Most of us
live life on an edge
sure of the beginning
ambivalent about the end
A Few
a few of us live
life on a ledge
thinking we might fly
if we had wings
and the will to try
St. Asphalta
Many are familiar with St. Asphalta. Her origins began after motorized transportation such as cars were developed and grew popular. Although her exact heritage and origins are shrouded in exhaust gases, one popular belief attributes her early beginnings to the first automobile accident fatalities.
A benevolent god (she eschews being referred to as ‘goddess’ as an outmoded and unnecessary distinction based on gender), St. Asphalta is most associated with parking. People typically pray to her, sometimes making a sacrifice (such as buying her a beverage, such as coffee or tea) when they need a parking space.
But limiting St. Asphalta to parking overlooks the many ways this modern god can help. Did you know that St. Asphalta’s realms and powers extend beyond mere parking issues? St. Asphalta relates to everything involved with wheeled transportation and their systems, processes, and issues. For example, although you might be walking, St. Asphalta is the god to address when you’re crossing a street. She’s the one who’ll wake the drivers up and drive them to notice you and provide you with the right-of-way.
Likewise, St. Asphalta should be contacted for safety when there’s a traffic accident, or the one to appeal to for help during road construction, congestion, and traffic jams. Appeal to St. Asphalta when you have car troubles such as a flat tire, or your car has been stolen.
She’s a good god to know. Like a car, she doesn’t demand a lot, but she must be given her due. If she’s not given it, then, like a car, she’ll let you down just when you need her most.
Puzzle Completed
With out mighty jigfloof’s assistance, we completed the cat and book puzzle. Quite a pleasure, challenging and satisfying.
A Dream of Dancing without Music
There’s so little of this dream, but the image weighs on me.
I’m in a dark, small club, dancing in with a group of strangers. Strobe lights and spotlights sometimes illuminate the crowd. Although I’m tired and sweaty, I’m having fun.
Then, I’m surprised to realize that I can’t hear any music. Everyone is still dancing. I’m still dancing. “Does anyone hear any music?” I ask.
No one pays me any attention. I can hear everyone’s feet thumping and shuffling. Nobody is talking or laughing or anything. None make eye contact with me; many have their eyes closed or their heads bowed.
Turning, I look for a band or a DJ. Not seeing either, I hunt for music system speakers. What’s weird is how everyone seems to be moving to the same beat. Most have their arms over their head, giving me an impression that I’m in the middle of a sea of arms. They’re generally younger people, say, their early twenties to early thirties. Multiple races are present, though most are pale skinned in this light. I peer at them, hunting for clues of headphones or a Bluetooth. Seeing neither, I say, “Does anyone hear any music? I don’t hear any music.”
I’m beginning to suspect that it’s just me that doesn’t hear the music. It amuses and frightens me; I can’t hear music, but I’m still dancing.
I stop dancing, because, why should I keep dancing? I remember seeing a movie being filmed that was like this, with people dancing without music, with the music applied later. I wondered if that was what was happening. I looked for cameras or some clue but again, no clues emerged.
I feel the dance floor shaking. Looking down, I’m surprised. It looks like we’re dancing on a wooden deck. I wonder if we’re on a boat or ship.
The dream ends.
The Flagpole Dream
Fade in: I’m outside with others. Someone mentions a neighbor’s flagpole. That flagpole causes something to happen. I respond, “Well, they should move it, then.” There are protests about how difficult that would be, but I say, “That shouldn’t be hard. Hard, yes, but it can be done. It’ll just take some effort.”
Next up: someone announces, “We’re going to go help the neighbors.”
Cross-talk follows. I gather that the neighbor is following up on my idea to move their flagpole.
A flirtatious and vivacious middle-aged white woman with short blonde hair with highlights asks me, “Are you going to help, Michael?”
I envision digging a hole, so I shrug. “Sure. Let me get a shovel.”
Reaching ‘off stage’ I find a spade. “I’m ready.” Everyone else, about eight of us, were also ready.
“Let’s go,” the middle-aged woman says.
We walk down the street as a group. Arriving at the neighbor’s yard, we present ourselves as a small squad at attention. Our intention is announced.
The neighbor thanks us. Then he says, “Okay, thanks. Come on, Michael.”
“What?”
“Show us what we’re supposed to do.”
“Me?”
“I thought you knew how to move it.”
I think through this in the dream, readying protests, but then overcome my doubts. “Okay, sure.” I believe that I can solve any problems on the fly. “Well, first, let’s remove it from its old location.”
He shows me the silver flagpole. It seems to be brushed aluminum. As I approach it, I call to the rest, “Okay, everyone, come on over and let’s figure out how to move it.” Then I put my hands around the flagpole and give it a jerk, to test how secure it is.
I almost fall over as the flagpole comes out. Startled, I set it down. The neighbor explains, “It wasn’t fixed in place.”
“No kidding.” I look into the hole where the pole had been. It seems light, and there’s clear water. Something is swimming in there. I think it’s an eel. Stepping back with surprise, I begin to speak but the neighbor interrupts me. As he’s talking, a moray eel leaps out of the water and tries to bite his arm.
I’m shocked. It seems like the neighbor didn’t notice. Glancing around, it seems like no one saw what I did.
I tell everyone what I think I saw. As I do, an eel leaps out and tries to bite my arm. People see that. As we’re talking about what it means, the eel climbs out of the water and rests on the outside of the hole. I’m trying to understand what this means. It means danger to me, but it also means something unusual, something that needs investigated.
