Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
It’s like I’m all over the place – everything and nothing.
Not much thought to today’s choice. (Like there’s ever much thought behind my song choices, right? Right.)
Cats aren’t involved in this one. My dreams are. Multiple dreams, all very uplifting. In one, a man gave me a bag, telling me, “These are for you.” Inside were gold coins. Must’ve been hundreds, and all shone like Coronado’s gold. I was so happy and pleased and excited. “Why did you give me this?” I asked the man, but he was gone. Another guy came up, though, and surprised me with a gift of gold ingots. It blew me away. “Oh my God, what I can do to help the world with this.” My head was spinning.
But it wasn’t over, as another arrived with gold jewelry. Without saying a word, he put it in my bag. Gaping as I took it in, I said, “I have gold coins, ingots, and jewelry in this bag.” He answered, “Yes, you have it all.”
See what I mean about uplifting?
So, puttering into the morning, feeding the three fur beasts and dressing, I hummed a remembered song that drifted into awareness. It turned out to be “Ventura Highway” by America from 1975.
Ventura Highway in the sunshine
Where the days are longer
The nights are stronger than moonshine
You’re gonna go
I know-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh
‘Cause the free wind is blowing through your hair
And the days surround your daylight there
Seasons crying no despair
Alligator lizards in the air, in the air
h/t to Genius.com
Those lines are uplifting to me, like my hopes.
Like my dreams.
I’d been out shopping when Peter Frampton’s song, “Do You Feel Like We Do” came into my head.
The song was released back in 1976, one of several hits from the album Frampton Comes Alive! That title always calls images and legends of monsters into my head. It sounds like Frampton may have been dead, but look! He’s come alive! Good for Frampton.
Frampton mania ruled for a while in 1976. As often happens with pop culture in that era, when someone achieves great success, talk-show hosts and comedians include references in their acts. The song titles are incorporated into word play. The performers show up on television shows, magazine covers, and radio interviews. The song themselves on heard simultaneously on multiple stations. There’s just no escaping it.
Why I was thinking of it now can’t be clearly traced. Had it been playing somewhere in a store or passing car, missed by my conscious thinking but picked up by my subconscious?
Don’t know.
Didn’t know how I felt, either. Sorting feelings, I concluded, I feel pretty good. Scale of ten, probably seven.
Pretty good is defined more clinically as, I’m not worried or stressed, nothing is bothering me, and I feel no pain or health issues, right? Why don’t I feel great? Don’t know; maybe a COVID-19 malaise coupled with election fretting dampens my spirits from great to pretty good. After sixty-four point two five years of living, I’m still sorting the feeling mystery. So many variables blaze in to change the balance.
Anyway, I feel pretty good. Peter seems to feel good in the song. How ’bout you? Do you feel like we do?
A knock came on the door.
During these COVID-19 times, knocks (or the doorbell) are always a freezing moment. Eighty percent of the time at my house, it’s a delivery person leaving something on the porch. That other twenty is divided by neighbors and friends, depending on local events and who’s in town. Our friends like traveling and have the money to do it.
My wife and I froze with the standard who-can-that-be wonder in our expressions. I recovered first, saying, “Who’s that? It’s ten o’clock at night.” I was thinking, I didn’t hear a car, and I was thinking, it must be an emergency, and I was looking at the clock to confirm the time (and discovering that it was actually almost ten thirty) (time to take my pills), and also thinking, where are the cats (because something may have happened to them). My mind is a busy place when the unexpected arrives. Finding the remote, I paused Endeavour on PBS on Prime.
My wife, though, said, “Go see who it is. I’m in my jammies. It must be important. Look out first.”
Annoyance fluttered through me as I went to the door. As if I wouldn’t look out first. Who in America doesn’t look out first, except in television shows and movies? Well, and sometimes novels.
As I navigated the way, I saw one cat watching, the rear end of another heading for cover somewhere, and the third doing a prairie dog impression on the sofa. They were all in and safe, so…?
I flicked on the light and looked out through the side glass (and wondered if I should have a phone in my hand (in case I needed to call the police), or a weapon). (Like, what weapon? A knife? I’m not a knife fighter. Where is my baseball bat? Did I give it away? Maybe I should get a frying pan.)
I didn’t see anyone on the porch, and no box or delivery (not even flowers), but then, someone was there. Not large, but bearded, dressed in green. I gasped as recognition vaulted through me.
It was a fucking leprechaun.
“Who is it?” my wife called from the den’s safety.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how. The leprechaun looked up at me and winked. I jumped back. “What the fuck.”
It had to be a joke. It wasn’t Halloween yet. What kind of joke was this?
Swallowing hard, my throat tightening and drying, I pushed one cat back with a foot, informing him, “Stay back, damn it,” and thought again about weapons. Then, screwing up manly courage, I opened the door.
A cold wind blew in, chilling me through. A shake began in my abdomen and rippled through my body.
