Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Experienced five short dreams last night. That’s contrary to recent habits which had long, meandering dreams. I’ll only bore you with one.
This was military related. I was tasked with retrofitting a secure file cabinet fitted with a combination lock to ensure it could store Top Secret/Special Compartmentalized Information, along with Communications Security items (COMSEC), militaryese for code books. Some old military guy was half-heartedly overseeing my activity. Meanwhile, I was on shift with a young member. I expected the young airman to handle all the day’s routine events but had to address that with him several times, issuing reminders to complete the shift checklist, inventory our weapons, standard Air Force command post stuff during my career.
Then I attacked the file cabinet. It’d been previously cleared for classified but wasn’t considered robust enough for our new needs. I’d never done anything like this and lacked instructions. Pulling out drawers, I saw a sort of white, thick lining on them. I needed to pry that out, I decided, and hunted down a hammer, along with a large screwdriver, to pry the stuff out. But then, lo, when I went to apply the brute force and leverage, the pieces slipped right out.
I thought that would be the hard part and was delighted it went so well. Then, though, I had to do paperwork to document this thing’s new existence and use. I had the proper forms but someone had marked all over them and it wasn’t clear to me what to do.
As I puzzled that out, that old military guy came in and queried me about how it was going. I related that I’d finished the safe part. Somehow a crowd gathered to one side. The old guy boasted that he could probably crack the vault in less than three minutes and proceeded to make that effort. I drifted away from that effort to finish the paperwork, deciding, make a decision and do the best I can.
Dream end
I read about Trump bragging about his golf game, oh boy. That rekindled a lot of memories, like, many many memories.
Dizzy Donny Trump — Donny T, I called him — Donny T, he like that — Donny T and I used to golf together. Like, all the time. He was so impressed with my game. He told me many times, “Your swing is the best swing I’ve ever seen. Your swing is so beautiful. It’s the greatest swing I’ve ever seen and I’ve golfed many times with many many famous golfers, professional golfers, even. None of them swing as well as you.”
Beside my swing and my drive, my putting skills stunned into stupefied admiration. “My god,” he said after I sank a thirty-foot putt. “Do you ever miss?” That’s what stopped us from playing more. I was always beating him, and he finally told me, “You know what? I can’t take it any more. I’m not playing you anymore. That’s it. You’re just too good.”
I know what he means. I am that good. We used to talk about it a lot when we were flying around together. I used to fly him all over the place, lot of times cause he was meeting with his friend, Jeffrey. Dizzy T told me that I was the greatest pilot to ever fly him. I replied, “And can you believe it? I never even took a flying lesson. I signed up for them but once they started teaching, I kept correcting them because these experts didn’t know how nearly as much as I knew about flying. Once I showed them I could take off and land, they just gave me my pilot’s license.”
Trump was wide-eyed with envy. “I wish I was like that,” he said. “I would fly myself. I also am a remarkable pilot. I never took a lesson, either. I could just do it. Military pilots I fly with always tell me, you should have been a fighter pilot. You’re amazing. I know they’re right but I was too busy with other things, like winning the Nobel Peace Prize.”
I nodded. “I know. Same here.”
I haven’t seen Trump in years. He won’t even take my calls. Claims he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t remember me. That’s because his wife once told him that she wished that she’d married me instead of him. But that’s another story.
Don’t believe me? I don’t believe it. I don’t get it. Why not? I sound just like Trump. And as you know, he tells it like it is. He never lies. And neither do I.
I just write a little fiction.
When black Frida comes, it’ll be chilly, with limited, diluted sunshine in Ashlandia. This is November 28, 2025. Just a few more daz and the eleventh month of 2025 will be in the books. Meanwhile, it’s 43 F and a high of 55 F is hoped. Rain? WTH knows?
A little tomfloofery for your day is in the link. Click and enjoy this interaction between two species.
