Munda, October 13, 2025. Rain cascading onto the roof and hammered me awake.40 F outside with a high of 52 on order. I asked Alexa about the weather. She said it was cloudy. I asked her if it was going to rain. “It might rain starting at 9 AM but it should stop by 10 AM.” This was at 7:30 as the rain drove down.
Mom’s boyfriend, Frank, is in the ICU for afib. He’s 95 and suffering from multiple issues stemming from a fall down the stairs last week, but has cancer that predates his fall. Mom told my sister that she wanted to get Frank’s phone to see if he’d been talking with Joan. Joan was Frank’s best friend’s wife. When he saw Joan after his best friend died, Frank kissed Joan. Mom was furious and has claimed ever since that Frank is secretly meeting with Joan. Mom told sis, “If I find out that he’s been talking to her, then I’ll throw him out.” She then kept calling Frank’s daughter to see if she had Frank’s phone. Sis reminded Mom that Frank was in the ICU and may not live. “I know,” Mom answered. We’re not sure that she does.
Sister’s text exchange relating got The Neurons to play the Gin Blossoms with “Follow You Down” in the morning mental music stream. Don’t ask me what they’re thinking.
My wife has no energy today and seems down but it’s our day to do food deliveries, so here we go. May grace and peace find and keep us. Cheers
This is just a weird household fact. Weird isn’t even the right word. Really, just something noted.
Here in our household, the clothes washer is just called the washer, or the washing machine. But the dishwasher is always fully said with both words, even though it’s been morphed into one. Examples:
“I’m going to put some stuff into the washer and do a load.” That would be the clothes washer.
“Should we turn on the dishwasher?” Self explanatory.
And now, as I’m writing it out to understand what I think about this, I see how much context plays into the whole scheme. Like, we don’t collect dirty clothes into the washer and then announce that we need to do a load. No, that’s all more systematic. We put the dirty clothes into a wheeled basket. When it’s full or one of us has a specific need for something to be washed.
I’d attributed it to our upbringing. I’m 69. My wife is a year younger. Her family never had a dishwasher. Dishes were always washed by hand. My family acquired their first dishwasher when I was eleven. Mom bought it on sale at Sears for Mother’s Day. So I thought that my wife and I grew up with clothes washers but dishwashers came later. Hence the difference.
Could be a bit of both, I suppose. As a final aside, my wife announced on Friday, “I’m going to wash clothes. Do you need to put anything in there? I’m doing darks.”
“No, I have nothing.”
I went off and did something in the other room. When I came back, she accosted me. “We had so many dirty clothes that I had to split it up into two loads.” She gestured back at the machine. “Why are you wearing so many clothes? Where are you going? What are you doing?”
“I’m just following the norm,” I replied. “You know, clean shirt, clean underwear, clean socks. Just one of each a day. Except socks. I wear a pair of them. I usually wear my pants a few times before washing them.”
“You need to be less clean,” she replied.
I laughed. Being told to be ‘less clean’ was definitely a first.
Rain just kicked in here. Dark and gloomy. Feels lifted from a gothic novel. All the blinds are up but sunshine has vacated its post. The rain though, is a comforting background song. Fall is here, the scene outside proclaims. Get used to it.
We will. Then we’ll tire of it, and the great conveyor belt will carry winter to us. We’ll get used to that and tired of that and hit the holidays and a new year and then start looking for spring. It’s almost a tradition.
Papi is tres upset by this weather change. His downcast expression has WTF written large. I tell him, “Stay in, you’ll be happy.” After desultory outdoor expeditions, he agrees and find a space to sleep.
48 F now, we won’t see 60 today. This is Frida, October 20, 2025, in Ashland, Oregon. Ashlandia.
Trump didn’t win the Noble Peace Prize. I am so happy that the deranged bully didn’t win that honor. The prize went to María Corina Machado, from Venezuela, who worked to restore democracy to that nation. Can we get her up here? Trump’s head would explode. And congratulations to María Corina Machado for a well-deserved honor.
