His Rules
He wears the same damn pants every day. They’re loose, so he doesn’t need to watch his weight.
He’s added pockets to his pants for the remotes so they’ll never be lost (not that he goes far – frig, microwave, shitter, couch). He wears a utility belt with Tums, cough drops, and other crap that he might need that he doesn’t want to get up to get. A small frig resides besides the couch for essential soda and beer.
Clocks and calendars have been removed; who needs time? Sleeping on the couch makes the whole damn thing easier. He doesn’t plan to bathe or shave until this whole damn thing is over, his protest against government overreach.
Still, his mouth is hurting, so he’s thinking, maybe he’ll break down and brush his teeth.
Inside
he watched from inside
neighbors greeting visitors
hugs exchanged
kiss ’em on the lips
he seethed inside
wondering who
was cursing who
to death
More
More cases, more deaths, more jokes about drinking wine.
More demands about re-opening businesses, and then everything will be fine.
More stories about valor and the sacrifices made.
More stories about lying, misinformation, and the debts to be paid.
Some things will not change, don’t seem they ever will,
But every time we go through something like, someone pays the bill.
It’s not usually the rich, nor the pols running the gov,
It’s the workers and the nurses and the people that we love.
Long Sighs
Still holding her phone up, Mya stared at her mother. Her mother had such a pretty face. Everyone said so, but whenever it was just her and her mom, her mother delivered every set of thoughts with a long sigh, as if what she has just stated is a great burden. “Beverly’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ll need to send her a birthday card.” Long sigh.
“I have no energy. I’ll make a cup of coffee in a minute, after I do this puzzle.” Long sigh.
“What do we have in the freezer to have for dinner? I suppose I can take out some salmon.” Long sigh.
Listening, watching her mother, Mya wondered where the long sighs came from, and why she did it. Looking into her short tube of memories (she couldn’t help thinking like that, thank you, Uncle Pat), the eleven-year-old decided that she would not be like her mother, sighing as though burdened with everything that she does.
“We can have rice with it. Do we have rice? Let me go look.” Long sigh.
“I’ll look,” Mya said, jumping up. Then she caught herself sighing and wondered, was it already too late?
The New Resident
A new resident has joined us. I found this black widow living outside our bedroom slider.
The slider has a panel with a pet door affixed in place. I met her last night. Letting a cat in, I saw her skinny up a line from the door to the midpoint. Hanging there, she rotated, showing off her abs with its bold scarlet hourglass. When I brought the camera out, her shy side emerged and she shot up to her web in the corner.
I don’t know when she moved in. I chatted with her for a few seconds. She seems moody and distant.
I said, “Hi, I’m Michael.”
She studied me.
I shrugged. “New here?”
Silent staring was her response.
“So what do you do? Web designer?”
“Stay-at-home mom. Gotta go.”
She headed toward a space in the door frame, folding herself in, and pretended to sleep.
I took my photo and went away. I’m sure we’ll meet again. Maybe she’ll be friendlier next time.
The Surviving Dream
I was out with others. We were in endless stores but outside, in rolling, emerald green hills bathed in sunshine. I was happy but I was aware that it was a dire situation. Everyone was aware. What measures did we need to take? How could we survive?
Then, boom, all were dead.
Then I was getting back up. I was aware it was a dire situation. What measures did we need to take? Okay, I’d just died, so what we’d done didn’t work. We needed to do something else. Then, boom, something was coming, and we all died.
I was back after a second, in the same situation, trying to figure out what to do, then it all happened again.
I spoke with others. How can we stop this cycle? Others were certain that it couldn’t be stopped, they saw no way that it could. But a man in uniform stepped forward.
He was dressed like a WWII Nazi officer, grey uniform and hat, black epaulets, knee-high shiny black boots, in a movie. “Actually, it can be stopped,” he said. “You just need the right place to hide and the perfect timing.”
Before I could question him more, he said, “Ah, here it comes again.”
I saw something coming, or more correctly, looking down and across the stores on the grassy hills, I saw its effects on the people and world. I warned others that it was coming as I took cover with a cat. I died.
Born again after that, I joked with the cat, “Well, that didn’t work. Did you die, too?” The cat didn’t answer. Then, knowing the cycle was short, I began hunting for the next place to hide. This time, I seemed more aware of the threat coming toward me. It rippled through the people and fields like a light breeze blowing through a rows of wheat. Watching it come up, I timed my move and stepped aside.
I’m not certain if I died or not. There wasn’t a moment of awareness of dying, but I was again considering the situation, the German officer beside me. “No, it’s not that easy,” he said in a jocular voice.
I was dubious of him. “I think you’re trying to distract me. Who are you? Why are you even here?” I had the sense that he was there for misdirection. He was there to stop me from seeing and thinking.
An event was coming again. Picking up my cat, I turned my back and hunkered down under a table.
The dream ended.
An Arresting Dream
I was explaining an analogy to a young deceased relative.
First, though, I was arrested.
I’d made the decision to take actions to be arrested. This, I thought, would be for the best. So, I returned to the table on a stand where I’d been working with others. I wrote a not on a small yellow Postit using a heavy black marker, just a few words, and then I made a phone call, and then sat back to be arrested.
Others were confused, first about my return, because I would be arrested if I returned, and then that I’d returned knowing that I’d be arrested. The police arrived, and then my wife. I was walked in handcuffs by the police. My wife and others followed behind me as my wife explained that I was being arrested.
Once arrested, I was processed in a dream blip and then released to confinement to clear myself. I knew that the gates were closing at midnight. I had twenty minutes to get out or I’d need to wait until morning. I didn’t want to wait because I knew where I had to go and do to clear myself.
I hastened to dress and clean up. A black man was there, my cellmate. He was sitting at a card table, eating and watching television. I set myself up at another available card table and went off to brush my teeth.
The bathroom was open. Two sets of sinks and identical red toothbrushes were in a cup. One must be my cellmate’s, I figure. I picked one and looked at it. It seemed used, so that should be his.
The segment ended.
Next, I was sitting in a room, explaining something to my cousin, Jeff. Younger than me, he’d died almost twenty years ago. I told him, “Your abdomen is part of your torso, but your torso is not part of your abdomen. See how it works?”
He didn’t, so I did more. I said, “You’re from Texas. Texas is part of the United States but the United States is not part of Texas. One must contain the other to be part of it. Like, your hand. Your finger is part of your hand but your hand is not part of your finger.”
He remained confused. An officer I’d worked with in 1983, Walt, had entered. Listening, he’d been mulling it over. Walt, said, “Well, I don’t know if your analogy works on all levels.”
I replied, “I’m talking about physical aspects. I’ll specify the physical.”
Walt said, “Oh, alright, then,” and my cousin nodded, understanding.
The dream ended.
Inspirational Quote # 1694
This resonates with me today so I’m sharing it on my blog. Thanks!
Google Search Image Starts
We weren’t able to get out to buy starts. There was a run just when shelter in place was announced; the initial supply was gone, and there weren’t any more to be had. But…looking around the house, seeds purchased years ago were found. Would they be any good? We didn’t know.
My wife decided to try them. We didn’t have starter soil or the proper pots. She made do. Arugula was planted (in the pot on the left) and butterleaf lettuce was put in the big pot on the other end. The middle pots were planted with basil. They were place in a dining room window where sun is plentiful from dawn to dusk.
We’re pleased with the progress so far. With the weather warming (into the seventies tomorrow), she plans to put some arugula out tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have other carrot, onion, and radish seeds.
Michael Seidel, writer 