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Today’s music was derived from looking out the window. I was visiting the back scene with Papi, gathering some sunshine against my face and gazing on the leaves on the ground. Dead and dying leaves passed through my thoughts. Instantly Les Neurons began a song in my morning mental music stream about dying leaves and dirty ground. The words were there along with pieces of melody and fragments of sound. What was missing were the title, performer, and the rest of the song. As it didn’t come to me, I took to technology to recover the rest. The answers: “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground” by The White Stripes. I thought it a bit cruel of The Neurons to do that to me, trying to me think and remember when I hadn’t even had my coffee yet. Sometimes, I swear, I don’t know what gets into The Neurons.
We had a delightful Friendsgiving, meeting a few new people and visiting with a dozen and a half friends. The food was its usual delicious, the standard for these outings. Standard and straightforward T Day offerings but with organic stuff, vegan offerings, and gluten-free choices.
We chatted briefly about politics. “We ain’t buying it,” was chatted up. We also discussed “A House of Dynamite”, a movie about potential nuclear way now playing on Netflix. One wonders how the Dizzy Donny Regime would respond to detection of an incoming ICBM, given that Donny cut the head off the senior military ranks, replacing them with people more politically reliable to Donny but less experienced. Some had even retired at lesser ranks and were returned to service to take up new positions. Not reassuring.
Hope you had a decent Thirstda. Now out and onward. Cheers
I went to put in the changes in the manuscript which emerged after this morning’s dream review. I ended up instead reading the first 100 pages, fixing the odd typo. Astonishing experience. Like, I wrote this? It felt like I was reading a novel, and a lot of it seemed new to me. Yet, there was a yang part which remembered writing all of this. Fascinating experience. The other part, as I read, was how the main character changed and changed and changed, growing into the person I’m now so familiar with. Her voice changed. The novel’s voice changed. Just fascinating to reflect. Yes, just like driving through the dark, through a dark and stormy night of unfamiliar land, and then getting up in sunshine and looking back to see where you had been.
Through the fog creeps Thirstda, November 11, 2025. 52/57/48 are the numbers for the day: present, high, low. It’s a remarkably narrow range, with fog and clouds gaining the lower hand over the sun’s position as an influencer.
Mom continues to improve and impress, according to sis. Had her first PT session today and did great! Wife, on the other hand, is not doing well, in her words. Not surprising for me. She and stress aren’t good friends. Her anxiety climbs and she becomes physically challenged with a great deal of pain. She’s working through her protocols to cope. As for me, other than physical limitations and restricted diet, I feel fab. Didn’t do much yesterday except nibble on crackers and binge on a series called “Suspicions” with short naps. Found I wasn’t comfortable sitting at the desk, as that strained my abs, so the planned typing didn’t come about. Tried other places and positions but all felt wrong and I didn’t have enough to push through. Part of this is because my wife gave a steady stream of reminders not to do too much. I didn’t want to add to her stress, so I backed off.
I also ate too many crackers, I think. I had some vegan, gluten-free vegetarian broth. No flavor, at all. Really disappointing, so I went back to the crackers. We had picked up some TJ’s garlic-flavored naan crackers, water wafers, and something from Costco, potato crackers seasoned with seaweed. I didn’t think much of the water wafers, but my taste buds highly rated the other two.
Plans today are to catch up on writing, reading, and blogging. I finished reading my last two books, both fiction on my travels. Gravity’s Rainbow is available at long last. Yes, I confess, I haven’t read the classic. Found it in the library system and put it on hold back in July. I began reading a terrific (so far) historical fiction book by Amy Stewart called Woman Waits with Gun. Ironically, I’d purchased it at Half-Priced Books in Monroeville on the 2023 visit to attend my nephew’s marriage in Pittsburgh. I know this because the receipt was inside. It sat in the TBR stack by the bed until I came back from Pittsburgh. I’d just finished a romantasy and a crime thriller and needed a read, and ‘lo, there it was.
Over on streaming land, we are into the latest season of “Slow Horses” and “Down Cemetery Road” and are ready to begin “King and Conqueror” and the latest season of “Diplomat”. This is augmented by “The Graham Norton Show” and rewatching “Would I Lie to You”. I cut the last short because laughing and coughing really rile my incisions.
Today’s music is out of dreamland again. The Neurons, looking over my shoulder as I reviewed my strange and amusing dream, came up with “Rocket” by the Smashing Pumpkins, in the morning mental music stream. That was sort of funny on their part, as I’d been dreaming about being on a spaceship. I’ve gone through this before, dreaming of being traveling in space, then awakening to bafflement about where I am.