Back in ‘Murica, Speaker Mike Johnson (R-Hell) spoke, refreshing the impression that he’s an idiot.
“We’re so angry about it,” he told Fox News. “I mean, I’m a very patient guy, but I have had it with these people,” the Speaker said, emphatically, of Democrats. “They’re playing games with real people’s lives.”
Yeah, that jackass is angry that the Democrats are not caving and that more voters are realizing that the Epstein Shutdown of 2025 is a Trump GOP gift, a product of the Regime’s Misery Machine. Trump and the GOP control Congress and the Oval Office. The self-proclaimed ‘great negotiator’ can’t make a deal. As Donald J. loudly claimed back before he shut the government down three times, a government shutdown shows a weak president. He’s sitting on three. How weak does that prove him to be?
Personal news from home isn’t good. Mom’s BF, Frank, is in pretty bad shape. Hard to get details through the grapevine. Broken ribs, the hip that was replaced, heart issues, and dementia. What he’s enduring has him acting contrary to who he usually is, and he’s being violent, mean, loud, and angry. They have him restrained to a bed, someone watching him 24/7, and mitts on his hands so he can’t pull out tubes and try to escape. Little sister is pulling duty helping Mom. This is a sister who has two children. One of them lives with her. Her daughter’s BF also resides with them. She’s a grandmother who takes those duties seriously and spends time and money on her grands. She works, exercises, cooks for her family and Mom, and also keeps the books for her husband’s plumbing biz. She’s a dynamo and I’m pleased she’s there to help Mom. Other two sisters apparently have some medical problems of their own. They’re not discussing their issues but they’re not visiting Mom much.
Today’s music arises from a conversation with my orange floof, Papi. The weather has him restless. So I sang, “Lay down Papi,” to him to the tune of “Lay Down Sally” by Eric Clapton. “Lay down Papi. You don’t need go outside. I’m been trying all morning long just to pet you,” is what I sang to the boy. Natch, The Neurons were all over that, pumping “Lay Down Sally” into the morning mental music stream. And yep, that’s “Duck” Dunn on bass in this video.
Coffee is cruising through the alimentary system, delivering its needed cargo. Hope peace and grace pops out soon and visits for a prolonged period. Meanwhile, stay strong. I’ll try doing the same. And away we go. Cheers
Summer sensations still regale Ashlandia. 65 F when my eyes met the day, sunshine and blue skies were saying hello. Wind is thrashing like a disjointed washing machine but the temperature is credited with a chance to hit 80 F today. 82 F was seen at my place yesterday, and Papi took full advantage of it to soak in warm sun. For the tape, this is Munda, October 6, 2025.
Went this morning to have blood drawn after overnight fasting. Routine check, ordered months ago. Long line for people at the lab but they were quick, efficient, and friendly. I was soon seen but the tech couldn’t get out of blood of me! She called for backup, as she put it, and blood was found.
News from my POV seems oddly slow and stilted for a Munda. I think it’s because Trump is pulling another TACO act and hiding out from criticism and rulings against him. Part of this might also be because he’s physically and mentally failing in multiple ways, and it’s becoming more greatly exposed each time a camera or microphone finds him. Amazing how the military isn’t being paid; he reassures them, don’t worry about it. Great empathy, once again! I hear he did have another meltdown about being unappreciated and misunderstood, going on a poor little rich TACO once again. Poor little man baby.
The Epstein Shutdown continues without change. GOP left D.C. with a shrug and refuse to negotiate with the Democrats. The GOP sputtering, mewing blame game is weakening. The majority of voters polled said, “This is on Trump and the GOP.” Firm Trumpheads still insist it’s on the Democrats but they’re stay as fact resistant as Trump and speak from an alternate reality that echos with NAZI and imperial white supremacy tones.
Cowardly Trump and the spineless GOP really don’t want to the Epstein files released. They’d rather break the nation and destroy the economy before they let us see what those files have on Donald J. Trump.
Today’s song was put into the morning mental stream out of reflections about plans to visit Mom and family. As part of that, I thought, see some family, good for the soul. Resonating with Der Neurons, they dialed up Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. Into the MMMS flowed “Hollywood Nights”. Remember, Bob sings, “See some old friends, good for the soul.” And there’s Les Neurons’ connection.
