At about 6 AM, I was pulled out of a dream at Papi’s request. He needed to go back out. Papi, aka the ginger blade, likes to come in and nibble some kibble, and then go back out to see if anything has changed outside.
Letting him out, I shrugged off the dream to think about it later and nestled back under the covers. At that point, I felt and heard Tucker get off the bed. A minute later, I heard him crunching kibble.
Silence came.
Litter box scratching followed.
That’s when I came fully awake as Tucker did some business and launched a stench that exfoliated my skin.
Had to immediately empty that. The good news, I told myself, is that last year’s COVID bout didn’t seem to affect my sense of smell.
Good to find those silver linings, even if they’re in a litter box.
I was at a drama and writing camp. Maybe forty others were present. I didn’t know anyone else. Some of them knew one another. Ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-sixties. Though I’m a RL 68, I’m around 40 here. It’s a rustic sort of setting.
One of the more popular people is a younger, dramatic person. A large black dog accompanies her everywhere. While we’re at one of our outdoor gatherings milling around, her dog eyes me, and then cuts through the crowd to visit with me. So does a cat. The dog’s actions surprises everyone. After a friendly visit with him, he returns to his person. The cat rolls around and is given affection.
The oldest person there comes to me with a sword. I’m not a sword expert but it reminds me of a US Civil War calvary officer saber. He points it at me at first, talking about it a while, and then presents it to me for my inspection. I’m mystified and leery by what he’s doing. It seems a little off center and nutty. He sort of brusquely pouts and asks for me to give him back his sword. Naturally, I do and he walks away. Okay, fine.
Well, sometime during the night (in the dream), I then write a long short-story about the woman with the dog and the man with the sword. I don’t know how but others come to me, explaining that they’d heard I’d written a short story. They wrote something too, and they think that we can combine the work. The woman with the dog knows about it, too, although she only knows me as the guy who dog went to. But, since her dog likes and trusts me, she wants to work with me.
So I agree, and then sit and edit, rewrite, and revise, adding more, and breaking the story up into four parts. Four us, including the women with the dog, come together to read and combine what another guy has written. They start reading it aloud, and the rest of the camp comes to listen, including the man with the sword. When he hears it, he comes to me to have his part expanded and reveals some things to me.
With the black dog and the cat beside me, I quickly revise and write more. Everyone is really pleased by the results. People are telling me, “I think you nailed it.” They want to know what else I’ve written, and are giving me other ideas for story, because they think I’d be the best person to write it.
It’s Sunday, August 27, 2023 in Ashlandia, where the beer and wine is above average. 65 F now, today’s forecast is for smoke and sunshine. Smokeshine? Sunsmoke? Don’t know. High will be 93 F.
Wedding stuff presently frequently preoccupies us. A nephew getting married, we’re down to a few weeks. I’m buying a suit, planning a haircut, making hotel, flight, and rental car reservations, talking to the floofs sitter. Wife has found her dress and is working on accessories. Thank dog we’re not in the wedding party.
Woke up with wet elbow syndrome today. Familiar with this? Tucker, my feline buddy, enjoys morning cuddling. He signifies this by getting up on the bed, finding a hand and tapping it with a claw until the hand is raised and offered for his use. Then he rubs his face against the hand and fingers, working it until I start participating. I guess today he couldn’t find a hand, but a bare elbow was discovered, so he engaged in it with his face until I woke up and felt the wet skin. Don’t know which part of the engagement actually brought me out of slumber, the rubbing, or the wet. I immediately began fulfilling the terms of the contracts (which I don’t remember signing) to scratch him. He threw himself down against me so that belly scratching could commence. A thick-furred booger head, his belly fur gets knotted and is often home to small sticks, leaves, etc. I work my way through the knots and remove all that stuff.
Read more sickening racist news. Blacks being targeted shot in Florida. Another black couple harrassed and handcuffed while touring their new home after a neighbor called the cops because he couldn’t believe that a Black could afford a house in HIS neighborhood. Ending after the builder came and confirmed that the couple had bought the house. THEN the cops uncuffed them. Then the neighbor flipped them the finger and yelled, “Fuck you” and retreated to his house. Really, WTF is wrong with people?
The Neurons have a battle of the bands happening in my morning mental music stream (Trademark problematic). First up is Alabama 3 with “Woke Up This Morning”, known as being the theme song for the defunct TV series, “The Sopranos”. That’s not a surprise; I posted it to someone’s page yesterday, and “woke up this morning with a wet elbow in the bed” crossed my mind as song lyrics, forcing The Neurons to reprise the song. The other bit of music is the Rolling Stones with “Under My Thumb”. Don’t know what brought that out. I was busy with the feeding routine for me and the cats (they’re fed first) when the song settled into the MMMS.
I think I’m going with Alabama 3 today. Just seems more fitting to my mood.
Coffee is ready. It’s pleasant out on the back patio, if you don’t mind a little smoke. Stay pos and be strong. Here we go. Cheers
Good morning boys and girls and others. Thank you for inviting me. Happy to be here.