Another of my dreams was very short. This was about kittens gamboling on me, mewing until I got up to feed them. I thought there were two kittens but when I put out the food, four more appeared with sharp cries, “Me, too!” I rhetorically responded, “How many kittens do we have,” as one more little grey fluff of floof waddled in. That was all the dream offered.
I’ve been looking at news but don’t have many thoughts on it at this point. Trump is being Trump, as far as I can tell, with all the mendacity, greed, and arrogance that implies.
Hope peace and grace find their way out of the fog to you. My body is suggesting it’s time to lay down again. Think I’ll do as it says. Cheers
November 2, 2025, has taken hold. It firmly established that today’s season is autumn. Golden leaves are becoming golden brown leaf drifts. Naked branches shiver with the wind. 45 F now, worry not because today’s high will zoom to 57 F. Must say, yesterday’s 68 felt like a faux offering.
We lit a candle for Steve at 5 PM yesterday, per his widow’s request. That flame called to mind Frank, but also Chuck. Chuck is Bonnie’s hubby. I met him but twice, I think. Now he’s into hospice. Mom, meanwhile, has bounced back in a strong way. Physical therapy is being scheduled. This is Mom’s way, to bounce back, gain confidence and strength, only to be zapped by some new fall, injury, or organ issue. Been going on for a decade. Each time she bottoms out, it’s a little deeper, and the crawl out is slower and more energy consuming. We talked together about an actor dying when they were 100, June Lockhart. Mom said, “I don’t think I’ll get anywhere near that,” with glum introspection.
Today’s music is another gift of The Neurons. “I Wouldn’t Want to Be Like You” is a 1977 Alan Parsons Project creation. The song popped up in the morning mental music stream as I read about Trumpy’s Halloween gala, the one thrown while so many sink deeper into food insecurity.
Here are the lyrics, offered up by Songmeanings.
If I had a mind to
I wouldn’t want to think like you
And if I had time to
I wouldn’t want to talk to you
I don’t care
What you do
I wouldn’t want to be like you
If I was high class
I wouldn’t need a buck to pass
And if I was a fall guy
I wouldn’t need no alibi
I don’t care
What you do
I wouldn’t want to be like you
Back on the bottom line
Diggin’ for a lousy dime
If I hit a mother lode
I’d cover anything that showed
I don’t care
What you do
I wouldn’t want to be like you
I did a glance of the news. Did Trump recall the time he landed on the moon? He was the first one there, took the first steps for man, “Beautiful steps,” he said, “everyone told me they were the most perfect steps. They couldn’t believe how perfect they are.”
I imagine that somewhere in Trump’s altered reality, he’s a great friend to people of color and a champion to the poor. Bet he remembers marching across the bridge and standing for integration at Selma. Bet he recalls a time when he landed at Normandy and fought the Germans, who, he thought, “Were pretty good guys, really, just working hard, doing their jobs.” Trump believes with a glint of teary eyes, he is as persecuted as Jesus, nailed to a cross. Then he wipes the tears away, visits his new cold, black and white, dull, creativity-empty bathroom, beaming at its wonderful hard angles and linear symmetry, and then goes out and golfs, because he deserves a break. MAGAts everywhere breathlessly applaud, then hurry to buy meat before the prices go up, happy they have an extra freezer to store it because it’s gonna get pricy, they’ve heard the fake news, scowling at the homeless, stepping around the poor, reminding themselves to clean the house, because cleanliness is next to godliness.
Meanwhile, is that Epstein in the clouds, smirking at Trump, remembering how they used to run together, shaking his head with a laugh and whispering, “Oh, that Donnie. He never changes. He just gets more Donnie.” Perhaps someday they’ll meet and Trump will regale Epstein with details about how he starved the poor during the Great Epstein Government Shutdown of 2025. “You should’ve seen them, Jeffie,” Trump says, then launches into a mocking imitation of a person begging for food. “Please, we’re starving.” The two bodies shake with merriment.
