Friday’s Theme Music

We’re talking Friday, January 21, 2022. Fog and sunshine play games outside. The sunshine came in at 7:34 this morning. The fog crept in afterward, holding temperatures down around 39 as the sun is kept at arm’s length. But the fog is expected to take a bow and leave, freeing the sun to warm up to the upper fifties before stealing away at 5:10 this evening.

I have Avicii’s song, “Wake Me Up” from 2013, racing around the morning mental music stream. Avicii died a few years ago, when he was 28. That fact ties in well with the day in general. It’s one of those mornings for me when I feel less like I’m living and more like I’m enduring. Ironic for me, as life on a personal level isn’t too bad, other than a cat with cancer. No food or income insecurities. I do wrestle muses for fun, and they sometimes leave me aggrieved, but mostly, my angst is for others. Learning of others’ bad news, reading news pieces, and following politics can debilitate any soul. COVID-19 tales, whether they be about stats, sickness, death, or misinformation, is a fountain of weariness.

But there isn’t any waking up from these matters. This is life. These days will pass. Greater things will come along. Well, fingers crossed that they will. Knock on wood.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vaccines when you can. I’m gonna go have a cup of coffee now. You stay and listen to Aloe Blacc sing Avicii’s song.

The Startup Dream

Overall, this was a fun dream. Very colorful, sharp, and energetic. Young, I was with a tech startup company. There were about twenty of us, but we were having success and hiring to expand. None of them were recognized as people from my real life.

The atmosphere was jubilant, almost giddy. Then one male co-worker came in and told the CEO, “I know it’s not appropriate, but that woman you hired has a great ass.” I was mortified that he said that, but also intrigued: I wanted to see this ‘great ass’.

We launched a new product variation. It went well. A marketing campaign was initiated that involved people pretending to trash the office. That didn’t sit well with me, leaving me shaking my head and telling them that I didn’t agree with it, that I didn’t see the purpose, and that I was thought it was wrong and misleading. I watched several hirees going through breaking things as part of the campaign. When they were done, I was given a list of things to fix but discovered they hadn’t broken anything that I was tasked to fix.

A group of us left to go out on the town and celebrate. First there was the matter of changing clothes. I had some new garments and put them on, including shorts and sandals. I was with the others when I put my sandals on. Several people complimented me on me leg muscles. I answered, “Thanks, I walk ten to twelve miles a day.” I took special care about fastening my sandals, as the straps were different and unusual.

Then we left to find a place to eat and go dancing. End dream.

Apple Diet After Math

The three-day apple diet was endured. Yeah, not bad, except in maddening fits when habits drive hunger. Like relaxing, watching television or reading in the evening invites a food companion. Not anything big but the apple slices weren’t satisfying in those moments.

That was rare, though. I’m satisfied with results. I suffer from edema brought on by Amlodipine taken to manage my high blood pressure. Apples only for three days had a dramatic impact. Likewise, as I’ve aged, mild bloating plagues me. That disappeared. And I felt damn fine. I’d recommend it to others.

Rising yesterday morning, I wasn’t hungry and ate breakfast a little later than usual. Energy level was high. I didn’t have any dramatic urges or desires to stuff myself. For dinner, we enjoyed fish with seasoned boiled potatoes, steamed broccoli, and a salad.

The cats rose up. “Fish! Real food. At last, we have been delivered from our suffering.” They charged my plate, leaping up onto the table. They know they’re not allowed on the table.

My response: “Get down. Back. This is my food. You don’t see me going after your food.”

They all jumped down and scattered back a few feet. The head floof said, “You can eat my kibble any time you want. I’ll trade.”

I told him I’d passed. He walked away, muttering to himself, tail swishing.

I don’t think he was happy.

A Time Dream

First, one dream ended. All I remember of it was that Glenn Greenwald was mentioned. Then I discussed someone’s book. No details from that remain with me. In the end, I was trying to explain what I meant but couldn’t think of a specific word. I tried writing it on a white board and wrote in lower case letters in red, ‘threat’. Standing back, I said, “That’s not what I meant to write.”

