Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Just learned today that a good friend, a few years older than me, is suffering dementia. I’ve been through this with other friends in the last twenty years, so I’m loaded with expectations. Most of them aren’t good. But medical technology keeps advancing and I hope that my buddy and his family don’t endure what many others have gone through.
Fingers crossed, you know?
Mood: entrapped
Started the morning like it felt like spring had spring. Although just 40 F, that spring balminess – spriminess — enveloped my area of Ashlandia, where a river runs through it. This is today, by the way, Thursday, Jan. 18, 2024. It’s now 54 F, though rain has been falling from a swollen gray cloud that hovers over us like it’s hiding a giant alien spaceship.
My day was compromised by the need to be socially responsible and help some friends out. They of the removed gall bladder and limited mobility and freedom previously written of needed grocery shopping done, so we did so. That hoovered up the morning and early afternoon. Delivering the purchases, we then visited with them and emptied the dishwasher, putting those items away as weren’t able to do that for themselves.
I feel for them, though, really and truly. Besides her surgery, she has macular degeneration in her eyes and can barely squint through the day. She recounted being in the hospital unable to work the television remote because she didn’t know what was what. I don’t know why she couldn’t figure that out by trial and error, hit and miss. I suspect she didn’t think of it. BTW, she showed us some of the marbles that were the gallstones removed from her. She informed us that the six we saw were just a small sampling of what’d been removed.
Meanwhile, Mom had another bad fall at her house. Nothing broken but some bruises, contusions, and bleeding. Happened while she was trying to make it to the comode. All this evidence of aging and mortality is deflating. The thing is, I take notes about what happens to them so I’m more prepared, in case they happen to me. But the other thing about aging is that it’s such a personal matter and your experience — what you do and don’t suffer and wha I go through — will be generally the same and unique different.
Today’s song in the morning mental music stream (Trademark delusional) was “Gangsta’s Paradise” by Coolio from 1995. Reading and thinking about Trump and his family and the people who support him inspired The Neurons to play this song. The Neurons began with the lines, “Power and the money, money and the power, minute after minute, hour after hour. Everybody’s runnin’, but half of them ain’t lookin’.” That’s basically what I see in many ways when I see TFG leading the GOP.
Stay as positive as you can while testing negative, staying strong, and leaning forward. Coffee is done for the day. Here’s the music. Cheers
I overheard two strangers chat a little in the coffee shop. One asked the other about the book he was reading. The other replied, “It’s Dostoevsky. It’s written as a series of letters.”
Poor Folk, I guess, sneaking a glance over. I’d read it, I remembered, wondering if that was the book he was reading. I took a minute to hunt down when I’d read it, remembering it was the summer of 1989, when I was living in Germany. I took summer college courses which addressed different Russian, Jewish, French, and American authors. Dosteovsky was one of three Russian writers.
Over thirty years ago, I suddenly realized with a mental thud. The race of time surprised me once again. I’ll be 68 years old this year. That just amazes me. It shouldn’t, I know, yet it does. It feels like just yesterday that I was thinking, wow, Dad is 68 this year. Gonna be seventy in a few.
And now it’s me.
I had a terrific workout this morning, focusing on balance, coordination, strength, and flexibility — and successfully got my underwear on. Damn things seem to have a mind of their own and mos def did not want to be near my body.
I empathize with them.
I awoke feeling tired and realized I’d gotten about six hours of sleep. Wasn’t real concerned as that’s been my norm for years. But I usually don’t feel tired, and I wondered if it had to do with aging, as I’m now sniffing on the border of being 68. So I thought, yes, this is probably the case.
When I went into the office, cranked up the ‘puter and turned to the NYTimes this morning after breakfast, the first story spotted was, “Why Does Sleep Become More Elusive As We Age” in Salon. I don’t think sleep is my issue per se, but rest. Still, it made me feel like they were spying on my private thoughts.
I wouldn’t be surprised if another story emerges soon, “Why Do We Get More Paranoid About Being Spied On When We Age” soon.
I’ve learned to accept my older self. I’m no longer slender or muscular with thick, shiny hair, striding through places like I might be someone famous. Now I’m graying, thinning, bloated. Sagging and wrinkling skin mark the progress of decades of being.
But I’ve learned that if I don’t look in a mirror, I’ll be alright. Makes shaving my face a serious challenge, though.
Mood: sated
Good afternoon. Getting around a little late to this posting today. I dibble and dabbled the morning away, dashing up and down the Interstate and around town during late morning and early afternoon before returning home for naps and reading for a few hours.
It’s November 11, 2023, Saturday and Veteran’s Day. Awoke to a new battle between a feeble sun trying to crawl through chilly gray fog to reach us. Finally worked after a few hours, lifting us from about forty up to a skin scorching 55 F. Bazinga.
As we went zipped about town today, we had lunch and then began joking about our energy levels. “We used to be younger,” my wife and I teased one another. Yes, we used to be crazy, and we used to be fun. Now we’re prudent from mistakes made and lessons learned. Well, with happenstance, we turned off NPR games to pop on the car’s FM radio, and there was Miley Cyrus, repeating our words back at us.
[Chorus]
I know I used to be crazy
I know I used to be fun
You say I used to be wild
I say I used to be young
You tell me time has done changed me
That’s fine, I’ve had a good run
I know I used to be crazy
That’s ‘causе I used to be young
h/t Genius.com
We laughed and my spouse mentioned how much she enjoys the Miley Cyrus song, “Used To Be Crazy”, which came out earlier in 2023. And then I started wondering, when exactly did we start talking about when we were young? I think it was when I was in my forties, which is now about twenty years ago, depending on where the marker in my forties is thrown down, but I can’t verify it without a time machine. But how often do we mourn the passage of our youth and the new people which we end up being? We reflect on how our metabolism drops lower and lower, and with it often goes our energy levels, and maybe our attention levels. I also mourn hair loss and how many body shape has change, and oh, yeah, that hair has grayed and thinned. Were wrinkles mentioned? I forget.
