His enunciation isn’t very good but it’s clear enough that I know that he’s talking about birds. I snort this away, amused. Cats and birds are like sun and sky. The cat insists, “You have to see these birds, Michael.”
I follow the cat just to appease him. We go down a sloping meadow to a small cottage surrounded by glossy dark green bushes. “There they are,” the cat tells me.
I hear the birds before I see them and know that they’re parrots. Five of them, green, red, blue, and yellow prominent among them, flock toward us, chatting at us while coming up to see what and who we are. I worry about the cat and birds fighting and hurting one another, so I’m wary and cautious. But the birds interest me. I tell the cat that they’re parrots. He’s intrigued. I tell the birds that the animal with me is a cat and that he and I live up the hill from them.
I then see a snake. Don’t know what kind it is. It moves fast and is gone. I worry again: will it bite or harm me, the cat, the birds? I tell the cat, “There’s a snake here, watch it.” He’s immediately interested in trying to find it.
I retreat back up to my house with him, away from the colorful, noisy parrots. Back in my yard, I tell my wife, “There are parrots down there. Come down and see them.”
That’s where it ends.
Well, happy birthday Eddie Van Halen, Paul Newman, and many others. Yes, today is January 26, 2021, a Wednesday, as it happens. Sunshine invaded our valley at 7:30 AM. Lovely to not be stumbling through a dim house but instead stride through sunshine washing the floors and windows. The temperature is 40 F and we expect to reach 63 before the sun takes its rays and leaves at 5:18 PM. As expected with these sort of winter temperatures, clouds are skipping the valley today.
I singled out Paul Newman and Eddie Van Halen from the long list of Jan. 26 birthday notables listed on a webpage because of their influence in my life. Paul Newman was a big star by the time the cobwebs cleared from my infant mind and I started paying attention to the world. He was one of Mom’s faves. Whenever something involved Paul Newman, Mom talked about it. Frank Sinatra was the other one like this for her. Guess she had a thing for blue-eyed men.
Meanwhile, Van Halen was born the year before me. Started his band when I was sixteen and then rose to become one of rock’s pre-eminent guitarist and another star in my rock universe. That he died so young — just a year younger than I am now — bothers me just because I admired and enjoyed his playing. I’m sort of fatalistic about death on the one hand, believing it’ll happen to all of us, while also wondering if there’s another side, something that does happen beyond death. Many accuse me of mysticism when I speak of these things; they are sure that death is final and there is nothing more. But, abiogenesis remains a mystery that exists but can’t be explained, sort of sliding it into another mysticism category. Then there’s the matter of what was here before the Big Bang? I think understanding everything is still a work in progress and that as we learn more, we’ll discover many more baffling components of consciousness, existence, time, and reality.
Today’s morning mental music stream inhabitant is “Over the Mountain” by Ozzy Osbourne (1981). The song arose yesterday while walking. I was at the top of a crest, about 2900 feet. Across the way, the sunset was spreading a rosy jam across the golden mountaintops that stood against a blue sky. Spectacular. In came “Over the Mountain” as I thought about what was happening on those mountains and on the other side. So much life that we know little about except in general terms until the shit gets real, right?
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the jabs when you can. I’m popping off for more coffee. You stay and listen to the music. I already heard it. Cheers
I was traveling alone. Between flights, I was staying at a hotel. The hotel was pleasant, and I was in a mini suite. It was a smooth trip. I had everything I needed and all was working. My fight was at 6:35 AM. I thought that was perfect; I always prefer traveling early. I made my plans, working backward, getting there ninety minutes before the flight, traveling to the airport, checking out of the hotel. Meanwhile, I passed time by having dinner, surfing the net, having a drink, and socializing with strangers. All smooth, under control, relaxed. I decide to dress, check out, and head for the airport. But before I do, I’ll check emails. I found that my wife had sent me messages but that I’d missed them. She wants me to call.
I check out and call her on the way to the airport. The connection is horrible. She’s angy and upset. It sounds like she’s telling me someone died. I set my phone down. It gets misplaced but two woman come up with it as I’m searching for it. The phone has a code on it in red numbers: 752. I somehow understand that this a code to lock the phone because a problem has been detected. I’m exasperated because I don’t think the phone has a problem, and I need to use it now. But using it requires me to call corporate to get it unlocked. I’m confused about where to call because I don’t work. Is it IBM, ISS, Network ICE, Tyco, some other corporation who employed me?
Somehow, though, using my computer, I manage to get the help needed to unlock the phone. It’s still plenty of time before my flight. I call my wife; she tells me my brother-in-law died. Who? Which? Give me details. Instead, she chastises me because I’d not called her in several days. I realize that she’s right, that I hadn’t called or emailed her in almost seven days.
The dream ends.
Watching, walking, reading, writing, cats…that’s my world. Oh, and the wife. And eating and sleeping. And games. Cleaning house. Shopping. Can’t forget Wordle, Spelling Bee, and Sudoku. And two DIY projects. And keeping up with the news.
All family except my wife are several thousands of miles away. Literally on the other U.S. coast. We’re on the west and they’re on the east. Visiting under COVID conditions is problematic. The best way would be to drive across the country. I supposed we can pile the cats into the car and do that. I don’t think it would be a pleasant trip for cats or humans.
That’s all my happenings. Hope you’re all staying busy and healthy out there. Drop me a line. Let me know. Time to return to writing and editing like crazy, then go for a walk. Cheers