But a new dreamisode began. I was studying with others. We were a small class, five, learning in an old farmhouse. The other students and I were talking and joking when we were supposed to be studying. I picked up the book to try again. The subject was macroeconomics and my interest in learning it was low.

The teacher, a young, short white man with a black beard, entered and asked if we were ready for our exam. Other students who were younger than us approached our farmhouse. My class watched them out the window. We discovered they’d taken the same course and had already finished the exam. Not only that, but they were ahead of us on lessons.

My classmates and I were dismayed. We were expected to read several chapters, amounting to hundreds of pages, in a few days and then pass an exam on it? I laughed. “I need more time,” I said to the instructor.

“How much time?” he asked.

I laughed again. “A few years.”

Dream end.

Tuesday’s Theme Music

Hallooo. Today is Tuesday, October 5, 2021. High, marbled clouds, threadbare white in major stretches, strung out over pale blues, color the sky. Sunrise barely crept into it. Giving us light but we’ve yet to see the true sun behind all of that. Came in early. 7:12 AM. But the blinds were drawn so the house was dark. Already missing that early morning light lift. Sunrise will come 6:48 PM. Temps are now at 60 F, will hit 70 F. Boy, you should see the shimmering maples showing off their dark wine coats. So lovely, but the black walnut trees counter with majestic bright yellows. Easy to get drunk on these displays.

We had a surprise reveal this week. We’re going to a local Halloween concert at the month’s end. “Sleepy Hollow ” theme. Indoors. The organization behind it has set up the orchestra and audience to be socially distanced. Audience members will wear masks the entire time. They will also be seated in pods. You can buy tickets together and sit together. Six feet between pods. And show proof of vaccination before being admitted. All band members are vaccinated, too. We have friends in the band, so we want to see them perform and support them. Although we have some trepidation, we’re going to risk it. Asked a friend if she wants to go as part of our pod.

No. She does not want to go. She went and stayed with friends in San Diego for ten days. Just returned a week ago. Didn’t mask at all doing that time. Won’t wear a mask again. she declares. Disturbing on many levels. But she’s come back and seems okay. Yet. She may be carrying but asymptomatic. She’s 82. Husband is 89. Has all manner of respiratory and health problems. Both are vaccinated but her decision and attitude surprise me. Although…hate mentioning this, but she voted for DJT. Twice.

Ah, well. We’ll continue masking and will avoid contact with them. They’re still our friends. It’s a tough balance to maintain.

To the music! John Lennon’s “(Just Like) Starting Over” (1980) is buzzing through the morning’s mental music stream. I like its do-wop aspect. Came to me because so many things we do, it’s like, here we go again. Almost feels like we’re starting over. Starting over with advantages gleaned through maturing and surviving, experiencing life, and having some financial security. But, starting over because of the energy requirements to do things. Take cleaning the house. Please. It gets dirty. Not significantly — no. Despite my wife’s declarations that, “This house is filthy,” because she views the world through polarized lenses that don’t allow for any gray, the house is never filthy. Mildly dusty, maybe. Some dirty dishes soaking in the sink sometimes. But all clothes put away. And everything tidy and orderly.

Yet, when I go in and clean the kitchen, it feels like starting over. Everything must be done again. Like starting over. It is, isn’t it? It all must be cleaned anew. The bed must be made again. Litter boxes cleaned. Car washed. Yard work done. Furniture dusted and polished. These are my things, in the main. We both load the dishwasher. Empty it. She does the hardwood floors and laundry. We both fold and put it away. We both vacuum.

Okay, now that I’ve explained our delineation of chores, are you ready for a pop quiz? No? Good, because I’m not ready to do one, either. Have none prepared.

Let’s get on with it. Stay positive as best that you can. Know it’s hard. Some days, it’s like starting over. Again. Test negative. Wear a mask as needed. Get the vaxxes and boosters. Sing and dance. Here’s the music. Where’s my coffee? Cheers

The Porthole Dream

My late mother-in-law dominated one of my dreams last night.

