Saturday’s Wandering Thought
He walked down the street to a little bakery, bought coffee and brought it back to the vacation house. Climbing the steps to their room to give her coffee in bed, he sang, “Coffee man. Coffee man. He brings you coffee when no one can.”
She giggled like a happy child. “Coffee Man has always been my favorite superhero.”
1988 Dream
I kept encountering an error message. Sometimes it was written on a printout: [Error 1988: Michael does not exist]. I saw it in emails and text messages. Sometimes it was also spoken in the same voice my Roomba makes an announcement: “Error 1988: Michael does not exist.” As this happened, I was hurrying down hallways, looking over my shoulder, and pushing on doors, trying to find one that opens, hunting for an exit.
But, in one sense, it was understandable. On vacation, a person who needs isolation and solitude, who enjoys writing as their escape and therapy, who is forced to spend almost eighty percent of their time with other people, will end up dreaming about escape.
Right?
The question is, why those numbers?
Thursday’s Wandering Thought
His computer was having a senior moment today, making it an unnecessarily trying and irritating morning. Tabs would close, tabs wouldn’t open, websites couldn’t be reached and loaded slow.
Could be worse, he philosophized. Could be worse.
Wednesday’s Theme Music
We’re on the coast. Fog defined our Wednesday sunrise at *drumroll* at 6:21 AM. The fog burned off about nine-ish, leaving us awash in sunshine.
This August 17, 2022, finds us at 62 F with a high of 71 F in the cards. We’re three short blocks from the beach, with view of the surf from our upper-level windows. Not a bad deal. No writing to be done…for the moment. I am to socialize and be a tourist. I don’t wear those hats well, but I’ll try. Sunset will be at 8:19 PM.
Seagulls sing wherever we go. You’d think The Neurons would pick up on that and sing some music by A Flock of Seagulls, which I think is actually called a flotilla. I think there are other expressions. Guess I should google it…someday… I’ll put it on my TBG list.
Instead, The Neurons have noticed my anti-social tendences, my desire to hasten away somewhere to write. They’ve installed a Helen Reddy song, “Leave Me Along” (1973). You know, it’s a song about a woman telling others, “Leave me alone, won’t you leave me?”
Yeah, not nice of me, is it? It’s against our social conventions for how we define ‘normal’.
Here’s the music. I’ve had my coffee, thanks, a lovely Americano at Ultralife Cafe. Off to sight-see. Stay positive, test negative, and try to socialize. Would it really hurt you? Oh, the things we don’t know.
Cheers
The Writing Moment
No silence. None for thinking — certainly none for writing. He’s with two people who verbalize their thoughts. Their thinking moves with the linear certainly of hail showering off pavement. Play by play is given: “Where did I leave that? Have you seen my *purse *hat *shoes *keys *contact lens *computer cord *books. I thought I left it — is that it over there? Oh, that is it. How did it get over there?” Laughter ensues as they explain to you the process that they just went through.
Variations exist. “Oh my God, I’ve lost my tricorder.” It’s not a tricorder, but a key, a pair of glasses, a credit card. Panic rising, they verbalize their fears that they’ve lost their item, searching and searching, providing updates on the search and expounding on their exasperation, worries, and anxieties.
But then, success! They have found it.
No place to hide from this. No place to write. Yes, writing it out is an exercise in self-pity and frustration. It’s been an exhausting day of vacation.
Monday’s Wandering Thought
He encountered a friend and told him, “I like your shirt. That’s very nice.”
“Thank you,” the friend replied.
“Would you sell it to me?”
“What?”
Brainstorm! He’d start a reality game show — “The Shirt Off Your Back” — where minor celebrities would go around offering people money, gifts, or favors for the clothes they were wearing. It’d be sort of a poor person’s Indecent Proposal.
It was dumb enough that it might just work.
Wish I Wrote It
“Capitalism is a feral beast but I love her when she works for me.”
— Easy Rawlins
From Blood Grove by Walter Mosley
Michael Seidel, writer 