I was ravenous. I carry sufficient emergency energy stores (fat) on my body that starvation didn’t come up as a serious concern except for my stomach’s urgency to refill. It bellowed complaints like an irritated wooky. Much of this is diet limitations. I’m on low salt for hyper tension, and still remained constrained by my oral surgery. It’s healing well but missing molars and recovering surgical sites disrupt the biting, and chewing, and swallowing routine. It’ll be over in four to six months, so that’s just a temp thing.
I’ll be pleased to see June 2025 finish. Frustrating, disappointing, wearying, and just plain sad, that month holed my energy during its 30-day reign, and my soul is despondent. Personally, June of 2025 will remain a strong memory because it was memorably messed up. I’m putting high hopes on July and the rest of 2025. July’s first week features two dental appointments, my annual physical, and natal day #69, so the beginning is loaded with potential.
For the record, I think Natal Day #69 could be good song title, with the right music behind it.
Mom and her boyfriend appear to be ready to move out of Mom’s house.
This is a big step for Mom. Not only is it a familiar place, a comfortable place for her, but it’s rich with history. She lost her previous house in divorce proceedings when the two parties agreed that selling is what needed to be done, as neither could afford to pay the mortgage on their own. Mom then saved for years for a place that she could afford on her own. This place was finally the one. Like Mom, the house has a lot of charm. Now both are old.
Mom fixed up that home through the years. Seventeen grand and greatgrandchildren have visited it for parties, holidays, and celebrations. She hadn’t finished high school; while living in that house, she got her GED. She then went on to become a nurse, RN & LPN. She was rightfully very proud of those accomplishments.
Her house has always tidy and spotless. Cleaning and cooking, having family, are her passions. But the house, with its narrow, step stairs, are no longer a safe place for her. That’s painful to acknowledge. Her physical limitations keep her from cooking and cleaning. The grands and greats rarely visit because Mom is mostly tired, medicated, and bed-ridden. She depends on her boyfriend. Now 95, he’s finally up against limitations. He becomes dizzy and falls. It’s not a good situation for the two of them. Now, he has mass in his lung which might be cancer, but with his age, they don’t feel there’s any worthwhile treatments for him.
Like many things, there are more factors swirling underneath the surface emotions, conversations, and actions. Like, he doesn’t want to pay rent, which he would need to do in the new place, because he wants to leave money for his children, grandchildren, etc. This is mostly an ego thing because all of his offspring are well off. And if he has cancer and becomes sicker and worse…well, that doesn’t need to be spelled out. We can all visualize the added complexities.
Egos, complexities, and history are all part of the package. Nothing can just be dimissed. It must be lived through, endured, and shaped until it fits the current moment.
I told myself again yesterday, get out of the way and write. Write, I did. And when I reviewed what I wrote, I laughed to myself and whispered, “This is fucking crazy.”
By far the craziest of what I’ve ever written, I sat down with a specific purpose and some simple ideas about where I was going. Well, The Writing Neurons quickly queued up, redecorating, rearranging, reordering, taking me into completely foreign waters. “But how will this match up with what I had planned and previously wrote?” I complained.
Well, after the cat barked me awake at 5:58 AM today, The Writing Neurons pounced on my poor brain. They began weaving story webs like caffeine-fueled spiders in a web-building competition. I laughed at a lot of the shit they conjured. Then, when I put eyes to screen and hands to keys, I hustled to duplicate The Writing Neurons’ input.
It’s a wild frigging ride so far and I’m nervous about where I’m going. But you know, write on.
That’s what it’s all about.
***
So…I finished a novel last month. Felt damn good about it. Began firing up the querying mechanism.
Meanwhile, I handed it off to friends for feedback. But, without telling them, I capped it at part 1. I figured, if they finish part 1, I’ll give them parts 2 and 3. I did this knowing that the manner the novel unfolds will be confusing by the end of part 1. You need part 2 to see where it’s going, and part 3 for full illumination. But I still thought it would be a fast read for them. Instead, I’m hearing that they had to reread parts; they were creating notes. They want to sit down and talk about what’s what. All of that’s pushing my hopes and confidence toward the writer’s abyss of despair. I just need to hang on. Wait for their feedback. See where it goes.
We have violence escalating in the Middle East and the United States as the Ukraine-Russia War burns on. This is the forefront. In the momentary background are tariffs and trade wars, climate change and natural disasters like wildfires. Always thinking ahead *cough cough, yes, that’s very thick snark*, a Florida right wing sheriff is threatening to kill protestors, Gov. DeSantis in Florida beams and tells drivers that it’s okay to hit protestors with their cars (anyone remember Charlottesville, VA?), Gov. Abott in Texas is calling out the National Guard, and so is Gov. Kehoe in Missouri. That First Amendment and its right to assemble really terrifies the right wing. Which, I guess we can infer means that We the People terrify them.
The current situation isn’t triggering joy and optimism in me. I could play whatif games about Trump, Putin, and Netanyahu being more restrained and diplomatic. These games are as pointless as wishes Kamela Harris won the election in 2024. Or Hillary won in 2016. Or Gore in 2000. Or that spineless Republicans like Mitch McConnell stood up, did his job, and impeached Trump in the latter’s first term. Or the Roberts Supreme Court didn’t behave like an overindulgent absent father and ruled to appease the right wing. We’re beyond those things mattering, except the ripples are still going.
