Category: miscellaneous

The Jeopardy Dream

It started with Jeopardy. Alex Trebek was there. I was a contestant. The categories were all about me, like childhood injuries, places I’d lived, the names of former teachers and bosses, cars I’d owned. No other contestants were on the stage. I instead played against the people at home. Anyone could immediately buzz in, get recognized, and give the answer. They had to beat my buzzer, though.

I knew the answers. Easily winning, I was having a fun time. Then, reality: some part of me wondered, “Isn’t Alex Trebek dead? Why is he in my dream?” That blew it apart.

I went on to another dream. Back in the military, we were relocating from one place to another. The new place was in the middle of a building. It had desks and consoles but no walls. Everyone kept saying, “This isn’t secure.” I kept replying, “We have no choice. We didn’t make this decision. It was thrust on us.”

The move went along in starts and stumbles, with me and other command post personnel physically relocating things. At one point, someone ran in to inform us that a security incident was taking place. The security police were trying to reach us but no one was responding.

I dashed over to the new command post location. The security police hotline was ringing. I shouted out, “Who is on duty,” while hurrying to the phone. Miguel appeared, rushing to the phone and calling, “Oh, shit, I am.”

After he answered the phone, the dream moved to another phase. Not only had my work location changed, but so had my clothing and transportation. Myron was there to show me how to ride a bike. “It’s different, but you’ll catch on, don’t worry.” I wasn’t worried. Lots was happening, though, as I had to collect my clothes, find my place, take a shower, and then dress, and then ride away. The process of doing this was unwieldy and riddled with interruptions. I kept my focus, though I often had to stop to deal with something else.

Taking a shower had its own problems as the shower door wouldn’t stay closed, leaving me exposed to others’ prying eyes. After a bit of that, I shrugged it off: let them look. I’d picked out a light, short-sleeved blue-green shirt to wear. After I showered I found I had a shirt on, a polo style, light green. After a moment of thinking, I said, “Wait a minute, this isn’t what I selected.” I stumbled around, looking for the right shirt among my belongings. Finding it after a short search, I changed shirts.

The dream ended.

2

Stealing Batteries Deam

I’d dream I was back with folks from my military time — my final assignment, actually — but we weren’t in the military. I’d started a new job and was pleased and happy. The bosses and co-workers all seemed to take a shine to me. Things were going well. Then (you knew it was coming), one co-worker asked me to put something into an envelope for him and stamp it secret. He gave me the something, adding as he walked away, “I need to take it with me when I leave, so if you could hurry it up.”

I was eager to please, so I set right about taking care of it. Putting something in an envelope and marking it…no prob!

But, the something was a package of batteries. Eight of them. They were about C sized. Each was bundled to function as two.

Confusion struck. I was fetching an envelope but was asking myself, what’s going on? Why am I doing this? I remembered that he wanted to stamp this secret. Secret? Why?

As I cottoned to what was up — he was stealing these batteries — the bosses came around. One was a short female who I once worked for. She was just chattering away with a big smile. I was nodding and smiling back while hiding the batteries as I saw the requesting co-worker give me an anxious look over her shoulder.

Time was running out. The boss wanted something else done. “Okay,” I agreed, “but I need to finish this first.”

She wanted to know what I was doing but then veered off to another work area. I hurried to put the batteries into the envelope, seal it, and stamp it. The first thing was done but then another supervisor, a guy I worked with at a start-up after retiring, came by to see what I was doing. I hid the envelope and chatted away as the operation around me began to close up for the day. I needed to hurry. I wanted to help this guy because he’d come to me, and I didn’t want to disappoint him, even if I did wonder, was it worth it? Why was he stealing batteries? How much did batteries cost?

Then, though, I gave up. Instead, I found myself in the kitchen. Most of the others were already gone. Dishes with half-eaten food on them were on the stainless steel sink counter. Another co-worker (also from my last assignment) said, “We need to clean this up.” So, we did. The last thing I remember was scrapping a half-eaten piece of pie from the plate into the trash and then turning to wash it in the sink as the water ran.