It’s Monday, you know. The day when the dead rise to drink coffee and hasten to work.
June 12, 2023. Ashlandia continues to thrive in a glorious stretch of weather. Cooled a little into the mid 80s yesterday, chilled in the low 50s F overnight, now is 68 F and marching toward a high in the upper 80s F. There’s still snow on Mt Ashland if you need a fix.
Papi, the ginger wonder, inspired The Neurons’ music choice today. In the morning mental music stream is playing some Neil Young & Crazy Horse with an electrified ditty from 1977 called “Like A Hurricane”. Papi was galloping about this morning, so I started with him. We were chasing each other around the rooms, hiding, springing out in ambush and sprinting away again. While I was winded, he was still going, prompting me to tell him he was a little orange hurricane. That gave The Neurons the opportunity they sought and here we are.
Stay pos, and be a little chill. I’m motoring on coffee, springing into the day. Here we go. Cheers
My wife, SIL, and I needed to take a trip. I procured a car for us, paying cash for it. It just happens that it looked just like the 1968 Camaro RS I owned in RL in 1975, complete with stripes and black vinyl top, a fun, reliable, and sporty car. In the dream, I didn’t know that it was like my Camaro of my youth because we were youths.
I don’t know why we were traveling by car, other than going from point A to B. Tucker, a current RL cat, was traveling with us. My SIL and I took turns driving, although I did most of it. At one point while I was driving, I suddenly couldn’t control the speed. I was telling them that in the car as I tried braking, kicking the accelerator, and then trying to take the car, an automatic, out of gear, attempting to put it into neutral. When I couldn’t move the center console shifter, I concluded, “I think we’ve lost the transmission.”
I managed to get the car stopped. We got out to talk and stretch our legs. My wife was inattentive and left the car door open. Tucker immediately leaped out. I caught him and then scolded her for leaving the door open and letting Tucker out. She dismissed me and what had happened, which irked me. We decided to go on. I thought for a moment that she was going to drive, which I didn’t want for some reason. I then drove again.
We arrived at a hotel and in a dream blink, we were checked in and up in our room. I think it was in Chicago. It was a large, lavish suite, which included a butler of sorts who was also pressing us to eat or drink, telling us each time, “It’s free.” I didn’t think it was free, but included in the room. At one point, we discussed going out to dinner. The butler started making suggestions about where to go. My SIL was reading about our room during the conversation and asked, “Do you know what floor we’re on?” As my wife replied, “No,” SIL said, “We’re on the 668th floor.”
I went over to the huge windows and looked out. Seeing how high we were, I gasped. “Wow. Why are we so high?”
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Sunshine and blue skies. Presently on the mid side of 60 F, up from 52 F overnight, we’ll be hunting the mid 80s before the sun skirmishes with the falling night and carries us into a new day.
It’s June and Saturday, June 3, 2023, for more exactitude. The cats are loving this weather, right? Mostly out there sleeping in part shade, part sun. Seeing them out there, and I drift through memories. Tucker has always been a little strange about doors. He goes to the linen door, coat closet door, garage door, pantry door. A drawn out merow is issued. His meowing is either very loud or barely a whisper. No midpoint for him. When it’s a loud meow, he draws out the sounds and employs several syllables.
I ask, “What? You want into the <insert location here>?”
Head nod (yes, by him), mumbling mew sounds, a head tilt at the door in question, his look shooting from it to me, back to it, conveying his desire.
Head shake (yes, by me). “Okay, buddy.” Sigh. Door is opened. He heads in for investigation, sometimes dwelling in wherever for fifteen to twenty minutes. He’s old now, a long-furred black and white stray who chose to stay with us, showing up with matted fur and bad teeth almost ten years ago, I think. Need to check the histories to know with certitude. Point is, these demands have been incorporated in his behavior since his first year with us.
The Neurons planted “Happenings Ten Years Time Ago” into the morning mental music stream. 1966 Yardbirds song. Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page on lead guitars, I thought this song was so cool when I first heard it, one of those radio offerings that had me jumping for the radio and reaching for the volume knob. Never heard it much on the radio in the years since. Don’t know when I last listened to it. But this morning, walking out of dream sleep and into the other room to begin standard morning practices, the first lines broke out of memory and into conscious thought.
Meeting people on my way Seemingly I’ve known one day Familiarity of things That my dreaming always brings
Happenings ten years time ago Situations we really know But the knowing is in the mind Sinking deep into the well of time
Wasn’t long after that before The Neurons delivered the song to a loop in my head. I think it’s a related-to-writing thing. I obsess over time, reality, and questions of what we know vs what happened vs what we think we know is one that in my novel writing. Memory is a mischief maker and history is written by the winners and then revised, leaving many of us floundering about it all. So here we be.
Stay pos. Coffee drinking has commenced. Big old cup is a quarter down already. Goes well with a cool summer morning on the patio, sunshine blazing down, cats washing in the green grass, jay yelling at us all from different perches as he surveys the yard and lands on chairs and trees. Could be a good day, you know?
