Munda’s Wandering Thoughts
I’m just a Venn diagram. I’m at a point where massive disappointment in my nation fills me. I didn’t expect the GOP to fight Trump. It saddens me that I’m right. They just rolled over and became the Grand Ol’ Trump Party.
Pisses me off that the Trump Regime thumbs its nose at the law, treating elements like due process as something beneath them. Unfortunately, I predicted this when Trump was campaigning in 2024. So did many others. They laughed at us. But Trump said he would be a dictator on day one. We knew that wasn’t a joke.
Politically, I’m angry, disgusted, disappointed, and a whole dark rainbow of other negative energies about what’s going on from bullshit tariffs to the damaged economy to the ridiculous and unlawful gutting of the Federal government to — well, fill in the blank.
But it’s a sunny and warm spring day. Promise is in the air. I’m getting ready for beer with friends on Wednesday. They’re intelligent, good friends. I’m looking forward to seeing them. Preparing for a secular Easter brunch with friends on Sunday. That’ll have bittersweet toppings drizzled over it. Some of the regulars are gone. Others are in hospice.
Writing is fun and full of promise. That puts me in a very positive frame. A novel draft is finished, and so many other novels are lined up, eager to be written. But will that finished draft hold up in the next round of editing and revision? Then there’s the publishing game. That closes the damper on my enthusiasm.
Mom texts me and reminds me that she wants to be cremated. Do what we will with the ashes. Play Glenn Miller at her service. Hold it in the garden. She’s lived almost nine decades but she endures hourly pain and discomfort. Her quality of life can be categorized as miserable.
Down to one cat, my cativities are truncated from what they once were. An air of depression clouds that aspect of life.
Financially, my wife and I are okay. Viewing my health, I can be better or worse. Got all my limbs. They function well. I endure little regular pain on a daily basis. I’m not as strong nor limber as I used to be, and my hair is trekking away from my forehead. Memory still works for most of the time on most of the days.
My wife’s health is not as good. She searches for words more often and doesn’t find them. She’s developed a new habit of forgetting to turn things on or off. She’s bitter and angry with the world, especially with Trump, and the Roberts Court. She’s furious and anxious about women’s rights. Shoulder and back pain are building up their frequent flier miles with her.
So, I am here. In the middle of it all, happy and sad. Worried and hopeful. Bitter and angry. Joyful and loving. Loved and frustrated. I read of far worse situations for people. Like those in Gaza. Ukraine. Immigrants hunting a better existence for themselves and those they love. War and disaster refugees trying to find a home. People working hard and struggling harder. Sleeping in cars and hanging on for meals and help. Women and people of color hiding, living in fear, beaten and killed for who they are. People with a gender that doesn’t fall cleanly into male or female dismissed as less than equal, unaccepted by narrow-minded bigots. People starving to death as billionaires pile up more money and more property, self-pleasuring themselves with mindless greed.
We seem so far away from Star Trek‘s ideals and so much closer to Mad Max, Solyent Green, and The Handmaid’s Tale.
Life is one hell of a spectrum.
The Real World
The weather was lively but not overly warm. Kind of late spring with mild summer suggestions.
The weather change ordered a wardrobe shift. My go-to coat for the last five months was now too warm and heavy. A perusal of closet offerings later, I was donning a zippered dark blue fleece piece.
Not worn for so long, finding it surprised me. I thought I’d gotten rid of it. Has to be twenty years old. Yes, I told myself, believing that I remembered buying it at the Stanford Shopping Center in Palo Alto when I lived in Half Moon Bay. Plenty of pockets. “Of course,” I imagined my wife saying. “It’s a man’s garment. If it was made for women, it wouldn’t have any pockets.”
Yes, the lack of pockets in women’s clothing was one of my wife’s peeves. After putting on the fleece, pleased that it still fit well, I dove into the pockets. The thing has six. One inside zip pocket over my right breast. Two inner pouch pockets lining either side of the zipper. An outer zipped breast pocket on the left, and two zippered outer vent pockets.
I started going through them. A pen. Wadded, dusty tissues. Tightly folded five dollar bill, kept company by two weary ones. A wrapped cough drop. Mask, as we wore during the pandemic. A quarter and two dull pennies. And a hard, small thing.
The hard small thing was dark gray. Plastic. Looked almost like a small car key fob. I didn’t recognize it. No markings on it at all. One center button. “What the fuck?” I asked the air.
My mind squirreled through my maze of existence, trying to place this thing. Failing that, I searched my memories for when I’d last worn this garment. Must have been during the pandemic. Because there was a mask, right? That made sense.
Frowning with deep concentration, I held up the gray thing and pressed the button and listened. I heard no sound. I pressed it in again, holding it in, raising it to the side of my head as I did.
Dizziness swept me up. My head lolled left. The urge to puke scaled my body. Lips tight against retching, I reached for a piece of furniture to hold myself up. Missing, I fell to my knees with a thud that shook the room. Trying further not to puke, I dropped to all fours.
“Got you, got you, got you,” I heard.
Who? my brain queried. Legs in jeans were to my vision’s right. “Who?” I wanted to voice but knew that I couldn’t without puking.
The gray thing was on the floor. I must have dropped it. A hand went for it. Dark blue fleece covered the arm.
I knew that fleece.
I was wearing that fleece.
A face showed up in my eyesight. My face. My hazel eyes were bright with humor. “It’s me,” the other me said. “Remember me?”
Belatedly remembering, I lunged for my other self.
I nimbly danced away with laughter. I looked up. Red darkened my vision. My eyesight was a tunnel that was growing smaller. The last thing I saw was my finger pressing the gray thing’s button.
Then I was inside it, looking out.
“You bastard,” I shouted. I knew what had happened. I didn’t know how I’d manage to get the gray thing into my pocket. Maybe I left it there. But I should remember. I must have blocked my memory of what happened before. I did now know that I was the visitor. I was the alien who had occupied that human body who I knew as me.
And now, it had been reversed.
Raising the gray thing, I looked at it at eye level. A grin sprawled over my face. “Now where should I put this?” I asked. “Clearly a pocket is not the best place.”
I watched. Nothing else I could do. Humming, I carried the gray thing with me inside out to the garage. I began realizing what I was going to do. I said, “No. No. Don’t. Wait.” I knew I didn’t hear me. I knew I wouldn’t care.
I picked up a shovel. Screaming inside, I listened as I went outside and dug a hole. A short drop followed, then I bounced around as the gray thing landed in its new home.
The light fell as dirt dropped in on the gray piece. I looked around my new place. Not as bad as I remembered it. A suite of rooms, replica of the place where I had just lived as a human.
Memories began returning about how everything worked here. It was not the same as the real world. Moving fast, I ensured the doors and windows were closed and locked.
As I said, it’s not the same as the real world.
Michael Seidel, writer 