We were talking about classes we wished we’d had when we were young. Like, explanations about how much your body might change as you age. We knew that would happen, of course. Saw it in mother and father, aunts and uncles, etc. But how do you impress how much of it’s within and outside of your control, and how there is an accumulative impact? Despite exercise and health, some of these things take you by surprise and take you down, mentally, physically, emotionally.
Maybe such information is now being taught. Of course, with the net and technology, more of it is available.
Hey, it’s Fried-day, July 14, 2023. Birthday for one of my late cousins. Years younger than me, cancer claimed her in 2019.
Gonna be hot today here in Ashlandia, where the plays are entertaining and the musicians are local. Not OMG help hot, like AZ’s impressive daily highs, nor Palm Springs 120 F hot, but protect-yourself-family-and-pets hot, 98 F. And that’s why it’s Fried-day.
When I was being educated in the US in the 1960s, attending elementary school, teachers talked about a ‘can-do attitude’. They were always encouraging us to rise up to the challenge and find a way to overcome it. I vividly recall listening to one teacher standing before us rapt, dewy-eyed second-graders as she said, “The can-do attitude helped make America great.” Before we were taught history and learned that the country wasn’t great, that America was flawed. Yet it had to the potential to become greater, if we kept after things with a can-do attitude.
I grew up believing that we can fix things, whether it was injustice, inequality, poverty, or going to the moon. This was in the aftermath of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination. He seemed to empower ‘can-do’ for young me. No, wasn’t perfect, but he was willing to set goals, create a vision, and strive to achieve them.
Now we’re mired in a severe can’t-do existence. Money is typically the ‘can’t-do’ motivation, followed in the US by ‘Founding Fathers’. The Founding Fathers and their vision of a Democracy run by the people, for the people, are thrown up as an obstacle as people stop to think, not what is best by and for the people, but what would the Founding Fathers say and do?
I believe that attitude would have the Founding Fathers appalled. They would ask, “Have you not established a robust education system that helps people? Do you knot know how to think? Do you lack the courage and principles to come together, find solutions and move forward?”
And that’s a big now. Big reason for me, whether it’s about climate change and half the country setting new high records for high temperatures year after year, sensible gun control, or taxes, is that half the country is trying to go backward. Yes, let’s go backwards. Just bury our heads and deny what’s going on.
That shows a true ‘can-do’ spirit.
All of that explains my exasperated mood today.
I woke up with the Looney Tunes theme music in my morning mental music stream. As I went about re-establishing my existence, mocking myself as I fell into my comfortable, middle-class routines once again, The Neurons opened some “Canned Heat” and spilled “Let’s Work Together” into the morning mental music stream (trademark non-existent). The 1970 version of Wilbur Harrison’s take on “Let’s Stick Together” could be an inspiring theme song for promoting a can-do attitude. Feel the energy behind that gravelly voice, courtesy of Bob Hite, as he urges us to work together.
Together we’ll stand Divided we’ll fall Come on now, people Let’s get on the ball
And work together Come on, come on Let’s work together Now, now people Because together we will stand Every boy, every girl and man
People, when things go wrong As they sometimes will And the road you travel It stays all uphill
Let’s work together Come on, come on Let’s work together, ah You know together we will stand Every boy, girl, woman and man
Oh well now, two or three minutes Two or three hours What does it matter now In this life of ours
Let’s work together Come on, come on Let’s work together Now, now people Because together we will stand Every boy, every woman and man
Ah, come on Ah, come on, let’s work together
Well now, make someone happy Make someone smile Let’s all work together And make life worthwhile
Let’s work together Come on, come on Let’s work together Now, now people Because together we will stand Every boy, girl, woman and man
Oh well now, come on you people Walk hand in hand Let’s make this world of ours A good place to stand
You know, we do show the ability to come together. We come together to cheer performers — singers, actors, athletes — to cheer them on. And we come together to cope with disasters. We come together to offer hopes and prayers after mass shootings, floods, wildfires, hurricanes.
Honestly, can’t we begin to find a way to come together before disasters and deaths?
Yeah, I know. It’s all been said before, all been written with more inspiration before, and here we stay, stuck on yesterday, moving toward last century, burning up and and falling down.
Guess I need coffee. Stay pos, if you can, and strong. Wish you the best in whatever situation you face today, tomorrow, next month, next year.
Talk around the coffee table yesterday was that everyone wants to go see Asteroid City. Terrific cast. Jason Schwartzman, Scarlett Johansson, Jeffrey Wright, Tilda Swinton, Bryan Cranston, Tom Hanks. If you’re a Wes fan, critics suggest you’ll like the film. If you’re not his fan, you might want to pass. We are his fans, so we might go. The subject is in the air. Don’t know where the currents will take it.