Engineers arrive to speak with the neighbor about where to put his flagpole. While they’re talking, I see several lobsters climb out of the hole. I’m amazed but I have no idea what’s going on.
The engineers then notice the lobsters and stop talking.
The dream ends.
Yet Another, Yes, Military Dream
This one was a bit different. In the military again, with a friend, and our wives, and others, in a hotel. He’d once worked for me, but eventually passed me in promotions while I chose to retire. Now, here he was a CMSgt, E9, which is the senior enlisted rank and pay grade in the Air Force, urging me to come with him to party and do things.
A special guest was due, the highest enlisted position in the Air Force, a position and rank called the Chief Master Sergeant of the Air Force. There is only one at a time. My buddy was eager for me to meet him and have drinks with him.
I went along at first, but then decided, no. I’m done. Not interested. I’m passing.
He came by in his mess dress with medals and ribbons, and black tie to collect me. I was in jeans and a tee shirt. He said, “You’re not ready.” His face fell when I told him that I wasn’t going. He tried cajoling me to change my mind. I held firm.
“That’s not me,” I said.
He shook his head and said, “Man, I’ve so disappointed in you.”
I told him, “You’ll get over it.”
Then he went on, and I turned away to do other things.
The dream ended.
‘Nother Day, ‘Nother Rant
Yes, it’s a new year but the first-world blues never end. Sometimes they lead to a rant.
Today’s focus is on the pharmacy.
They’ve done a fine job in the past, which is probably what lit this rant. I called my prescription refill in on Sunday, Jan. 5. The happy recording said it would be ready by Monday at 4 PM, all as completely expected.
That’s what’s called ‘foreshadowing’, kids.
Got in line today, Tuesday, Jan. 7. Was the only one in line. One cashier was in action. She was helping someone finish his purchase. When it was completed, she turned, and — ignoring me, shall we note — called across the store, “Rhonda, your prescription is ready.”
Now, that’s okay. She was helping Rhonda before, Rhonda’s prescription wasn’t ready, forcing Rhonda to wait, but, hey, do you mind saying something to the only customer in your line? I would consider it good manners and common sense.
After Rhonda’s purchase was completed, a few minutes later, it was my turn. Hey, short story, my prescription wasn’t ready. It wasn’t here. It would be here this afternoon.
No apology nor explanation. No reason for why I wasn’t called about it.
Now, as it happens, I live in town, so it’s not a big deal. I can return. But what about the people who have mobility issues, or who live outside of town, who need help to pick up their prescription, or who must make a special trip?
Yeah, that’s my rant. After dismissing my irritation (yes, via this post) (after returning a few hours later for the prescription), I’m good to go.
Onward.
Tuesday’s Theme Music
Yeah, out of the dream reflections about the party dream came Pink’s song, “Get The Party Started” (2001).
Not much of the lyrics have much to do with the dream except that others were present and urging me to party. It’s more that after I was thinking about it, I got up and moved onto other things, telling myself as I did, “Well, it’s time to get this party started.”
I was referring to the day so it gave me pause as I pondered new accidental insights into the dream. Then Pink’s music jumped the stream, and off I went.
She Thinks
Sitting with friends, laughing while nibbling a scone (blackberry, overbaked, it doesn’t taste that good, and she’s not that hungry, but she bought it because the rest insisted, “Get something,”), celebrating (after the fact) a friend’s birthday, an epiphany strikes her.
Inspired by Barbara’s recounting of her husband’s recent illnesses (he’d gone through surgery but developed an infection), Diana and Belle are speaking about their late husbands. Both died of heart attacks in their mid-sixties.
She thinks about her husband, two years older than her (and in his mid-sixties). Coughing for days, he’d been listless, and getting worse, it seems. He’d always been a health freak — didn’t and doesn’t drink except for an occasional social beverage when they’re out (which she usually finishes for him), and a pescatarian for over forty years (no, almost fifty years, to be more accurate, always important to her). He runs five miles a day four days a week, cycles everywhere, and rows with a club several times per month, activities that he’d needed to curtail when he’d become ill. A cup of coffee a day, he always said with a wink and a grin, is his vice. Yet, he seemed to be getting sicker.
His illness really started over two years before. He’d seen doctors, and everything was great. (“They tell me that I have the arteries of a teenager.) This is when her epiphany is delivered, a thought so striking that it sucks the air out of the room and her lungs. The voices fade. Dizziness topples her.
Others say suddenly, leaning in, touching her hands and shoulders, concern on their faces, “Are you okay?”
She smiles. “Yes, fine, what?” She shakes her head. “I just got distracted. I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”
They buy it after a few seconds. When the attention leaves her, she thinks, is her husband slowly killing himself to keep her from being happy?
It’s audacious and ridiculous, but she thinks, it’s keeping with his character. He’s always been something of a passive aggressive, secret saboteur. His mother, sisters, and cousin had told her stories about how he’d undermined friendships (and an engagement). He was always sneaky when he did it. He’d been the same at work throughout his career, a liar, essentially, but very clever about it, damaging relationships when he did, but always as an innocent, and almost always believed.
Now, he’d retired. No family lived nearby. He has few close friends (were any of them close to him?). Could he have turned his attention to his relationship with her?
She thinks, how? (He could be poisoning himself.) Why? (Because that’s who — what — he is.) She thinks, I have no proof. It’s insane for her to even consider it. Yet, the idea remains moored in her thoughts. She thinks with growing shock as the group breaks up and leaves the coffee shop, it’s possible.
Michael Seidel, writer 