Tuesday’s Theme Music
Rain and snow finds us today. The snow isn’t down at our levels, but we can look out and see it up around five thousand feet on the trees and mountains surrounding the valley on three sides. Freeze warnings are in effect but the temperature doesn’t stray below 37 F in our locale and elevation. 54 F is the expected high. Sunshine has been sparring with the clouds since sunrise at 5:55 AM. Sometimes sunshine punches through, pushing us toward the impression that the weather is clearing. But the clouds regroup and roll back in with a new dark menace, delivering swaths of rain. Sunset, at 8:20, should be interesting. Yesterday’s was a pink infused study of clouds in eggplant and gray.
The fur bois are not pleased with this weather change. The old man, Tucker, only goes out when it’s sunny and warm these days. However, comma, if the young blade wants to go out, Tucker must go see why he wants out and what he’s doing. The ginger prince, aka Papi (aka Meep), goes in and out multiple times, trying to find weather accommodating to his needs. But no, this side is too rainy, that side is too windy. Rapid drumming on the door follows as he orders, “Let me back in!”
I have a Sweet song from 1978, “Love is Like Oxygen”, in the morning mental music stream, put there by the rascally neurons. I was in the kitchen, mumbling to myself and the cats, asking the furred ones, “Are you hungry?” They were answering, “Duh, where’s the food? Give me food.” My mumblings to self were about the promise and lure of coffee. During some part of my interaction with myself, I thought, “Coffee is like oxygen.”
Well, yeah, the neurons jumped on that. First, they tortured the song’s lyrics to fit my sentiment, changing love to coffee in the lyrics. Abandoning that, they just started playing the song, you know?
In an aside, when I first heard this song, I thought, that’s an interesting tune. But it didn’t overly move me or anything. I was startled to discover it was by Sweet because it seemed strikingly different from their previous stuff, like one of my faves from them, the over-the-top, “Ballroom Blitz”.
Test negative, stay positive, wear a mask as needs dictate, get more jabs when it makes sense for you, etc. Coffee is at hand. Here’s the tune. Cheers
Back to Bed
It’s become one of those days. I started off optimistic and energetic. Despite the leaked SCOTUS decision regarding Roe v. Wade and the various responses to it, I thought, it hasn’t been finalized. It may have even been floated by Republicans to see gauge reactions. Maybe, right, fingers crossed, etc.
But then I go on to the news. Ohio elected a guy, a Qanon promoting individual who thinks Joe Biden is tearing this country apart. He says, “Our grassroots movement across northwest Ohio intensified with every terrible mistake the Biden administration continued and still continues to make. I am more energized than ever to unite the Republican base.”
What terrible mistakes have been made? That’s not specified. I’m sure he’ll point to oil and gas prices, inflation, ignoring, of course, the global view of what’s going on in that realm with supply lines, Trump’s contributions to the problem, and the war. Perhaps, being a QAnon’er, he’ll point to the ‘COVID-19 Hoax’ or ‘the stolen 2020 election’, ‘illegal mandates’, or other things already proven to the contrary. How they hold on to the lies and disinformation that’s been spread. This man might well end up in the U.S. Congress, alongside Boebert, MTG, Matt Gaetz, Jim Jordan, Ron Johnson, and that ilk.
Then I see headlines about a few more murders and news about Russia’s invasion of the Ukraine. All of it drains and angers me, but also frustrates me. It’s sad to read of people’s behavior and thinking. In many ways, when I think of the net, that’s one of the things that comes to mind: TMI. But then a friend shares information about AI testing bees and their networking processes, and I think, see? Technology is also good.
Yes, science and technology can be wonderful, when used right. Perhaps, that’s what bugs me: we have so many undermining technology and history, twisting their narrative to promote themselves as saviors of freedom and progress. 1984? Oh, yes. Often, the motivation behind these people and their movements turn out to be the ancient problems of racism and greed.
