Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A friend posted on FB about her clothes getting stuck on door handles. Another responded, “their way of telling you to slow down and reflect”.
That nudged my mind into singing, “Slow down, you move too fast. You got to make the morning last.”
Then Simon & Garfunkel began performing “The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)” from 1971. I’m sharing it with you to dislodge it from my mind. Please sing along.
Please.
On Wednesday, I mentioned a couple of my recent dreams to my wife. She shook her head; “You’re on another plan with those dreams. I have no idea what’s going on.”
Yeah, I often have that feeling about my dreams, but many of them reassure and inspire me. Not so the dreams of Wednesday and Thursday nights. Of the silly variety, I call them my sitcom dreams. Along with what I call my ‘episodic adventure dreams’, the sitcom dreams happen regularly. There’s always a string of them. Although they amuse me, I rarely post about them.
For example, one dream last night had me attempting to feed two cats. The cats in question were Jade and Quinn. Quinn died two years ago after being with us for twelve years. Jade came to us on Okinawa and was with us for twenty-one years. Both were sweethearts, although Jade was furiously intelligent and willful.
In the dream, I was trying to feed these two in my backyard. I had a food bowl set up for them but they were crowding me, giving me the impression they were hungry. Naturally, I talked to them about it.
“Why are you asking me for food. There’s plenty of food in your bowl. Come on, I’ll” I led through the yard’s lush green grass back to their food bowl. “See?” I pointed. They hurried to their food bowl, sniffing, then turned to me in question. Puzzled, I went to the food bowl. Closer to it, I discovered that what I thought was cat kibble was sandwich wedges. Checking them out with surprise, I discovered they were stale.
“Sorry,” I told the cats. “Let me clean this up and then I’ll give you real food.”
As I was cleaning, putting the stale sandwiches to one side, a man and his family — neighbors — passed by, watching me as they went. I heard the father say to the rest, “He is burying the cats’ feces.” I smiled when I heard him but didn’t clarify what was going on.
That’s where that one ended. See what I mean? There were six or seven of these sort of dreams, about cars, technology, cats, and houses. While I take humor from them, I do acquire some deeper insights about myself from the sitcom dreams. I might be rationalizing what happens but I like it. Still, I’m looking forward to a return my normal dream programming.
I can always use reassuring.
Todays sunrise in Ashland, OR, was 7:40 AM. Sunset is 5:04 PM. A light gray overcast sky keeps the sunshine at bay. The temperature is 42 degrees F but a high of 56 is projected, along with light rain.
Today’s theme music is “Animal I Have Become” by Three Days Grace, 2006. I chose the music on behalf of the United States and the nation that it’s become. Torn by division, rhetoric and activity turns more violent and urgent. As blacks have been killed by police, people took to the streets to protest the deaths. Many of them were senseless, but officers were exonerated. Several particularly infuriating people, like Breonna Taylor, unarmed, in bed, innocent of everything but being black, killed by police in their zest to ‘serve and protect’. There was also George Floyd, killed by an officer who was busy serving and protecting, by kneeling on his neck until he died while his fellow officers, serving and protecting, looked on. This was apparently for a report of a crime of passing a counterfeit twenty dollar bill. Numbingly, those are just two examples that fueled the anger and protests that swept the nation on behalf of justice in 2020.
Meanwhile, on the right, they got busy protesting those protests, screaming in response, “Blue Lives Matter”. That blue lives really didn’t matter to them became apparent (as if we weren’t sure) as Trump supporters, who are quite right wing, conservative, and white supremacists, battled with the police in support of a coup attempt, beating many police officers, killing one. On the right, they believe that the 2020 election was stolen by ‘the left’. They think that there was all sorts of fraud, uncounted ballots, and thrice counted ballots that helped propel Biden to his landslide (in Trump’s words, as Biden won the EC by the same number as Trump did in 2016). Trump himself, and GOP cohorts, continue feeding this lie. They insist that evidence exists.