Then, new from Mom’s was texted in. Mom reported hearing a loud crash and several thumps. She knew her BF, Frank, had gone upstairs and concluded that he’d fallen. Mom called for an ambulance and texted my sister. Sis arrived in time to see the ambulance taking Frank away. We’re guessing from evidence that Frank had used the toilet and was undressing from his pajamas when he lost balance and fell down the stairs. Mom has a gallery of family photos along the lower part of the wall. Half were knocked off. Newest text report just arrived from sis.
It’s not good news about Frank. He broke several ribs on both sides. He fractured his hip. The one that was replaced. They’re going to call his operative doctor to ask him what he wants to do about that. I can’t think of his name. they aren’t gonna do anything about the ribs, cause there is nothing to do but let them heal. Also, his heart was out of rhythm when he got there and told him he had chest pains last night and took some nitroglycerin, but never told mom.
Frank is 95.
He’s in my thoughts and worries now, along with Mom. Peace and grace to all of us. Now, off for coffee. Have a dental appointment in three hours. Hope you have a great day. Cheers
Dreary sunshine and bleached skies say hello when Papi and I step out to inspect the morning. It’s 49 F in Ashlandia today, Satyrda, October 4, 2025. A high of 60 is anticipated. The furnace was turned on to dispel some of the morning chill, as it was just 67 F in the house. Despite these clouds, rain is not a worry for us. Personal note, today is the 51st anniversary of when I swore my oath to defend the Constitution in the U.S. military.
All my appointments went very well Thursday. Texted Mom to tell her we’re coming to Pittsburgh for her 90th birthday. She says she’s looking forward to seeing us but is busy painting the kitchen cupboards right now. Dad remains in rehab in Texas. Spoke to him, and he was in terrific spirits and sounded strong, healthy, and alert.
Trump’s Venezuelan body count is 21 after U.S. missiles destroyed another boat. That’s number four. What’s the body count over/under for a Nobel Peace Prize?
The Weariness Meter is in the upper ranges today. I feel I’m flagging over the news. Think I’ll take a time out from keeping up to date. That general malaise striking me had me thinking about past and present. 1974, when I graduated from high school and joined the military, still appears as a decent year when I look back through time’s long lens. This year, 2025, feels like a terrible year on multiple levels. Reflections have me treading on a path of thought about how much we’ve regressed in my lifetime. Most of that came in the last 20 years. Hell, most of it came with Trump’s takeover of the White House in 2025. Much of it is due to Russ Vought and Project 2025 and their effective use of Trump as a dupe.
The Neurons decide to cheer me up with “Here’s Where the Story Ends” by Sundays in my morning mental music stream. Sample lyrics for you from Songfacts.com.
Crazy I know, places I go Make me feel so tired I can see how people look down I’m on the outside
Oh, Here’s where the story ends Ooh, Here’s where the story ends
It’s that little souvenir of a terrible year Which makes my eyes feel sore And who ever would’ve thought the books that you brought Were all I loved you for Oh the devil in me said go down to the shed I know where I belong But the only thing I ever really wanted to say Was wrong, was wrong, was wrong
It’s that little souvenir of a colorful year Which makes me smile inside So I cynically, cynically say the world is that way Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise
Here’s where the post ends. Hope grace and peace pop up for us someday soon. Got my coffee. Time to motor. Cheers
I was deep into my DIY project. New breakfast bar lights. My wife came running in. “I need to take a bath and get cleaned up. The rapture is tomorrow!” As my eyebrows climbed, she enthused more deeply about how it’s on the Internet that the rapture would take place on September 23, 2025. It’s on the net, so it must be true.
“So don’t be surprised if you can’t find me,” she finished.
I nodded. “Yes, I know I’m going to be part of the left behind.” I’d long resigned myself to that. Don’t know if resigned was the right word. I think the world might be a better place with less people. Better if God plucked them out and took them elsewhere rather than having disease, starvation, pestilence, war, and violence take them away.