0

Popcorn Night

Digital lapse was endured.

Familiar with it? That’s when you click or press and nada takes place. But, being experienced, you know that something has taken place. It’s just not revealed. Novices will think nothing has happened and press buttons or click more. The clicks and taps accumulate, causing a crash or a sudden surge of activities that take you to somewhere that you don’t want to be, digitally speaking, like the wrong screen.

I’m not a novice. I’ve been clicking remotes on digital devices for a decade. Digital lapse is an old adversary. I experience it most with our streaming devices for viewing television shows and movies. Disney Plus is the worst offender in my current stable of providers. But finally I was on the screen where “The Mandalorian” was being offered. One blessing from the Disney Plus site is that it doesn’t immediately start playing trailers. It’s just quiet. Waiting.

I jumped up and set down the remote. Head down, a cat eyed me, ears moving toward my racket. “Popcorn?” I moved around my desk.

We were in the office. We are spoiled people. Although we have a sixty-five inch curved-screen 4K ultra-high definition smart TV in the living room, with surround sound, we do ninety percent of our television viewing in the home office. My wife calls it the snug. A twenty-seven inch flat screen television is mounted on one wall. My desk faces it. So does a recliner in the corner. My wife reclined there. Busy with a game on her AirMac or whatever her Apple machine is called, she nodded.

Making popcorn has become simple. Back when I was a child, popping corn required oil, popcorn, and a big black cast iron Dutch oven. Oil was spread across the bottom. The Dutch oven’s bottom, not mine. You know, inside it. Heat applied. Three kernels were dropped in. A lid applied. The kernels were monitored. Once they popped, kernels were poured in and spread across the hot oil, covering the bottom. Lid applied, a pot holder was acquired. I’d stand there, shaking the Dutch over as the kernels popped.

Jiffy Pop changed it. No need to pour everything. Just peel off the cardboard lid, hold the tin pan over the flame, and shake as the kernels cooked and the foil cover rose.

Microwaves changed it up again. We experimented with several methods before Pop Secret came along. It was just a folded bag. Put it in the microwave, one side up, and press the button. Then monitor as the popping proceeded.

Monitoring has remained the constant. The popcorn was always being monitored. Was that the last pop? Time to stop.

Deciding that we didn’t like that kind of microwave popcorn, our household had regressed back to where I’d started, oil in pan, kernels, lid, popping, add corn, lid, shake. No longer, though. We’d acquired a silicon microwave popcorn maker last year. No oil. Pour the popcorn in to the line. Apply silicon lid. Turn microwave on for four minutes. Monitor. Is that the last pop? Count to five.

It’s amazingly simple, quiet, and easy. So is clean up. I fear that it won’t last. News will break. Scientists will announce that radicalized burrblelons released from the silicon attacks your nervous system when you ingest popcorn made in such a manner. That’s how everything seems to be: something good is found and announced. We like it. Then we discover it’s bad for you or the world.

I poured the popcorn into bowls, flavored it with nutritional yeast, cleaned out the silicon popper and put it away, and headed back to the snug.

The cat had taken my seat. Curled up tightly, he didn’t bother looking up. Ears and tail were still. His eyes were closed. Probably pretending to be asleep.

Dropping to my knees on the carpet beside him, I picked up the remote and pressed play. Digital lapse was endured. Then the show began.

1

Ten Writing Truths

I’ve been listening to interviews via podcasts and Youtube for the past two weeks and distilled some essential truths. I knew these but have never paused to write them down. Thought I’d do that today. Here it is, the culmination of a hours of interviews with writers, editors, and agents.