This evidence has never been shown.
On the right, they claim the evidence will be shown, and we’ll all change our tune. What’s keeping them from showing this evidence anywhere is the response given by the rest of us.
One note that has everyone (outside of the people who believe that the 2020 election as stolen) shaking their heads, is why would this all-powerful election-stealing apparatus only steal the presidential election? Why would they not steal the Senate and House? Why wouldn’t they also steal the state elections? They use the same ballots. Apparently, though, while the right believes this election-stealing apparatus is all-powerful, it’s not powerful enough to steal those elections. Yeah, SMFH.
With Trump impeached again, Trump unwilling to concede, little change to police policies and practices, and FBI reports that the right have violent plans to change the results of the 2020 election, “Animal I Have Become”, a song about a man struggling with drug addiction, seems right.
On a WordPress note, they appeared to have fixed some issues, in my experience. The site published properly yesterday. Of course, today when I went to post, I couldn’t bring up a page. Took three tries, and the whole ‘post/block’ sidebar had vanished and needed to be called up.
Stay positive, test negative, moderate your drinking, and wear pants (and a mask) when appropriate. Cheers
Don’t know what’s going on in WordPress world this week. There’s probably a blog post somewhere explaining some shit. Not interested in chasing it down.
On my side, I’m not having ‘issues’, per se; WP is just up to a different level of annoying. Whenever I publish a blog, it doesn’t announce that it’s published; instead it comes up and presents the ‘Update’ button in the upper right hand corner. When I then leave that post after publishing it, WP asks, “Leave site? Changes you made might not be saved.”
That leaves me asking, “Changes? WHAT CHANGES? I just published the friggin’ thing.”
Anyone else seeing any of this? Or am I alone in the madness?
Amazonitis struck again. Packages were supposed to arrive by Sunday. When such didn’t happen, I checked the calendar (yes, yesterday was Sunday and today is Monday) and the front porch (nope, no package — but was it stolen?) and then went to Amazon. After clicking on Orders and Track Package, I was given this message:
Now expected January 11 – January 12
Well, where was it, then? When I checked on Saturday, they assured me it was ‘on the way’. I clicked on a link for more shipping details.
Wow. I was impressed! That package worked hard on Friday, making tremendous progress from Vancouver to Portland, rushing between Amazon facilities and carrier facilities. Where’d it go after that?
Who knows? If only there was some capacity to track these things, some system whereby the packages are provided a number, and then under that system, let’s call it a tracking system, where its progress is followed, with details provided to the expectant customer about when it’ll arrive.
Fortunately for me, in this issue, it’s again not at all crucial. It’s more of a minor annoyance. I put the annoyance factor below the football team that I root for (we’ll not speak their name) getting bounced from the playoffs. It’s not like the package is carrying critical medicine, desperately needed food, or almost as importantly, coffee.
This is more of a first-world whine about setting expectations and having those expectations dashed. (Well, ‘dashed’ is a little strong. Let’s say, ‘failed’.) Yes, I’m aware of COVID-19. I’m aware many people are at risk out there for this stupid little package. I’m grateful to those people. I’m just having a little pre-coffee Monday morning fun, venting. It’s not like I have places to go.
It’s not like I’m a package.
I was in a busy, busy place. The people there were all familiar in the dream and yet nobody from this life. Most of us, including me, were working on computers, engaged in some mutual project. For my role, I realized that we were trying to establish a structure. Some other element was attempting to steal our work to undermine our goals. Realizing that, I had an epiphany. Working faster, I established a domain, “In my city”, set up protections and rights, and established myself as administrator. I attempted to communicate what I was doing to everyone else, but it was so noisy and busy that my information was lost in the wash. Feeling that I was right but ahead of the rest, I kept at it.
Then, someone else suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, no, the opposition has already taken that domain. They already have it.” As moans and groans blew across the room, I said, “No. That’s not them. I have it. I created the domain. Don’t worry.”
