Category: miscellaneous

Garbage Dream

I’m outside, kinda young. Rolling deep green grass, where a music festival is due to start. I’m excited about it but worried about unspecified stuff. I’m alone, don’t know anyone there. A few others are starting to arrive. They’re all younger, with my teenagers among them, mostly female.

I’m busy, though, boxing up containers of trash. Collecting it, putting it in boxes, sealing it up. Don’t know why I’m specifically doing it; seems to be a compulsion. People keep arriving but I keep boxing up trash. By the time I’m done, hundreds have arrived, and I have about thirty small, square boxes of trash.

I need a place to put them, and that worries me. I have some of them stacked on a small peeling white trailer which is attached to a small green minibike like one I had in my early teens. I plan to use the bike to pull the trailer and unload the garbage boxes somewhere else, but where?

There is a small white frame house. Single story, white siding, two windows on the front, a screen door in its center. I know that this is the office of the young men organizing the music festival. There are three, dark-haired young white men in their early twenties. I know this without seeing them. I can hear them talking and laughing. Part of their conversation is about me and my minibike pulling the scarred white trailer loaded with boxes of trash.

Piles of trash are not far from the house. I’m thinking about unloading my trash into this collection, but I feel guilty, as if I’m breaking a law, and that holds me back. Yet, racing around, watched by a growing number of people, I can’t find anywhere else to put the trash. I feel like this is my only choice.

Aware that I’m being watched, that others are commenting about what I’m doing, I try pulling my trailer of trash. It won’t go. I reattach the green minibike with its fat knobby tires. The little bike easily tugs the trailer across the way.

From inside the trailer, I hear the organizers discuss this development. One suggest, “It’s alright, let him be.” I feel better about that. I start unloading the trailer. People are commenting about how fast and hard I’m working. Some appreciate that I’ve cleaned up trash. Buoyed by what I hear, I quickly unload the trailer, drive back, and fill it again. Now finished, I stand still, sweating and breathing hard by my little minibike and its empty white trailer.

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Friday’s Wandering Thought

Tinted by smoke, the sun was a tangerine as noon rolled up. A short man walked through the warming, stifling day. Someone caught in middle age’s trenches, hard-edged in his slenderness, pale as a grub, bald as a newborn, walking fast. Unbelievable sight in this nasty air. White-grey ash collected on surfaces, dulling car polish, stinging nostrils with high magnitude burnt-wood flavors, usually encouraging tears, runny noses, sniffing, coughing.

But this guy walked down the sidewalk like the town’s proud owner, the only one out there, protected by sandals, a white tee-shirt, and light blue denim jeans. He also sucked on a cigarette and blew out his own smoke.

That might explain a lot.

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Wednesday’s Wandering Thoughts

One of the strangest aspects of life in the United States that I’ve been reading about recently is that a growing segment of men aren’t wiping their asses after doing their business. Or they’re claiming that they’re not. Yes, it’s a strange thing to write about — a strange thing to think about — but it’s out there.

Let’s ponder what’s going on for a minute. Men consciously and deliberately decide, “I’m not going to wipe my rear. Or, “I’m going to tell others I don’t.”

Strange, strange, strange image to cultivate.

But their reasoning is that wiping your ass will make you gay. This is something that they say they claim. Bizarre. Seriously, WTF is wrong with them? Have they lost their minds?

Don’t believe me, then do a search. Go on Reddit. Read the complaints. The insanity is out there, and it’s documented.

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Sunday’s Wandering Thoughts

I enjoy people watching, especially at the coffee shop. Everyone has a story. It’s not always clear, so I’ll make one up for them, if they’re interesting enough.

Well, Austin is interesting enough. About six foot one, pale skin, moderate build, neat strawberry blond hair, he’s dressed for the outdoors and carries a full pack, a serious hiking and camping pack, white ear pods inserted. First time I saw him in April, I figured that he was another off the Pacific Crest Trail. It runs through this area and many hiking it will pop into Ashland. See the movie Wild or read the book by the same name, and you’ll see my town featured. That’s our plaza in the link I posted.