  1. There’s no thing such as writer’s block. I’d concluded that myself long ago but happy to hear other writers acknowledge that. What is often called writer’s block can be insecurity, doubt, a lack of self-confidence, uncertainty about where to go next, and anxiety about how it’s all going. It can also just be a mental pause to allow your mind to work things out, re-balance, and find the new direction. I never worry it, just monitor it, like a pot that’s boiling, waiting for the right moment for the next move. Meanwhile, I’ll usually work on some aspect of the novel in parallel. None of this is particularly novel to fiction writing; I had the same issues and followed the same process when I was in the military. Back then, it wasn’t fiction writing, but organizing my mind to create standard operating procedures, emergency checklists, operational plans, performance reviews, etc. The same methodology was employed as a civilian in my roles as a customer service manager, product manager, technical support manager, and analyst.
  2. You must write everyday. No, breaks ARE permitted. I once believed and fervently followed this. But it can lead to burn out and isolation. Like most things in existence, a balance is required for optimum results. Yet, admittedly, I’m addicted to the writing process. I love imagining what has happened and then chasing the question and answer to what comes next. I enjoy finding new ways of playing with phrases and exploring characters. It’s an entertaining escape.
  3. Having stated that I don’t need to write every day, I admit, though, that I’m driven to write fiction every day, even if it’s just to add one sentence that suddenly arrives in my head. I never stop writing in my head. I might consciously relegate the current novel in process to a lower priority for a period, but that is usually to permit my brain to address the story and arise with the answer to the question, what next? Besides, even if I’m not doing the novel in process, I’m typically thinking of other stories to write.
  4. Fiction writing is incredibly immersive. It is for me, but I think writing is a personal matter. How you go about it compare to how I go about it is bound to be different. This list won’t have the same items and slant for you as it does for me.
  5. There are so many stories to be written, it’s a boundless cornucopia of ideas. The challenge is that they all take time and other resources to develop and complete. Frustrating, fun, and never ending.
  6. No one else cares about what you’re writing when you’re trying to establish yourself as a writer. Pretty much true, outside of other writers doing the same. In my experience, if this is not true for you, you’re lucky. My family and friends will sometimes ask, “Are you still writing?” The question amuses me. Like, why would I stop? I’ve also learned that I don’t want to share what I’m writing with people when it’s in progress. Excited as I become, I don’t want to jinx it or milk the energy. Besides that, trying to convert what I’m writing, which is meant to be read, into verbal conversation plays tricks with the order of progress. Also, what I had planned often takes unusual spins, so where I thought I was heading takes detours and undergo changes. That’s okay.
  7. Writers enjoy talking to other writers. Absolutely true for me. I enjoy talking about the process with other writers. Some of that is venting, but I’m also interested in stealing ideas, borrowing habits, and attempting new methods. Unfortunately for me, I’m mostly an introvert, except when plied with alcohol, whereupon I become obnoxious, so going to writer conferences is hit and miss. Sometimes I find a groove with a group there but it’s infrequent enough that I shy away from them now. I did have a writing support group here, but the folks moved away. I considered Zooming with them, but we struggled to find a common time. Lot going on with their families…or so they claimed.
  8. Writing is a lonely space. Patience and persistence is required.
  9. Trust yourself. Given the isolation and solitude, this is probably the most challenging for me. I need to write and trust myself — but what if my trust is misplaced? What if I’m so far into my own words that I’m blind to what I’ve written. What if I’m insane and lack talent and ability and don’t realize it? Does it matter if I’m happy writing and striving to translate thoughts into tales?

That’s short of ten. Tell me your writing truths. Help me fill in my list. Cheers

8

Wind Beats Tree

Tree beats car. Had some heavy winds Sunday night/Monday morning. Neighbors a hundred feet down the road experienced the results. No one hurt.

The wind’s snarling awoke me during the night. Then it seemed to quiet before developing into a weird, undulating whine just before daybreak. Listening to this, I thought, that sounds like someone using a power saw. Turned out, it was.

This was down at the bed and breakfast occupying the corner of Siskiyou and Clay Street. Both of the damaged cars park on Clay, across the street from each other. I live up Clay, for perspective.

Photos were taken in the late afternoon when I went walking. We first saw the damages that morning when we left to deliver for Food & Friends.