That’s the thing. I, we, gotta ride the ripples. Do what I can, what we can, to mitigate their impact. Survive and help others do the same. And seize the opportunity to help change the world — again — when the chance comes.
Stand up this weekend. Stay calm. De-escalate violence but stand for your principles. Be reasonable in the face of absurdity. It can be painful. It will take courage and strength. It can be done.
No kings. No fascism. Not in the United States of America. Not now. Not ever.
I approached a tall and ancient tree wrapped in silvery fog. I had an impression that I’d been climbing for some time as I felt bone weary with effort. The foggy air had me shivering in the dream, but I think it was also nervousness. Stopping in front of the tree, I stared at the rough blackened gray bark. Slowly a face rose into the gnarly surface. Eyes opening, they moved around several moments before finding me. With unrelenting attention given to me, the face separated from the tree and slowly floated up into the sky. As it did, I found that the fog was gone. I watched the face floating away until it could no longer be seen, and I was alone with the tree, surrounded by a clear blue sky.
I dreamed I plunged through a blue sky. Arms at my side, I wore a helmet and face plate. Bulleting thousands of feet, I made my hands into fists at the last minute, put my arms straight out in front of me, and crashed into a thickly iced sea. Breaking through the ice, I entered icy indigo water, then celebrated my success. I was meant to break through the ice and knew it could only be done from a great height.
I then awoke in my dream and remembered my ice-breaking sky dive and its outcome, and was pleased again. After that, was up and moving around. Dressed casually, today was my big day. I’d do the ice-breaking dive later that day. For now, I was just tying up loose ends. This was both my last day and my first day. I was crossing an intersection from what I’d been to what I would be.
My spirits were buoyant. Doubt kept flitting through me. Could I really do the ice-breaking dive? It seemed risky and dangerous. I reminded myself that I’d done it in a dream. Did a dream matter? No, but it had not been a dream, but a practice run. I pondered that as I went around outside, across broad green swaths, around copses of trees and small arrangements of modern buildings, often in white,, saying good-byes to others and hello to more.
I worried about some of the things I was leaving behind. These were military matters, such as readiness reports. But I told myself, that was their problem, not mine. I also didn’t think they did those things the same way that I did them. So, no, don’t worry, I told myself. Time to move on.
And that’s where the dream stopped. Or at least, my memory of it.
Wenzda, Mai 14, 2025, is Grayda in Ashland. Gray hangs over us with gravity’s weight. Sunshine comes in and leaves quick. No rain is expected, but neither was Grayda. This is Ashlandia. We’re supposed to be basking in warmth. It has risen to 56 F. 61 F is on the menu. All these gray clouds do something to my mood. Their impact is much different if its over a crashing sea, but that scene is a coupla hundred miles away.
Today’s tune was brought to me by nature. Nature; when you want the very best.
I was out looking for pollinators. My wife and I are down. “I’ve seen one fat bumble bee,” she said, “and one dragonfly, and a looper, but that’s not really a butterfly. So I haven’t seen any butterflies.”
I recounted my count: two bees, no dragonflies, butterflies, wasps, hornets, or hummingbirds. Even the birds are frequenting our area less. We’re used to being a buzzbox of activity. This non-activity disconcerts and worries us.
Papi was with me during my pollinator watch. “Where are the butterflies?” I asked him. He rolled around on his back on the patio cement, his eyes scrunched closed and his paws working the air.
A dog barked. Papi flipped over and studied the area, his ears finetuning themselves to the dog’s position. Not in the backyard, which is fenced. And it wasn’t either of his mortal enemies, the dog to the east, or the wicked dog to the north, Cowdog.
And then, “Dog & Butterfly” by Heart started in the morning mental music stream. The Neurons’ thinking was clear in this instance. That’s often rare so I appreciated the linear clarity.
“I’m going back in, Papi,” I said. Papi yawned and stretched. A jay came to the yard and conversed. I closed the door on the scene.
Ann Wilson said about “Dog & Butterfly”, “This, like a log of songs, came from something iteral and changed to something more poetic. I was upstairs in my music room waiting for my muse. It doesn’t always happen on cue but, in hindsight, it did this time. I looked out of my window and saw the dog chasing a butterfly. He wouldn’t give up; he just kept chasing that butterfly. I thought it was impossible, yet he kept on going. The chase took on another meaning for me. Like so much in life, the spirit is undaunted, you keep going after it.
“Many people have said that it is that thought in this song that has helped them through rough times. When they’re up against the wall I life, thy could refer back to it and keep going.
“Nancy (Wilson) and I, as Heart, were new at the time in 1978 or so, and this became our personal theme song as well. Now if we don’t play it in our set, people are disappointed.” h/t to Wikipedia.org.
I think it’s a good day to help push through graydas. Sometimes these days in Trumpland feel gray and heavy despite the sunshine. I turn to music to help get through. Do what’s needed, without doing yourself harm.
Coffee has been consumed. Here we go again. Three…two…one…
Michael Seidel, writer 