Instead of going back to bed, I’ll deep back into my writing world. Got my coffee. It’s time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Cheers
A Move Is Made
I was settled in and writing — but —
First came the cat, Tucker. The big black and white long-furred character kept muttering about something. Food? No. Not a desire to go outside into the cold wind, surely. Nope. Water? No, not water. Just give me attention, he suggested.
“Sorry, but I gotta write, buddy,” I told him. “I’ll brush you later, I promise.”
Tucker was like, okay, I understand. He jumped up on the desk, went to the hand holding the mouse, and went to work on it with his head as a huge volume of purrs rolled through the space. “I love you but that’s not conducive to writing, buddy,” I said, moving my hand and mouse away.
Well. He sat a while, considering my response before resigning himself to a nap on a stack of papers a foot away. Writing like crazy commenced again.
My wife arrived home from her exercise class about ten minutes later. Energy bubbled out in vocal expressions. Setting into her office space, she began playing videos on a high volume, laughing aloud at what she went, turning to him to say, “You should see — oh, sorry, never mind, you’re writing.”
After four of those interruptions, I needed to find a writing refuge. The laptop was tucked into the backpack, the winter coat and gloves donned. The real question was, what’s the destination? Ashland’s coffee shop scene had changed during the pandemic. Two favorites had joined my longtime haunt, The Beanery, on the rolls of places that used to be. A new place had opened, not conveniently located, but run by a person I knew who used to run one of my favorite coffee shops. Named Moxie, I’d try it.
I walked in. “Michael!” everyone inside shouted.
I started, embarrassed to be in the spotlight. The owner was behind the counter. “Michael was one of our favorite regulars at my other coffee shop,” she explained to everyone. I knew three of those people. The other six were smiling strangers.
Not a large space, Moxie had gone through a soft grand-opening as furniture and style is acquired and employed. It had key ingredients that I need in a coffee shop: a table with a plug. Coffee. A good vibe.
After catching up with people, I settled in with a double-shot mocha. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
The Joseph Cotten Dream
Yes, it was another military dream, this one featuring a chief master sergeant (E9) named Cotten who looked just like the late actor, Joseph Cotten.
It started with recovery from military action where several of my people had been killed. I was angry about it because I felt that a planning fuckup was to blame. We were in retreat and recovery mode, filling up a large hangar at night. As people sat in folding mental chairs, some young officer came in shouting about it being fine, not to worry, everything went well. His announcement infuriated me. I snapped, “It’s not fucking fine, sir, it’s not fine when some of my people are dead.”
He responded by circling around me, pointing a finger and demanding to know what I said as everyone else stopped to watch and listen. I repeated it all. Still walking and pointing a finger at me, he warned, “You better check your attitude, the general won’t like that.”
I replied, “I don’t give a shit what the general likes, sir.”
Chief Cotten came over to calm me and the rest down. Yeah, soothing words and a smarmy attitude were employed, which I wasn’t in the mood to swallow. He suggested we have a cuppa coffee and a chat, verifying my name, then trying to flatter me into being more reasonable, telling me, “I’ve heard of you, you have a big rep. Everyone is expecting a lot from you.” I walked away from him, pissing him off, but I was beyond caring.
In a dream shift, I was sitting at a table when several young officers came in, offering me burgers. The burgers were leftovers from somewhere, but they thought I probably hadn’t eaten and would like them. I was pleased and grateful they thought of me and ate the big ol’ burgers with a grin, enjoying every bite.
Another dream shift found us preparing for an exercise. I was late in arriving but queued up in the long, single-file line. Chief Cotten joined me, asking me how I was doing, giving me a cuppa coffee to drink while I waited my turn. Like everyone else, I was in my woodland camoes, but I realize everyone else seemed to have mobility bags and helmets. I had neither. Getting rid of the coffee and leaving the line, I went around asking questions about what was going on and why I wasn’t given a mob bag. No one could answer but another senior NCO suggested that I just take what I needed.
Still cranky, I found a mob bag but when I opened it, there was a thin pink bedspread inside, like the one that used to be on my mother’s guest bed. What the fuck, I thought, which was where the dream ended.
Michael Seidel, writer 