0

The Thirteenth Killer Dream

Although the dream title may sound threatening, this was a ‘fun’ dream. I returned again to ‘episodic’ format for dreams last night. That’s the expression I use when the dream is more like a television or movie experience. Although I still starred, action went on before other cameras, where I wasn’t in those scenes.

Overview: We were in a sunny, urban area that reminded me of the Silicon Valley-SF Bay. I was a reporter, chasing a story about a serial killer. My team and I had gone down the highway to investigate some details on a recent murder. After gathering clues, we headed back up an Interstate to work other angles. The highway was white concrete with the standard markers dividing it into four lanes. Ahead was a road block. The police were stopping everyone and asking for identification.

Back in another dream segment, two reporters, both male, had noticed that the 13th of the upcoming month had significance in the string of murders. Talking about it, the two reporters agreed to meet on that day.

Back on the highway, my car windows were down. The wind was blowing papers around. I was in a rental car, trying to find my rental agreement and identification. A state trooper approached my car. I stopped my car and offered him papers. They weren’t what he was looking for. The traffic had moved ahead. He told me to pull forward to the end of the traffic and stop again. I did as told, still looking for my identification while he stood at the window, waiting. He waved other cars around me as I continued dumping papers out of my briefcase and going through the center console, pockets, and the glove box, looking for identification, talking to the officer as I did this, telling him who I was and where I was going. He was responding that he didn’t care, he just wanted my identification.

Two cars passing me had my co-workers in them. Slowing, windows down, they called out, wanting to know if I was okay. I called back to them that I was as the trooper ordered them to go on.

Over in the other story line, we — the viewers — realized that one reporter was the serial killer. Investigating himself was a front to learn information from the police and other reporters, and throw us all off. The second reporter, apparently unaware of this, was making ready to meet the killer.

I finally found my identification and presented it to the officer. As he looked it over and we spoke, I had an epiphany and realized that a reporter could be the serial killer. That surprised and concerned me so much that I simultaneously pulled out my cell to call one of my team to talk to them while also starting to drive away. Both caused an irritated reaction by the trooper. Accusing me of trying to flee, he stepped back, put a hand on his gun, and ordered me out of my car. As I tried convincing him that I’d made an innocent mistake, apologizing profusely all the while, the screen split and we witnessed the serial killer stalking the other reporter. I realized the case had a supernatural element to it. The significance of the thirteenth was that he was the thirteenth killer; he’d been inhabiting other bodies. I wanted to chase that aspect.

The dream ended.

0

Happy International Women’s Day

A friend owns an online business called 1000Museums. Quoting them, “1000MUSEUMS is the place to discover, shop and share museums and exhibitions from around the world!” It’s a fascinating site. They’re offering a flash sale to honor IWD. If you have an interest, take a peek. If you want to buy, use the code. Better hurry. Flashes don’t last.

2

A Classic Dream

I lost my pants in this dream. Classic, right?

I’d arrived at a new job working in a huge complex. No one seemed to be expecting me. Walking around in a dark blue suit, I was trying to get oriented. Others were about – none who I knew – so I stopped some and asked questions. All spoke with me and were friendly but none could help me.

Noticing something spilled on my suit pants, I sat down and took them off to dry. It was a large open area with sunshine and seats, like a airport waiting area, and no one was around, so I was comfortable doing that. Too comfortable, I guess, because I decided to wander and look around, killing time. An influx of people drove me back to put my pants on.

My pants were gone.

I hurried around, trying to find them, thinking that I must have misremembered where I left them. But no, I was right about where it was, and they were gone. And my keys were in my pocket. Damn it. Well, from somewhere, I came up with another pair of pants. These were brown tweed, didn’t fit me, and didn’t match my coat. But I was less conspicuous than running around in my boxers, right?

The rest of the dream was about me trying to figure out where I was and where I was supposed to go, asking people along the way. No one could help me. I resolved to do it myself but never did find where I was to be.

0

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