I won’t say that I’ll never be the person I used to be. Techology may surprise us in new ways, like cloning a new version of Michael that I can inhabit with life memories and acquired knowledge intact, which could be pretty cool. Or perhaps an invention that comes along which washes out old cells and blows us out clean and fresh once again, even tailoring the result into which age we’ll like to be. I think I’d like to be 32 again.
Oh, well. This is the shit that is us, and such is life.
Stay positive, be strong and brave, and keep leaning forward. This concludes this portion of my posting day. Here’s the video. Cheers
My wife shared a friend’s anecdote.
She hadn’t seen the friend in a while. They have a regular gang that meet for coffee at Growlers after exercises classes each M-W-F morning.
Converted from an old gas station, Growlers, nominally a purveyor of beers, is in downtown Ashland. It actually shares its space with a small coffee shop. It’s normally not busy in the morning. That allows the coffee gang to pull together tables and make noise as they please. Outdoor seating with firepits is available, and that’s where they’ll typically be.
The gang is a flexible group with active lives, so the group meeting ranges from four to fifteen people. They’re mostly women. Grandmothers and great-grandmothers, retired teachers, programmers, nurses, musicians, accountants, architects, artists, firefighters, college professors, and so on. They’re characters, and have been coming to the same exercise class, with the same instructor, Mary, for over thirty years. My wife, in her mid-sixties, is the youngest. She started the coffee gant back when she began taking the class after we moved here in 2006. Always pursuing fitness, when she arrived here, she began looking for a new exercise routine, and heard about Mary’s Y class. That’s where she was told this tale this morning.
Weirdly, my wife doesn’t like the coffee at Growler’s, so she has tea.
“We’ve downsized,” L said. L is the friend. “I’m 76 and my husband is 82. We had a 3,000 foot home and five and half acres just outside of Ashland. We were talking and agreed, we don’t need all this property. So we sold our place and bought a smaller one here in town.
“Well, after we’d sold our property, the new owners called us. They wondered if we could meet at our old house and walk the property line with them so they can learn about their new land. Naturally, we agreed, so a time and place was set.
“We’d never met them. Well, we got out of the car to wait, and then they arrived. Well, they were older than us! Both had walkers.
“Then they told us, they were downsizing, too. We were speechless.”
I laughed when I was told the story and wondered, moving into a 3000 square foot home with some land while downsizing, just how big was their last place?
Mood: lazy
Good day. It’s Friday, September 29, 2023. We’re on the precipice of October in Ashlandia, where the music is crisp and fresh.
It’s 54 now, with a solidly overcast sky, one that looks like off-white paint was spilled all over it. The high will be 64 F. It’s not supposed to rain, but it might. Rain is just like floofs, always doing things which it’s not supposed to do.
BoBtoberfest is in the air. The BoBs are my beer buddies. I’ve been meeting with them for over a dozen years. ‘BoB’ means ‘Brains on Beer’, as it was founded by retired engineers, doctors, and professors. We meet once per week, on Wednesday. Once seated, we catch up on our lives, politics, science, news, and the arts. Two hours later, we head back home. Part of our current structure is donations to local schools for STEAM projects. We’re always looking for new ones, and we prefer to help troubled programs and at-risk students.
Octoberfest is the famous celebration in Munich. We were talking about it a few years ago and decided that having our own Octoberfest would be fun. We had to personalize the name to avoid confusing others; they might think that our Ashlandia Octoberfest might be mis-identified as the real one, right? Sure. So we named our gathering BoBtoberfest. Aren’t we clever?
BoBtoberfest is going to be at Mouse X’s house this year. His house was burned down several years ago. His entire neighborhood was destroyed. So was most of his town, along with a large part of two other small towns. While recovering, he rented a house in our town. One of the othe BoBs got to know him and invited him to our meetings. He’s a biologist and botanist, retiring from BLM service just before his house was destroyed.
His house was finally rebuilt last year. He wants to show it off, so he’s hosting BoBtoberfest this year. Coming later in the month, he’s grilling salmon and we’re all bringing food and drink.
Next weekend is another BoBabration. One of our members, Julie, is celebrating her 70th. She’s a retired botanist who moved into town a few years ago. Her sons live in Sacramento and Portland. They wanted to throw her a birthday party; she agreed only if the BoBs were invited. We’re not required to donate anything for this fete. Red pandas mesmerize her, so we’ve bought a stuffed red panda as a gift.
Now, to music. I have “Changes” by Black Sabbath in my mental morning music stream (Trademark reluctant). The Neurons put it there after they overheard a convo between me and my wife. They’re like Alexa and Siri in that regard, always eavesdropping.
My wife and were talking about aging and its impacts, laughing about the changes. Next thing I know, I hear Ozzie singing “I’m going through changes” from the Black Sabbath album, Vol. IV, which was released in 1972.
Stay positive and be strong. Loaded with a cuppa java, I’m ready to stagger out into the world. Here’s the music. Cheers
For a friend…
Becoming a geezer, if I may be so bold,
is more about a state of mind than growing old.
Geezers look back on time with misty eyes,
lamenting the lack of truth and the growth of lies.
They’ll disparage the young — “This generation” —
they say with a grunt and a sniff,
“Does so little no wonder the country’s adrift.
“The way it used to be is so much better,
“Like communicating with loved ones with a postage letter.
“And the things which they watch,
“The things which they say,
“The way that they dress —
“That’s not my way.”
Then they break off with a mumble and words which aren’t clear,
And say to the server, “Please bring me another beer.”
Michael Seidel, writer 