The leprechaun was smiling and holding up an envelope. The envelope looked like it could have a bill. Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe it was just mispitched mail. Could this be one of our neighbors? I don’t think I’d ever seen a leprechaun in the neighborhood…
“Michael?” the leprechaun said. “Yeah, I know it’s you. Saying your name is but a formality.” His Irish accent was like Chris O’Dowd unfiltered, strangely heavy for one who didn’t have much mass to them.
“Number one, because people always ask, yes, I am a leprechaun. I won’t ask you to let me in. I know the time. Not a good time in your mind, but it’s the best time for us to come. We used to just break into people’s houses at night, but we lost a few of our people that way, especially in this century in America, if you see my meaning, leading to a policy change. But we don’t go around in the daytime, if you see what I mean. Little folk running around always draw attention, people making jokes about pots of gold, being stoned, and Lucky Charms cereal.” He fluttered the envelope at me. “This is for you. It’ll explain matters but you need to take it, open it, and read it. Do you understand?”
Meowing, the cat tried to get out to check out the leprechaun. Pushing the cat back with a foot, I nodded.
A smile lifted the leprechaun’s expression. “I’d appreciate it if you can give me a verbal response for the records and also take the envelope. They have your results.”
“My results?”
“From your 23 and Me DNA test. You’re part leprechaun, lad.”
“What?”
“Your DNA shows that you’re part leprechaun, Michael. Congratulations.”
“What?”
“I know it’s a lot to comprehend. Take the envelope, open it up, read it, and you’ll understand. The documents include our website and a passcode to let you in.”
I’m a leprechaun, my brain was saying, but the words kept just going around and around, like a music box in my head. I’m a leprechaun, I’m a leprechaun. I think it was playing a plinking little tune, too.
“The envelope, please,” the leprechaun said with less patience. “Do you mind? I’m on a schedule.”
I took the envelope.
“Again, do you understand? Say the words.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Good. Thank you.” Smiling and nodding, the leprechaun bowed. “I’ll see you later.” He disappeared.
“Who is it?” my wife called.
I closed the door. The moment was so 2020. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Oh, no, not this song.”
This was several months ago in our car. My wife was speaking.
I was listening. I didn’t know the song. “What is it?”
“It’s ‘Watermelon Sugar’ by Harry Styles. It comes whenever I’m in the car. Then I can’t get it out of my head. I walk around singing, ‘watermelon sugar pii-ieee.”
“Watermelon sugar pie? What’s that? I could go for some pie right now.”
“It might be high.”
“What’s a watermelon sugar high? What have I been missing out on?”
I don’t know. Listen.”
I couldn’t tell. “Should we stop and get some pie somewhere?”
I looked it up after I got home, and it’s high, not pie. A book inspired the song, which I thought interesting.
The song came on yesterday when we were out dropping off our ballots. So, in her honor, “Watermelon Sugar” is Sunday’s theme music.
Give it a listen. See if it sounds like he’s saying “watermelon sugar pie” to you.
I gotta go find some pie. I’m so weak. Yeah, sue me. Later.
Yes, I know that was eight, contrary to the post title. Just call it a bonus.
A 1980s power ballad burst into my head this morning. I was a little lethargic getting up. Not really looking forward to the day.
Seems like I’m in a rut. I don’t think I’m alone in that self-appraisal, not just in the U.S., but in many parts beyond our coastlines.
A large part of my malaise is the novel coronavirus who dances under several names, but most frequently appears as COVID-19. “Winter is coming,” George R.R. Martin has Ned Stark warning us. Up here in the northern climes, the daylight period is falling shorter. Night hangs on a little longer. With an overcast day like this one, there’s no daylight, just a pale grey nothingness to the sky.
I long for my old, comfortable routines. Man, am I a person of habit. I used to be flexible and adapt, but as I’ve aged, my processes have ossified. Change comes hard.
Different songs about change and attitude set the background to my dream reflections and morning routines, but then an absolutely obstinate cat – we call him Boo – crystallized the choice.
Here’s “Never Surrender” by Corey Hart (1985). For Boo.
My goodness, Thursday is already upon us.
Many songs have the potential to be the theme song for the COVID-19 season for folks locked up in their house together. We can get under one another’s skin, you know?
This 1983 Genesis offering came when I was contemplating should I eat one more cookie. We don’t usually have cookies in the house because we eat them. For cookies to successfully stay available for a while, they must be cookies we don’t like, or frozen and tucked out of view. As I’ll eat just about anything, it’s tough finding cookies that we don’t like.
But that whole should-I-eat-one-more thing brought about lyrics from “That’s All”, “Taking it all instead of taking one bite.” Phil Collins, the vocalist, delivers it with outrage.
It was an amusing exercise. For the record, one cookie was left. It was due to be my wife’s, but she came in and said, “You can have that last cookie.”
She’s such a nice person.
Also, for the record, this song always seems like it could be by the early Bee Gees or a Gilbert O’Sullivan song.
Michael Seidel, writer 