(Side note to all that: the city posted where they’d be filming the movie so we could avoid the area because of road closures and delays, and all that. You know what that did, right? Also, to have the right season depicted, the leaves had already departed the trees, so they made leaves, attached them to the naked branches, and then removed them after filming.)

Well, Austin remains here months later. I’ve wondered why. He comes into the coffee shop several times a day while I’m there. He’d usually just drink cold water. Sometimes hot tea. Rarely buys more. I’ve seen people offer him money, and he always turns it down. He only speaks to the baristas, which is how I know his name. He’s told me thank you as I was leaving and he was entering and I held the door. Thrice. That’s it.

I sense he wants to be alone, so I leave him alone. Also, I’m there to write, so I don’t want to strike up conversations. I initially thought he was just recharging his batteries. Then, waiting for something to arrive in the mail. Now I think he’s on the run, and hiding out in Ashlandia. The question is, why? Who is after him? What will happen when they find him?

Whatever, he’ll probably show up in a story sometime. That’s just how it goes when you cross a writer’s path.

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Saturday’s Wandering Thought

He’s planning a trip and reviewing hotels.

One rated a prospective place “10/10 – Excellent”. But their comments made him wonder:

“The room was good and bed was super comfortable however there were areas needing a little updating . Looked like there had been a roof leak in the bathroom over the shower area and the exhaust fan in the bathroom sounded like it was dying. Also the lighting in the bathroom was not very bright . The breakfast in the morning was good. Overall I’d say it was ok.”

Head shake. ‘Okay’ is far away from ‘Excellent’ is his mind.

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The Maybes

Burping blue smoke and violent noise, a pickup truck pulled into the line of stopped traffic.

Tan with brown accent panels and chrome wheels, the pickup truck was elderly, maybe an eighties vintage, dated as far as motor vehicles go. The right-side door – that’s where the passenger is in America – was smashed in. Broad black tape all around the door held the door shut against the body.

It looked to me like he’d been run into. I could see how another vehicle had slammed head on into the pickup truck’s side. Imagined scenarios easily rose. Maybe he ran a stop sign or red light. Then again, maybe the other vehicle ran the traffic order to stop and hit him, who was innocently motoring along.

Or, it could be the result of passion. He and his wife – or his girlfriend, boyfriend, cousin, sister, brother – argued. He fired up his truck to leave. As he was slewing the vehicle around, dust flying, the other person leaped into their vehicle and drove it into his truck, trying to stop him.

Perhaps it wasn’t passion, but a broken drug deal, or an attempted theft. Television tales and real-life reports fertilized possibilities.

Maybe, though, the driver wasn’t involved at all. Perhaps it wasn’t his truck; he was just borrowing it to move some junk.

The maybes are endless, and I’ll probably never know.

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An Unsettling Dream

After an outrageously fun dream that had me grinning when I awoke, a later dream stamped its imprint, unsettling me.

The second dream was about a friend. Oddly, I can’t recall ever clearly seeing him. I can’t give any description to him except to say he was a contemporary, male, white, and both in our early twenties.

He came to my house and told me that he’d stolen twenty thousand dollars. No details about that were shared. The dream and I focused on what I should do, how can I help him? He’d already told me that he’d told others.

He suggested that he needed to hide the money. I agreed, telling him that I would help. Next thing I know, we’re at his house, a suburban home, in a lower level, in a small den. There’s one oblong window at ground level; I keep looking out it. Dusk is falling.

Green shag carpet covers the floor. He lays down on the floor, face down, legs stiffly together and straight, arms out at ninety degrees, like he’s on a cross. He’s wearing a yellow top and red shorts. I tell him that I think he needs to get out of there. He doesn’t answer. I’m pacing, worrying, and tell him the same thing. He seems to have given up.

I start telling him, “Give me your money and I’ll hide it for you.” That’s when I realize that I stole the money with him, bewildering me. I don’t remember doing that, so how was it possible?

I’ve hidden my share, which was also twenty thousand. I repeat, “Give me your money and I’ll hide it for you. Where is it?” Sirens are getting louder. I don’t doubt they’re coming to his house. He’s given up, so they’ll catch us both. Even if I have escape, I’m sure that he’d tell them who stole the money with him. He’s already told others. The dream ends with the sirens growing louder, me pacing, glancing out a window, running a hand through my hair, trying to understand what to do, and him still in a cross position on the green shag carpet.