The dreams had variety tonight. The essence of each:
The paddleboat one was shortest. It was also funny to me; I’d dreamed the other night that I was battling muddy water, a not-infrequent dream experience for me, but didn’t have any sort of water conveyance. Alone, I was in one of those little boats that you propel by cycling, as if you’re on a bicycle. Instead of turning wheels on ground, paddles through water move you on. It’s white and blue, in such good shape that it could be new. The water surface is a gorgeous dark indigo glass on a blue-blessed day. Sunshine and silence abound. A green tree line provides a distant horizon.
Paddling along without issue, I knew in the dream where I was going although on awakening, I don’t have any idea what the mission was. In the dream, I came alongside a structure. It’d arrive out of nowhere. I started paddling along the structure. White and red, it could have been a large, sprawling boat. Down by the water line, its structure offered a zigzagging series of platforms. As I took them in, I grasped that I needed to dock at one of them. Then I could just climb to where I wanted.
The young woman dream aroused me. First, I walked into a room where I found a young woman changing clothes. A big room, it was essentially empty and bland. Young, dusky, and voluptuous, the young woman’s thick hair hung straight down her back. She was totally naked. I was chagrinned to have come in on her. She was matter-of-fact. My wife was present and seemed indifferent to my arrival.
Later, my wife and I are in bed in our jammies. I’m spooning her. We say at the same time, “You’re so warm.” Feeling my erection pressing against her, she asked with an amused look over her shoulder, “Really?” Laughing, I answer, “Really.”
I’m then in bed with a friend, again in jammies. I’m spooning him. We both say, “You’re so warm,” and then laugh.
I once again walk into the room where the young woman has become naked while changing clothes. She’s alone. I smile at her and act flustered. She calls me on walking in on her, accusing me of being transparent and deliberate. I feebly try denying it, but can’t pull that off.
The final dream finds me in a secure building at the day’s end. It’s a cluttered and dark place. Secure filing cabinets with dials to open them are all over. Like others there, I’m getting ready to eave for the day when some shipments come in.
Two are for us. They’re vials. One set of vials have been used in clinical trials while the other are unused. Everything are numbered by lots. Both need to be signed into logs, which involves re-opening the safes. A woman, my boss, and I volunteer to do it. After the others leave, I tell her that I can do it all. Hesitating, she asks, “Are you sure?” “Yes,” I answer, so she leaves.
The vials are red, with a sharp needle attached to an end. As I handle the returned products, I accidently scratch my finger with one. Or did I? Even as I’m worrying, I’m not sure it happened. I’m also concerned about which set of vials it is. At first, I think that it was the used vials, which increases my anxiety. Then I investigate and conclude, no, that were the unused vials. Then, checking numbers again, I decide that it was the used ones, and then decide, no, they were the unused ones. I’m not sure at all but, again, there’s no real sign that I actually did anything to myself.
While I’m worrying and fretting, I’ve been working, opening the safes, making the entries in the logs, and securing the vials. But then, weirdly, I don’t know how to document that I opened the safes. I think I know what I’m supposed to do but can’t find the forms. I’m rifling through files, trying to find them. A friendly co-worker comes back in. I tell him that I can’t find the right forms. He starts searching; he can’t find them, either. As he’s looking, I’m babbling on about how I used to know this, and then recall more details. The co-worker has become irritated because he was just being friendly. Now he’s involved in a problem. Then I remember, oh, we’ve been looking inside the files when they’re attached to the outside of the safes, of course. Of course! How can you annotate what time you’ve closed the safe when the safe is already closed? How can it be verified as closed and locked if it’s not on the outside.
Others have returned to work and are asking what we’re doing. I shrug them off. By now, the co-worker is angry and embarrassed because he was looking inside. It makes him look like he doesn’t know what he was doing.
Dreams end.
