Saturday’s Theme Music
Saturday, June 17, 2023, and the temperatures are dropping, preparing for summer in Ashlandia. Now 67 F with a cool breeze sometimes goosebumping us, today’s high will entrench itself in the upper 70s F. Tomorrow’s high will be 65 F and Monday, a rain recipient, has low expectations, just 55 F. Then it’s supposed to start slowly rising.
The morning began slow for me, a leisurely petting of the floofs, followed by a leisurely floof-petting session, capped with leisurely coffee-sipping on the porches to experience the cool air and spy on the floofs. Some interesting dreams to contemplate , including one about building a complex while dealing with a lion.
Today’s song, from 1991, is “Kiss Them for Me” by Siouxsie and the Banshees. The song features lines about being delayed. I was in the coffee shop yesterday when a man stopped by my table, looked back, and called to the person they’d been with, “Tell them I’ll be delayed.” I was writing and thought little of it but The Neurons went into a tizzy. Soon the song melody was drifting through me like smoke from a distant fire. Then I’d hum some lyrics to myself. Then, awakening to a song in the mental music stream, I realized that I’d been ambushed.
Just an aside but when the song came out in 1991, I didn’t think it was Siouxsie and the Banshees. It seemed different to me than their usual fare. like “Spellbound”. This is the first time that I’ve seen the “Kiss Them for Me” video.
Stay pos, drink coffee, unwind, relax, carpe the moment. Let’s do this again next year. Here’s the music. Cheers
Friday’s Wandering Thoughts
I took a writing break and went for a walk. Gorgeous out there. Unfettered sunshine. 76 degrees F . Fragrances freed from blossoms and flowers surfed a light breeze. Submerging myself into the moment’s ambiance, I strode along.
A turn took me north, toward the far low mountain ridge. Blue sky rested on the peaks, but I drew up. The sky was hazy with dust or smoke.
Returning to my writing nest, I searched the net for wildfires and checked the air quality, worried that the smoke was sneaking in on us from one of them, worried that some conflagration was already growing and racing toward us.
It’s that time of year, you know.
Past Perfect Me
Awakening to light, slowly mobilizing brain cells and muscles to enjoin the day, I sensed something different. The sense catalyzed my awakening, catapulting me into a full upright position.
This was not my room.
But it was my room from…when?
Rock groups, astronomy, and Formula 1 racing posters, blue bedspread, simple small room layout were absorbed, an answer gained: this was my room when I was seventeen.
I was in my bedroom from when I was seventeen. I had to be dreaming.
Almost as I went through this, I heard a voice inside me saying something similar. As I endured my shocked understanding, I stood.
Almost as I went through this, I heard a voice saying something. Freaked out, I stood up. “Who are you?” I asked in my head.
Then I did something I never thought I’d do. I asked a voice in my head to identify itself.
They seemed to be doing the same.
They seemed more panicked. And younger. So I took the initiative. “My name is Marshall Chamberlain,” I said in a calm voice. “What’s your name?”
“That’s my name, too. Marshall Chamberlain. I’m Marshall Chamberlain.”
Although I’d almost expected it, my throat dried as realizations took over. I couldn’t accept them but logic forced me to say things, searching for truth and understanding. “I’m in my bedroom from when I was seventeen, living in Pennsylvania with my father. Do you know where you are?”
I turned and looked into the dresser mirror as I spoke, staring at my young, skinny self. Thin dark mustache and goatee, thick, brown curly hair, unibrow, muscles.
“No. I’m…I’m in a bedroom.”
I took a tight grip on my sanity. It was like one of those crazy movies where a parent and child have switched places, except I’d been switched with myself. I was back in time, as had happened to Kathleen Turner’s character in Peggy Sue Got Married, except I’d also gone forward as a youth to my present existence, and we could hear one another.
“Tell me what it’s like. Is it big? Blue walls? Light-colored carpet, king-sized bed? Sliding doors to a patio, and a large bathroom with two sinks, a garden tub, sauna, and shower?”
“No. It’s…no, I don’t know.”
“Is it a nice, airy room with large windows, French doors leading to a balcony? Can you see a big body of water?”
Shock rattled me. A third voice. “Who?”
I was thinking fast, realizing as he spoke, thinking it as he spoke, as the young me also thought it, “We’re all past, present, and future. We all have a past while we live in the past, and have a future waiting to be lived.”
Then the ‘old one’ from my future said, “This could go very good, or very bad. I don’t remember anything like this happening to me when I was young. I think I would have.”
A younger voice asked, “What’s going on,” as another said, “I remember this room.”
Several of us thought, past, present, future, past, present, future. It’s not static but dynamic. The future almost immediately becomes the present and then moves on to the past.
“I hope this doesn’t spiral out of control,” most of I said. Sounded like seven, eight voices.
With a common thought, we all caught our breath and waited.