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A Second

My wife tells me again and again that she is thankful that I’m a ‘good’ driver, that I pay close attention and have fast reflexes. Had to use those again today.

I came down the hilly street and entered the intersection, a straight path. A third into the intersection, and the traffic light went yellow. Shrug; I was already in the intersection. But the young man in the blue Focus turning left going the opposite way decided that he absolutely needed to make that light and rushed into a left hand turn in front of me.

“Holy Jesus,” The Neurons shouted inside my mind. I didn’t answer because I was already telling my right foot to leave the gas pedal to stomp the brake pedal. Full lockup, traction control and anti-braking activating. Wasn’t going fast, so it was a hard, abrupt stop in the middle of the intersection. Fortunately, nobody was near in either direction, saw what was happening, and were slowing.

Two things. As events transpired, I saw the other driver, a young white man with short dark hair — early twenties? — flinch, raise his arm to protect himself against the crash he thought was about to happen, and lean away. Left turn completed, but in the other direction’s vacant left-hand turn lane, he stopped, hands on his wheel. I imagine that he was shaking, realizing how close he’d come to fucking up his day.

Mildly ruffled, I rhetorically addressed him in my car, “What were you thinking,” and drove on. But I recognize, if anything had distracted me in the second before I slammed the brakes, we could have had a much different outcome.

What a difference a second can make.

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The Writing Moment

I feel liberated. Released. Like I’ve been locked up in a building and now the doors have been opened and I can go anywhere.

Yeah. Finished the first draft of another novel.

I also feel humbled and happy. Satisfied.

I struggled with finishing. Kept running into a wall with where those final chapters would go. I had to reach the odd realization and understanding that the character is not me. The character had much more to give, more to use. They understood things that I did not. I just had to let go and accept that. Once that finally took place, the ending fell into place, and here we are.

Now it must be edited, revised, etc. But the storyteller is free to start another tale. Almost as if signaled, I saw something and a new adventure began taking shape.

As it’s always been.

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Alternate Realities

This is not a review but a brief commentary about Barbie.

I did an informal poll last night when sitting with my beer gang. These are generally enlightened and educated, elderly men and women — our youngest is 61, and I’m in the middle at 67 — who retired from professions as university professors, botanists, biologists, medical doctors, NASA scientists, aerospace engineers, high school teachers, database administrators, software engineers, and forensics scientists. Yes, we have at least two of each in our group. They’re all ‘woke’ to various degrees. None of the women were there last night, just the men.

So I did a survey. I was surprised that none had seen the Barbie movie, and only one wanted to see it. All of them enthused about Oppenheimer, though.

I’d seen Barbie and enjoyed it. I had moderate interest in the doll’s story and the battles against the patriarchy — though very real — and matriarchy, toxic masculinity, and false choices dumped on people because of gender. No, my thing was the alternate realities aspects, the other existence where Barbie and Ken and their brethren resided, versus our reality.

I’ve always been a sucker for these. Loved Pleasantville for that reason, along with Men In Black, the original Matrix, Flash Gordon, 12 Monkeys, Ground Hog Day, Inception, and the whole Doctor Who series. Add Stranger Things, The Umbrella Academy, Good Omens, and Papergirls to the list of worthy TV series about other dimensions. I’ve probably forgotten same, but want to stress, these are not about alternate history or future science fiction. The core of these offerings to me must be that these movies and television shows actively involve other dimensions. Things are happening there. Those involved in our reality don’t know it, but are solidly face-planted into the other reality and must cope with the new reality that there are other realities. I love the genre because it challenges our certitude about reality, which I find rude, arrogant, and short-sighted. Of course, that approach works for most, so, shrug.

Barbie worked for me for that reason. Besides solid acting and production values, the expected jokes and observations about genitals and identity, the paradigm shifts faced were clearly exposed. There was a too neat, too clean resolution to that — but, hey, it’s a comedy — and a I-can-skip-the-lecture at the end delivered by Rhea Perlman as Barbie’s inventor, but it was solid fun about realities colliding.

I recommend the movie and pity those who won’t see it for whatever premature reason they’ve devised. Cheers

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