A brief bout of Amazonitis hit our house this week. Don’t know if you’ve ever been afflicted. Essentially, it’s a common medical condition brought on by something that Amazon or its affiliates do. First, someone’s mood grows foul. The person is then often afflicted with spurts of anger and short temper, accompanied by swearing at the computer. Side-effects include swearing at other people, the news, and animals.
My wife was afflicted first. Her book club is meeting on Wednesday next week. The book chosen for 2021 is Girl, Woman, Other. As soon as the announcement was made in early December, I went online to the library, checked for copies, and put it on hold. I was number two billion on five copies. (Yes, that’s an exaggeration for effect; actual number was seventeen on six copies.) (My wife’s library card doesn’t permit her to put books on hold online. Her card is part of an older system. The system was revamped five years ago. One needed to go in and get a new card. She never did that, so my card is used for her requests along with my requests. I don’t mind; I need to keep the karma points.) (Okay, I mind a little.)
I tracked progress of the book on hold. I’d reach number nine by the last week of December. Okay, the library book wasn’t going to be received in time. In lockdown, finding it locally was something she shied away from doing. The book was ordered online from Amazon.
Amazonian wheels began turning. The order was processed. Shipment took place. Estimated delivery was by 8 PM on January 8th. Candles were lit. The vigil began. Shipment notifications claimed it was out for delivery. The front lights were turned on to help the deliverer find their way.
Eight PM passed without a delivery. “It’s not here,” my wife growled, the first stage of Amazonitis. “Let me see what the tracking notification says.” She opened her computer. “What the actual fuck! They say it’s in Hillsborough, Oregon.”
Hillsborough is a suburb of Portland, about two hundred ninety miles away.
My wife turned to me. “It’s not going to be here until between the twelfth and fourteenth now. Book club is on the thirteenth. I won’t have time to read the book. Where can I get it?”
I did online searches of local bookstores to see what could be done. Wasn’t in.
“Can you order on Kindle?” my wife asked. “Do you have an app? Can I read it on the iPad?” Lots of questions, for which I thought, sure. That’s when my Amazonitis struck.
I went to Amazon, found the book, and ordered a digital copy. Amazon said, “Download our free app and read it now!” I downloaded the app. “Your devices don’t support the app,” Amazon answered. “Want to buy a new device that does?”
WTAF? You’re telling me that I can’t read it with your app on my ‘puter? WTAF?
I didn’t realize it then, but I’d already caught the Amazonitis.
The bug was spreading fast through me. Two of our floofs, Tucker and Boo, started a hissing and growling contest under my desk. “If you two don’t stop now, I’ll give you two something to hiss and growl about!” I yelled.
My wife laughed. “That’s something that I bet your Dad never said to you.”
The Amazonitis had attacked my sense of humor. I wasn’t in the mood. I’d followed a link to another app they recommended, downloaded and installed it. Then I clicked to read the book.
Unfortunately, the book was completely blank. Hundreds of blank pages. In fact, there were no pages with any words, letters, or numbers.
The Amazonitis crept deeper into my muscles. “What the actual fuck?” I snapped. On the Kinder app, my newly purchased book didn’t even show up. As Amazonitis wrapped its tentacles around me and my anger surged, I went back to my orders. Under the book on my order page was a little ‘Read Now’ button. I clicked it to see what would happen.
The book opened.
That was it? Why, oh ‘great Amazon’, I snarled in my angriest internal voice, did you have me go through all that shit about downloading apps and chasing links if I could just order it and click and read it right there on the page? Huh? Why? Why, why, why?
The crises had been averted, more or less. My wife couldn’t read the book on the iPad but she could read it on her Mac. (None of the apps had been downloaded and installed on her Mac, BTW. It was all done on the iPad or my Dell. So, she could read it on her Mac without any app.) No, she couldn’t take it to read in the bath, but, oh, well. The Amazonitis began to creep out of our systems.