“Maybe you’ll be allowed to visit. Came up to the holy gates and talk to me.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see.”
This morning, she asked, “Hey, what happened to the rapture?” She then confided, “I had a plan. I was going to hide and leave a pile of clothes on the floor so that you’d think I was taken in the rapture.”
Well, Steve died. 85 years old. Diagnosed with cancer in his liver, kidneys, and lungs, his decline was a full slide down a steep hill. Just a few months ago, we were laughing, talking, enjoying drinks and music at a lake in the late afternoon sun. The question before us is, did he use the cocktail? This is Oregon where we have right to death laws. Steve had requested a cocktail to end his life and planned to use it. Laws control when the cocktail can be used. His wife was just requesting the cocktail last week, so we suspect that Steve died on his own yesterday, September 21, 2025.
I support the right to death, BTW. I’ve witnessed too many people growing feeble and drained by their disease to wish that on others. Many people can no longer probably communicate as they hang on by their skins. Sickness, pain, disease, and medication twist and torture their personalities into new folds. By the time of their death, they’re barely the person they used to be. But I also understand and respect others’ needs and desires to hold on as long as they can. Dying and death are complicated matters.
The thing about Steve is that we only knew each other for about three years. Our rapport was immediate. Our wives were good friends and we all became good friends, socializing multiple times at plays, concerts, and dinners. It just seemed like he and I knew each other forever.
Meanwhile, sis reports Mom has moved into her new room. Except Mom’s clothes are still upstairs. That’s a major matter. Although Mom tends to wear a series of night clothes and casual active wear these days, her closet was rigidly organized by season, color, and fabric. Tough transition for her, to cull the threads to current needs only.
This growing old, though. Coping. It’s tough. I’m at the coffee shop thinking and typing. A casual friend of two decades comes by. She uses two canes now to get around but her smile remains as bright as sunshine off snow brilliant.
All just thoughts to help me sort matters, matters which I’ll probably continue sorting until I do my own self-checkout. I won’t even try to predict when that’ll come. From what I’ve seen, change can be sudden and complete. Then again, some demises are a long trip into night.
Another still chill morning embraces Ashlandia. Sunda, September 21, 2025. Awakening at 7:07 AM, I stare at the time and the light, noting how much morning light we’ve already shed as we edge forward and autumn gets ready to pounce on us. 66 F, 76 F is the day’s expected high, with muddled clouds squatting on us.
My wife is angry with her phone today. Not a phone savvy person. It makes noises at her and she barks, “What,” and picks it up with a malevolent gaze. It wouldn’t surprise me if she throws it down. She and phones are not friends. She plays a video of the “We Don’t Care Club” which has us laughing. Here’s a sample.
Sis shared photos of Mom in her new room. Looks warm, full of light, but cozy. I think Mom will be happy there for a while. We hope being on one level will reduce her fall risk. We’re all at least mollified for a while that she should move into assisted living.
Trump’s continued attacks on the United States has me infuriated. More Americans disapprove of his actions. A gap is growing between MAGA and non-MAGA Republicans. MAGA think Trump will deliver them to the land of milk and honey. Polls show that the wealthy, with the financial padding and income to pay more for goods, are increasingly happy with Trump’s policies. Not a surprise. Trump is exercising leverage and power through the Federal structure. The latest is his H1B 100K plan. That’s sure to gouge the U.S. healthcare system, technology development, higher education, and the economy. Trump and the GOP powers will be happy. As the fallout trickles down to the MAGAs, they’ll get upset but they’ll reliably blame Obama, Biden, and Democrats in general. Then Trump will attack another ship or place, kill a few more in the name of peace, and MAGA attention will wander away. Meanwhile, Trump makes himself richer at all others’ expense.
Meanwhile, my wife and I were just discussing someone’s bizarre explanation about how an earthquake shows that God was upset with Charlie Kirk’s death. Next, we might start hearing that Kirk actually rose after three days.