I was on her ship. To my knowledge, this woman never owned a boat, never mind a large ship.

While I’d been with her, visiting, I was preparing to leave. Outside the ship, I was aware that it was heavily storming. Large waves rocked the ship. Winds howled. Sheets of rain fell from black iron skies.

I needed to go, to catch my flight, to go home. But first, well, there was the matter of my laundry. Done washing, I needed to put them into the dryer. I couldn’t open the dryer, though.

Men came to help. I gathered through conversations that they were my mother-in-law’s brothers. Appreciating the assistance, I managed to get the wet clothing into the dryer. Now I needed to get myself ready. Needed to shower and shave.

I went into the bathroom. A porthole was open. Ocean water came nearly to the porthole, terrifying me. “This should be closed,” I said to myself. I felt that I couldn’t close it without permission.

Leaving the bathroom with a backward look at the porthole, I encountered my mother-in-law in the hallway. “I was thinking, Mike.” (She’d always called Mike, her and her husband, although I went by Michael with my wife and the world.) “There’s no reason for you to go to the airport to catch your flight. You can catch it here.”

Although some part of my brain in the dream protested, I’m sorry, but we’re on a ship, that’s not possible, I said, “Are you sure? Is that possible?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother at all. It’ll save you time.” She walked off, as was her habit, as she finished her comment.

“Great,” I answered, then went after her. “There’s a porthole open in my bathroom. I think it needs to be closed. The water is about to come in. We could get flooded.”

“Okay, go ahead and close it,” she replied.

Happily, I returned to the bathroom and closed the porthole. I felt much better about that.

“Your flight is almost here,” one of the brothers told me.

I wasn’t ready. “Okay,” I called back. After rushing through my shower and shaving, I dressed while hurrying out to empty my clothes from the dryer. They needed to be packed. I had my suitcase at hand. I was thinking that the flight was early. I was thinking, how can the aircraft land on ship? Was it going to land on the sea? I was thinking, how can it land in this weather? I was thinking, I want to pack my clothes neatly but I need to get them into the suitcase and get going. I was thinking, there’s so much to do, and I feel so rushed. I was thinking, maybe I shouldn’t go now.

Shirt not properly tucked in, wet hair uncombed, suitcase open, clothes half in it, I declared myself ready to go.

Dream end.

Thursday’s Theme Music

We drove over to Medford for some errands yesterday. It’s just four Interstate exits away, less than ten miles as the Mazda rolls. While there, songs about being in a city topped my mental stream during quiet moments.

I like cities and their energy but admit, I think of them as a good place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. The city’s energy steals too much of my energy in general — it’s the people, you know. But Medford is not a large city. It’s a very comfortable experience outside of the current COVID-19 restrictions and limitations. Not bad at all, though were were there for only two hours, including the drive to and from.

Amazing number of excellent songs about cities and being in the city. An old Joe Walsh favorite percolated in. “In the City” (1979) was originally by him and put into a movie, The Warriors. Joe joined the Eagles. They liked his song and included it on their album. Now, you often hear it attributed to the Eagles.

What interests about the song is how it’s a soft reflection of the city not being a very nice place. Yet the refrain, “In the city,” is a gentle, wistful wind throughout the song. Well, that’s how I hear it in my head.

Hope you have a good one. Wear a mask, please. Cheers

Having Fun

I’m having fun with my writing these days. I usually have fun but some days become more challenging and wearying.

Not so now. Still typing with one hand so I hunt and peck across the keyboard and through the story. Six hundred words a day is usually the sum of two hours of effort. My biggest typing issue is that my finger often finds the ‘y’ when I’m seeking the ‘t’.

The characters’ voices are strong and clear. I’m infatuated with the concept. Variations on it delight me as they spool out. Abetted by slow typing, I’m taking my time developing the story and building the plot.

It’s clear to me that I’m riding toward the peak of my up and down cycles. Dreams have been empowering, inspiring, energizing, and enabling, exhorting me to be positive and to not despair. It’s a pleasure when your subconscious becomes a supporter instead of a saboteur.

Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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