Today, she checked on the tracking notification for the other book. You know, the hard copy that was supposed to be delivered by 8 PM on the 7th. The one which had suddenly been changed to a delivery date of between Jan 12 and 14.
“They say it’s been delivered,” she said.
“Where?” I asked. It was about two PM. I went to the front porch.
There it was, sitting on the mat.
I felt a new bout of Amazonitis coming on.
After masking up, we went grocery shopping this morning. I sort of felt like a ninja, what with being masked and out in the dark. Ninja shopper! (Critics are calling it a most-see comedy!) Sunrise was at 7:43 AM; we were back in the house at eight. After returning, “Miss You” by the Rolling Stones (1978) crawled into my mental stream. I suspect that as I put groceries away and contemplated the day’s activities, some underlying sentiments about routines and the way things were before the pandemic landed were circulating in my head. Thoughts like, be a nice morning to go to a coffee shop, have a cuppa, do some writing, you know?
(Ah, let’s indulge for a moment, remembering how it was or imaging how it’ll be, walking down the hill (for the coffee shop is on a hill, 4th Street) through morning air that chills my skin with wintry graces, keeping me huddling in my clothes. Silence is keeping us hostage, although a truck’s far away exhaust tries to break the scene. Tissue-thin sunshine keeps it from being night but this light has faint presence and lacks many therms. I open the door.
(A bell jingles in response to the door’s movement. Faces come my way for a moment, assessing my presence. Warmth smooths over my face. Classic rock bounces off hard surfaces. Espresso machines hiss and gurgle, as patrons laugh, chuckle, and speak. Workers call to each other about croissants (yes, they’re done, maybe burnt on the edges and caramelizing from the clues snaking up my nostrils). Sniffing against a delicate dribble of escaping snot, I eye the place for a free work space, darting away to stake my claim. After parking my laptop bag on my territory, I join the line, watching, waiting, smelling, listening, calculating time and costs, gazing at the glass counters and the pastry temptations within, considering options about what to eat and drink.)
But we are where we are, enduring, surviving, hoping to see a light at the tunnel’s end, fingers crossed that it’s not some new disaster coming toward us. Stay pos, test neg, wear a mask, and enjoy the music. Cheers
To say that I didn’t have dreams last night isn’t correct. Nor is it correct to say that I don’t remember them. More correctly, I don’t have sharp, coherent memories of them.
I have slices of remembered dreams. One involved cars. I’d gotten out of one car. We’re at like a busy outdoor fair. Someone had been driving me. Another couple arrived in a car. I notice it, a convertible. They have the top retracted. A man I meet says something about it being a special car. Someone else asked why. I replied, “It’s an expensive car, a Maserati, isn’t it?” The man replied, “Very good, you noticed. You know your cars.”
I’m then off to be driven away again. I comment that the car that I was in was a Jaguar. “I’ve looked into buying one,” I said to the driver. He’s become quiet. I wonder why. He was smiling and talkative before. When we walk around the car, I discover that the car I’m to enter is a glistening black Mercedes stretch limo. Then, taking a more focused look, I realize that it’s extremely long, maybe forty feet. I then realize that’s probably why the driver became quiet. How did I mix up a Jaguar with a Mercedes stretch limo?
In another slice, I want to order a beer. That beer isn’t available; “Only one kind of beer is available here,” I’m told. “I know, I know,” I reply, accepting an opened bottle of that beer.
Then there is a bizarre sequence involving a water spray, lush green grass, a water sprinkler, and a hose. I’m soaked. I have both ends of the hose, one in each hand; it seems like I’m holding both of those ends up to keep the sprinkler from running so that the giant water spray can do its job. I don’t know what its job is now, although I knew in the dream.
Altogether, it seemed like a lot of unfocused chaos. Maybe that’s because I don’t remember enough, or maybe it was just chaos. Seems odd that three different makes of cars were seen, but all of them were foreign luxury cars, one Italian, one German, and one English.
Michael Seidel, writer 