Pop quiz, students. It’s Saturday, May 27, 2023 in Ashlandia. Which of these things are not true:
a. Cloudy
b. Spring
c. High will be 78 F
d. Currently 61 F
e. All are true.
That’s right, it’s e in Ashlandia, although there is no e in Ashlandia.
My wife was worried about the cougar getting Papi last night. See, two nights ago, I called Papi in about elevenish. Dude was in his patio condo, but the cat was acting peculiar. Moving slow. Careful. Tail down. Like it was the anti-Papi, doing the opposite of the guy’s usual demeanor. I worried about his health. He usually comes in, gallops across the floor, talks to me, gets some lovin’, and eats. None of that happened, so I prepared him some cat food warm with hot water. Although interested, he showed no great enthusiasm. I coaxed him to his eating site, and he ate it all up. That’s good, right?
But he stayed silent and in. Talking with the other half, she suggested the cougar was seen or maybe Papi escaped something and had a close call. She really thought it was related to the cougar. Papi stayed in that night until dawn. Well, by midday, Papi was his ush, galloping about, tail up, chatting and eatin’.
Back to last night. “I want to keep him in,” she said. “I don’t want the cougar getting him.” So Papi was forced to remain inside. Verily, he was unpleased, talking to me about it in various tones throughout the night. Finally let him out at 6:45 AM, after sunrise. Not a good night sleep for me. Coffee is needed.
Interesting dreams, though. Still reviewing them. Many small dreams, tiny as webisodes.
Tina Turner’s death has The Neurons stuck back in time. Today we’re revisiting “We Are The World” from 1985 in the morning mental music stream. Written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie, it was a charity single to raise money for famine relief in Africa. Had a who’s who of the United States pop culture stars at that time performing on it, and it was all captured on video. Forty-five pop stars were on hand; fifty were turned away. A few who were invited didn’t show.
Tina Turner was back in the spotlight in a big way, then, so she’s an early featured soloist. Anyway, that’s today’s song. Point after: I’d wondered how many of the performers have now passed away. Someone had already done the research for me. Tina was number ten. Not surprising. Song was done in 1985, after all. Thirty-eight years ago. Many of the performers were already middle-aged.
Side note: I was in Africa that year, participating in an exercise in Egypt’s desert for a month.
Stay pos, enjoy this day and make it memorable by having fun and getting it done, number one. Here’s the retro tune. Cheers
My cat lessons with Papi are going well. Papi doesn’t generally meow. He doesn’t use two syllables. He barks, more like a seal than a cat. With out training, whenever he barks his mew, I immediately stand and respond, “Yes, sir, what may I do for you?”
I’d say I’m almost ready to graduate from my training.
56 degrees F at this moment. Expecting the mid to upper 80s before the sun’s Ashlandia sojourn ends. It’s Friday, My 12, 2023.
Today’s heat is a prelude to a week of it. What irritates about many of these weather changes is how it jumps into hot weather and collapses into chilly weather with little warning. Why can’t we hit the middle ground and stay there for a while.
I know, I whine a lot. Everyone complains about the weather but nobody does anything. I said it here first…
I’m feeling better in a psyche way today. Dropped some anxiety and stress. I naturally gravitate to being those things although I’m weirdly known for being calm in an emergency. Three things resolved that were affecting my stress and anxiety. Got my retired military ID — now known as a an Identification and Privilege Card — issued at last. Been trying for almost a year. Picture looks pretty good, too. Look like a sea captain in it.
Second, first annual physical since I passed 65 years old. Hell, first annual physical in a looonnnggg time. Nothing untoward discovered. As part of my general hypertension, I suffer white coat syndrome. Getting the appointment out of the way was a relief although they IMMEDIATELY scheduled one for next year, so I’ve got THAT to worry about.
Third, sadly but painfully true, is that the death watch for Uncle Bill is over. Reminders of immortality, sadness about changes, another milestone in growing older all seen and felt with one strike.
I was watching my boy, Papi, an aloof ginger floof, as he watched the street traffic yesterday. He can’t help but get into a position to see what is making that noise? What is coming? Then, as the noise-maker closes in — runner, biker, walker — with or without dog — street cleaner, he turns and flees to the porch’s safety, hides behind a post and leans around, continue to watch. If he sees me watching, he comes over to be let in, and then walks around the house demanded to be let outside. The back door is open this morning, letting him come and go.
Weird song The Neurons thrust into the morning mental music stream. From 1967, it’s called “Tin Soldier” by Small Faces (not to be confused with “One Tin Soldier”, which is a totally different song). The roots to hearing it today aren’t clear. Although I had disturbing dreams, I can’t pinpoint anything from them which would call the song out. My best guess is that the mid to late 1960s was time spent around Uncle Bill, so the The Neurons expanded the sphere, bringing this song in.
Stay pos, if you can. Can be difficult, I understand. I think a cuppa coffee is in order for me now. Let the pouring commence. Here’s Small Faces. See you on the flipside.
Michael Seidel, writer 