Today’s song emerges from Papi and I doing late night stargazing. Just considering the stars last night, I wondered about those far-off gems. They seem so docile out here but to consider them as explosive places, places with gravity that can suck me in, crush me like a can under a garbage truck, trips the mind into deep wonder. That brought up the line, “Someday you will find me caught beneath a landslide in a champagne supernova in the sky.” And here we are, with the song still playing in my morning mental music stream.
May peace and grace find you, and do it soon, damn it. Off I go, into the mildly cloudy day. Cheers
I dreamed that my wife and I and several family members were traveling together. Just ending a journey together, we arrived at my house. This was a tiny but crowded place with bare cinder block walls. Included among my family was a sister and one of her daughters, and several of her grandchildren.
I was first into the house. Getting in there, I discovered a full-grown cheetah in our house. My arms were full of grocery bags, limiting what I could do. My dream brain said something like, “Holy shit, there’s a cheetah in the house.” The house was a friggin’ mess, so cluttered with junk that I struggled to walk across the floor. As I did try to walk across the floor, the cheetah gently took hold of my shirt tail in its mouth and tried pulling me in another direction.
My wife and others entered. I warned them, “There’s a cheetah in here.” They didn’t seem to pay attention but I continued, “I think he wants me to feed him. I don’t know if it’s male, to be honest, but I think he’s trying to pull me toward his food.”
That’s what the cheetah did seem to be doing. I talked to it like it was my housepet, explaining that I’d feed him in a second, but I needed to put things down and food his food first. Whenever I’d go toward where I thought the food was, the cheetah would get happy and chirp small, high-pitched mews at me. But if I turned away from its food, it’d would swat at me. Never with true menace, but still, it’s a cheetah.
Sometimes I would swear. Then a second sister, who’d joined without being noticed, would remind me of little ones being present, and I’d apologize. My niece’s husband also joined us, making my place very crowded. All through this, the cheetah paid no attention to anyone except me. Meanwhile, I kept asking the cheetah, “How did you get in here?” The dream ended as I reached for food to give the cheetah.
I’ve not read others’ posts about lessons they wished they’d learned earlier in life yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if others express the same lesson learned which I learned, a lesson I’ve learned several times. It’s simple: trust yourself. Though I’m not the smartest or wisest individual, I need to trust my intelligence. Though not the most talented, trust my talents. Pay attention to the little voice when it’s trying to encourage me and pay attention when it’s warning me.
Pause, here, to note, I feel naked staking this claim, naked, vulnerable, egotistical, and needy. But I’m swallowing those things to push myself to be honest and open here, to share this so that others can take a lesson from my lesson.
My self-confidence was frequently smothered when I was young. I kept getting bludgeoned by a stepfather who told me I was stupid. He told me that all the time: “You’re stupid. You don’t think.” That recurring process eroded my self-confidence. I started shutting my mouth, retiring to a place to be stupid by myself, becoming a loner. I was and am comfortable as a loner, so that wasn’t that great a change. But my doubt about my potential was really a killer. Since I stayed quiet and didn’t participate in things, I constantly surprised classmates with high test scores, good grades, and accomplishments. When honors came my way later, people were astonished. Then, later, people nicknamed me ‘The Professor’.
Yet, I continued to doubt my skills and abilities. I still do. Everything I attempt requires not one but several pep talks. That usually accompanies procrastination until I build up the courage to make an attempt to myself out, to brace myself to be exposed as an imposter. It also causes me to overtry, which can also end in bad results. In short, like bunches of other people, I’m a headcase.
I have come a long way. Some minor successes have fed that. My wife’s trust in me has fed it, too. So have comments and support from friends and bosses. And teachers; my teachers often saw and cultivated good things in me, and I owe them a doubt too large to ever be fully repaid. I’ve been fortunate in that I have had good friends, good teachers, and good bosses. Despite them, I keep forgetting that lesson about myself. My self-confidence gets smothered again and again. I still hear my stepfather telling me, “You’re stupid.” I do keep learning the lesson that I’m not, but I wish I could keep that lesson in the forefront of my being: trust yourself. You’re not stupid.
Michael Seidel, writer 