It’s Sa’day, July 8, 2023. Lots of room left in July at this point. Summer has slowed for us here in Ashlandia, where the day gets hot and the nights get cool. 66 F now, we’re expecting 92 around our homestead by mid-aft. I miss the annual blueberry pickin’. It would’ve already been done, and we’d have pints of fresh blueberries in frig and freezer. Some baking would’ve been done. But the drought and wildfire smoke killed it two years ago. Too hot, too dry, then too smoky. All conspired to take production down. Bushes died, and COVID took the heart out of it for the folks running it. Gone are those 6:30 arrivals at the gate, sipping hot coffee in cold mountain air as the sun pulls itself clear of the mountains and turns on the heat. Gone is the cold feel of wet berries in your fingers and the hunt down the rows for a bush that speaks to you. Gone is the hushed laughing and gossiping, more expected in a church than in a field picking berries, but all seemed to approach it as a solemn event. Well, almost all. There seemed to be one each year who had to be talking loudly on their cell phone while picking berries.
Thinking of those things reminded me of “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders. Released in 1982, it’s about change. I’d been discussing change with others on a previous evening. I’ve seen change in Ashlandia, a shift in priorities, the decline of traditional events, the rise of doings that don’t matter to us. Our connections with the city and area are loose and breaking. We’re drifting away from it and no longer feel like we’re a part of it. Not as we were before.
I thought of Mom’s place in Penn Hills, PA, after that conversation. Her place has changed through the years, certainly. New siding, porches replaced, etc. Yeah, those physical changes took place, but its essence has remained steadfast. That’s what disillusions us with Ashlandia: its essence seems to be changing. Anyway, Les Neurons wedged “My City Was Gone” into the morning mental music stream, so here we are.
Well, stay pos, and muster the courage and strength to do it again. I’m building my energy to get out there with a strong dose of coffee. It’s what’s for breakfast, along with oatmeal. Here’s the music, and awaaayyy we gooo.
He had a dream that he was going in the right direction. It didn’t feel like the right direction today. Maybe the dream was wrong. Or maybe going in the right direction was going to be harder than expected.
She entered the coffee shop, stopping by the door to peruse her phone. She resembled his younger sister so much that he studied her in depth, thinking of the similarities. Then, he realized, he wasn’t thinking of his sister as she now was, mother to two teenagers, but she’d been, fresh faced out of high school, so young and pretty.
Sweat plagued his eyes. He sniffed and swallowed, wishing for water. He’d been going since sunup. Heat and humility built around him. It seemed determined to crush him like a grape.
Giving up was considered and dismissed. He was here and going to do it. Doubt about whether he was following the instructions kept bouncing through, confusing him about what the little thing told him. Half-asleep, he wasn’t sure if it was a robot, tiny human, or something else, like an elf or fairy. They hadn’t introduced themselves. Maybe it wasn’t even real. Just his imagination.
Without preamble, “Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me)” derailed his thinking. Didn’t matter. He’d reached the hill’s crest. Signposts were ahead. An intersection. Down this hill and up another. Stepping faster, he was there in less than ten minutes, perspiring with more vigor, and breathless. He didn’t think he’d need water for this. Not for a dream. Didn’t think it’d be sunny, or like a day in any way.
The signpost was in the center of a large gold-bricked circle. Arrow shaped signs. About a hundred of them. No, more than that. Maybe a thousand. Different colors, languages, and printing styles. Looked crude. Homemade.
His little nocturnal visitor sounded like an irritated teacher when they said, “I’m tired of you sitting around, whining, waiting, and wishing, so I’m doing you a solid.”
They pointed. “See that?”
Slow because he was half-asleep, he pressed to see what the little one meant even though the little one was still talking. “Get in there and turn left for the past, right for the future, or straight ahead to another existence. Whichever way you go, you’ll come to a signpost.
“You better hurry if you’re going to do it. The portal will close and fade, and your opportunity will be gone.”
“Wait, what?” He sat up. Yawned. Stretched. Rubbed his eyes. Massaged his genitals. Considered peeing. Frowned. “What?”
His small visitor was barely a fading memory. The opening remained where there was usually a wall. A portal? Thinking, I must still be dreaming and I’ll wake up at any moment, he entered the opening. Fearing the future, regretting his past – too many things to change there and who knows how it would turn out – he’d gone straight.
He stared up at the signs. Words emerged. Animals.
A frown creased his face. What was that about? He’d always liked cats and they liked him. He admired birds. Dogs were okay…
He stepped in the cat’s direction with slow, short steps. Shivers tickled him. Changes took place. His fingers were gone. Paws halfway through construction had replaced them. Looked like he’d be a black cat.