Hope grace and peace find us today and every day. Even for just a nano. Coffee has found me and is shaking hands with some Neurons, making plans. I’m sure they’ll let me know what’s going on in a little bit. Cheers
My wife and I climbed into the car. I started the engine. After over revving it, I began driving in reverse. My wife asked, “Why are we in reverse?”
“Everyone says that you get better mileage in reverse.” I swung the transmission into drive. “Now I think I’ll go this way.” I turned on the windshield wipers.
My wife peered into the sunlit blue sky. “Why are the windshield wipers on?”
“We need gas,” I declared. “We don’t have enough money for a full tank.”
“I’m starving,” my wife replied. “I thought we were going out for dinner. Where can we get something to eat?”
“We don’t have money for food. Just hold on.” I pulled into a miniature golf course. “I think I’ll play a game.”
My wife objected, “I didn’t think we have the money.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get more money.”
I went in and paid for the game. Before teeing off, I went back to the car. Jumping in, we drove off.
My wife looked around in puzzlement. “Where are we going?”
“Straight ahead.”
“This is the opposite direction of where we were going.”
“Don’t worry, I’m taking a short cut.”
“What happened to your miniature golf game?”
“I played it. Set a new record. I was stripes.”
“But you weren’t gone five minutes.”
“I know. It was the fastest golf game ever. I scored more points than anyone in the game’s history.” I steered the car into the path of oncoming traffic. “They were amazed. Said they’d never seen anyone play like that. They’re giving me a special golfing medal.”
A truck almost hit us. My wife screamed. “Get on the right side of the road. What is wrong with you?”
“Don’t worry,” I replied, “they’ll get out of our way.”
The car’s engine coughed and sputtered.
“What’s wrong with the car?” my wife asked.
“I think it’s the wind,” I answered, throwing open the door.
My wife gasped. “What are you doing? The car’s still moving. You’re going to get yourself killed.” Leaning across, she grabbed the wheel and began steering.
After turning on the radio, I leaped out of the car and rolled across a lane. A car screeched to a halt, almost hitting me. Leaving their car and coming toward me, the driver said, “Oh my God, I almost hit you. What’s going on? Are you alright?”
Beaming, I took off my shirt. “Aren’t I ripped?” I nodded toward my car as my wife managed to steer and stop it. “It’s my wife. She made me do it. She’s crazy. Doesn’t know a thing about flying. She shouldn’t be allowed near a boat.”
Stepping in front of a car, I waved my arms. “Help, help. Call the police. This guy’s trying to kill me.”
I’m still working on a novel. Finished one earlier this year and edit and revise it when free time gestures, do it. Meanwhile, I’m writing another. Thought I’d have it finished by September’s middle. Did. Not. Happen. I wrote an ending but it didn’t work. Yet it did work.
Why it didn’t work… Well, it wasn’t satisfying. None of the characters liked it. Especially the protagonist. You wouldn’t believe her reaction. The Writing Neurons were also pissed by the ending, and also let me know.
Hush, hush, I told them all. That was just the climax. Now I’ll write a denouement and all will be well. You’ll see.
Snorting, the Writing Neurons muttered, “Bullshit.” The Muses were more restrained, expressing their WTF doubts with a smirk.
Ignoring them, I pressed on. That’s when I realized why the ending did work. It did work because I had to get it out of me. It also worked because I saw that I was aiming toward the end of one story line, involving the main person, but there was a larger story line that needed an ending. I’d become so focused on my main person, I overlooked that other story line.
When I wrote that ending for the story, I killed one trending direction. Doing so freed the character to take over. Completely unaware of where I was going, like trying to find the bathroom in an unfamiliar, pitch-black house, every new paragraph was a challenge. I often rewrote paragraphs several times, trying to figure out what they meant. Is that how novel writing is supposed to go? I actually think so.
Now, I think I see the real ending. I don’t say that too loudly. Don’t want to piss off the protagonist, Muses, and Writing Neurons. It’s hard enough keeping them all in line and moving in the same direction. Like herding angry feral cats.
Got my coffee and a table. Got my ‘puter. Time to continue writing like crazy, at least one more time.
Michael Seidel, writer 