He backed up. More shivers traveling him, his fingers returned.
Did he want to be a cat? He looked back down the road he’d followed to come here with the thought, maybe he should have gone to the past to see what he could have changed. He might have been hasty.
The road was gone. Nothing was there. Gray nothing.
He walked toward it. The gray nothing stopped him from advancing. Like trying to wade through stiffening tar.
Well, what the hell. This was only a dream.
He turned back to the sign and read the offerings. No doubt, that’s what they were. Unicorn. Whale. Elephant. Dog. Kracken. Dolphin.
Dragon, he saw.
Dragon. It’d be so cool to be a dragon, even if just in a dream.
But bravery wasn’t in his personal inventory. He stood, staring, considering, flounder, eel, coral snake, eagle – eagle would be fun. Puma. Tiger. Heron. Emu. Alligator.
No. With all of his fears and hopes, the best thing he could become is something fantastic.
Happy with his decision, he turned and advanced, shivering and coughing as he grew and changed until at last he walked out of a high mountain cave into a purple dusk. Spreading his golden wings, he released a fiery roar and felt the world’s fear. Yes, being a dragon was going to be so cool.
What a dream, I’m telling you. Began with my wife and I on a spiritual pilgrimage. We stopped at a small place that seemed to be built inside a cave. They were studying odd phenomena. Included were a series of three holes in the cave’s walls. The holes were square. They didn’t know how they got there. People studied them to see if they were changing or static. My wife suggested I should study them because she thought me good at analyzing things. At the group’s insistence, I gave it a shot.
The holes were very dusty. When I looked into them, I could see that they slanted down and to the left. They seemed to have a flap door on the right side which could cover them. That was part of the controversy. Discussions were revolving whether those flap had always been there, and if the holes were now dustier than they used to be.
I’d glanced at each of the holes when I approached them, then went to the first one on the left. The group provided me sketches which the group had made, so I could look for differences. The first two were examined and no changes were seen. But I immediately saw changes on the third hole, on the right. I pointed it out in excitement, asking a member of the group if he saw the change. This hole was also lit from below. I was intensely interested in climbing into the hole and going down into it, but was also afraid of what was there. I kept leaning in, listening while watching for differences.
My wife had been behind me to my left while this was going on. Now she said, “I’m going to look around. Remember that we need to make a decision before 8:30, and then we’ll go.” Then she walked off.
I kept studying the hole. Suddenly I realized that it was 3 AM. Time had flown past. I was alone. I asked, “Where is my wife?” I walked around looking for her, complaining to myself but aloud, “We were supposed to make a decision hours ago, and leave. Where did she go?”
Opening a door, I discovered my wife in bed with a young white man with short blonde hair. He was very skinny, no one I know from real life.
When the door opened, they separated. Realizing it was me, the man was whimpering and trying to get out of bed and run.
He fell onto the floor. I stormed across the room and grabbed him by his head. He screamed and started crying. A small, round, white table was beside the bed. I prepared to slam his head against the table.
I stopped myself as I bent to do it. He was part of this but what would hurting or killing him do? I paused, thinking about that.
My wife grabbed my arm. “Michael, stop. Please don’t hurt him.”
I turned my head toward her and snapped, “Don’t touch me.”
She pulled her head away and stepped back. I let go of the man and turned toward her. “You did this,” I said. “You started this.”
Going across a dark, almost dystopian urban landscape, I came across Dad. He was hustling around, his normal mode, with that odd, splayed-leg walk of his. Seeing me, he said, “Here, come help me.” He was pointing and directing. “We need to paint this place. Get that brush and paint over there.” He pointed to a red brick wall.
At that point, I realized that most of the place was already painted red. “You’re painting everything red.”
“Yes,” he answered, taking up a roller and resuming.
“Why?”
“It needs to be red.”
I saw that besides the buildings being red, so were the pavement, grass, trees, and roads. Even the sky and clouds were red. “How did you do that?”
“Hurry,” he answered, “we need to get everything painted red.”
Although I didn’t understand and disagreed, I began painting. As I did, I found red rubies surrounding me. I picked them up with huge astonishment, admiring the cut gems, and called out to Dad, “Look what I found.”
“I know,” he replied without pausing his work. “Take what you want. They’re yours.”
He ended up eavesdropping again. One young woman was speaking with another. God and religion were her primary topics. Then she spoke about her boyfriend for a long time.
What drew his attention was the realization that she was crying. She said, “I love him. I know people think I’m stupid. I’m trying really hard. I think we can work it out.”
Michael Seidel, writer 