Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Stealthy clouds crowd the sky over Ashlandia, dropping high and low temperatures by ten degrees plus. After an overnight low of 61 F, today’s high is expected to be just 78 F today. Air quality is good at 22, although wildfire smoke smells linger like a memory of a flirtatious kiss. This is Munda, July 21, 2025.
We had an active shooter incident the other day on I5 just outside of Ashland. The shooter was on an overpass and the Interstate was shut down for a few hours. A man was eventually arrested. No injuries were reported. We don’t know about his motivations yet.
Just finished reading The King of Ashes by S.A. Cosby. Terrific page turner with marvelous and fresh, inventive writing, tight plotting, and strong characters. On to The Ministry of Time by Kaliane Bradley. My wife just finished it. I’ve been eyeing it and she recommended it to me.
My morning reading included several Trump-voter FAFO tales. One, by Red Painter via Crooks & Liars, was about Arkansas farmers filing for Chapter 12 bankruptcy. Painter writes, “Only 45 farms filed in the entirety of 2024, which seems about average. Well, 2025 has been exponentially worse for farmers – a shocking 88 had filed for bankrupcy by the end of Q1 2025!” Arkansas Senator John Boozman blames previous POTUS Biden, of course; that’s the GOP playbook answer, blame Democrats, avoid voters, or pretend it’s not happening. But never, never take responsibility for bad news.
The other FAFO tale was out of Nevada. Broadacres Market closed down in June after the national wave of prominent ICE raids where brown people were snatched up by masked individuals. A large open-market venue that serves about 15,000 people every weekend, Broadacres Marketplace vendors particularly cater to the Latino population. They don’t know when they’ll reopen. Read full story here.
“We don’t want any of our customers, vendors, or employees to be detained at our business or for us to be a beacon of shopping and entertainment while our federal government is raiding businesses and detaining its people,” the Broadacres Marketplace Management team wrote on social media. Read full story here.
Like Arkansas, Nevada went for Trump, partly supported by an increase in Latino support. Said one Latino voter back in 2024 after Trump’s victory: “Initially, I will say I did not agree with him,” said Mario Jr., 29. “Then I started seeing that he was not afraid to speak his mind and I noticed that he was not scared to say what he felt, regardless of what people would say. I think I respect that about him.” No word on what he thinks now. Read full story here.
Meanwhile, Trump, still operating that he’s under the King of All, is trying to force the Washington Commanders, NFL team, to revive the racial slur they’d previously used. Naturally, the bully’s tool of choice is to withhold funding for the team’s new D.C. stadium.
After that and other reading, The Neurons seeded “The King of Wishful Thinking” in the morning mental music stream. This is a 1990 song from Go West. Heard it a bunch on radio during the last century’s last decade. It’s an easy sing along. I think news about Epstein, Trump, and the MAGAts being upset about Epstein file’s handling by the Trump Regime inspired The Neurons with this song choice.
Got my coffee running its route through my systems. Hope this Munda and the week it commences finds you in good spirits and good health, and that you have the best week you can. Cheers
I like to write everyday. I enjoy writing fiction novels. It’s not just a goal for me; writing fiction every day is my center pole.
Sometimes I can’t do it, and the start of July was one of those times when life sabotage my efforts. First were dental appointments on July 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and a day of baking on July 3rd in preparation for July 4th, and then the holiday itself. July 5th was my birthday, so my writing was limited. A medical emergency stole my time and attention on July 6th. I swore to get back to it all on July 7th.
But when I say that I wasn’t writing, I mean that I wasn’t comfortably settling in a chair at a keyboard with a jug of coffee at hand. I kept writing in my head during the hours of driving, baking, sitting at the dentist, being social when I was supposed to be conversing with others, watching parades, attempting to sleep, or hanging around the ER waiting for test results.
Writing in my head was so magical and fast. When it came time to find the words and put it together with my coffee fuel, man, that was a different cat. Although I poured through two thousand words a day plus, a lot for me, stringing words together and revisiting and fixing my previous day’s work, I told my wife that it’s only now that I feel like I am finally catching up.
As I once blogged, I dream of a device that can take the scenes and spin into the needed words for me. Although, honestly, I don’t know if that would be nearly as much fun.
I guess, really, what it’s about for me is exploring the idea, seeing the story and hearing it, and then finding the words for others. May it always be so.
Some days, shit is happening, and all you can do is pretend to pursue the normal aspects of being. For one, war is hettin’ up in the Middle East or whatever you want to call it. It’s been a war zone for years. It’s usually a matter of who is going to strike back, how, and when. There will be violence, death, and destruction. The Middle East quagmire of religions, history, and tribes and factions are overstocked with tendencies to war.
Personally, dispiriting matters keep piling up in my world. I don’t write about all of them. Not going to start now. My basic bottom line which I return to again and again, is, this is life. Many of us — hell, I’ll go out on a limb and declare that most of us — go through this shit. I can only imagine how worse the shit is magnified if you’re suffering from serious diseases, homelessness, racism and other prejudice, discrimination, or hate. On paper, I have it pretty good but life is lived on a spectrum. We slide up and down it. I’m on the down side today.
We watched again a Neflix series on the gut and the biome’s influence on our brains and pains.* As part of this show, they talked about fecal transplants. Transplants were done by people who had problems and were seeking solutions. One woman used her boyfriend’s fecal material as her transplant source. She noted that he has ‘mental issues’ but didn’t specify more. Or maybe I spaced on it. I did catch her say that she began acting and feeling like him, emotionally unstable, anxious, and depressed. She quit using his shit and used her brother’s shit. After a week, she felt much better.
I imagine a future of routine fecal transplants. A partner on the computer says, “I’m ordering some groceries and things. Is there anything you need?”
“Yes, get me some new shit. I’m almost out of shit and I’m feeling it.”
“What shit do you want?”
“Same shit as last time. It should be in your order history.”
“Is it the Tom Cruise brand Improved Shit?”
“Yes, that’s the shit, but get a big jar. I’m really feeling it.”
“You got it.”
I think about whose shit I might order. Maybe Taylor Swift, Tom Brady, or Patrick Mahomes. I pity the fool who tries mine. But then again, I know people with some shit that’s a lot worse.
*The Neflix series is You Are What You Eat: A Twin Experiment
I told myself again yesterday, get out of the way and write. Write, I did. And when I reviewed what I wrote, I laughed to myself and whispered, “This is fucking crazy.”
By far the craziest of what I’ve ever written, I sat down with a specific purpose and some simple ideas about where I was going. Well, The Writing Neurons quickly queued up, redecorating, rearranging, reordering, taking me into completely foreign waters. “But how will this match up with what I had planned and previously wrote?” I complained.
Well, after the cat barked me awake at 5:58 AM today, The Writing Neurons pounced on my poor brain. They began weaving story webs like caffeine-fueled spiders in a web-building competition. I laughed at a lot of the shit they conjured. Then, when I put eyes to screen and hands to keys, I hustled to duplicate The Writing Neurons’ input.
It’s a wild frigging ride so far and I’m nervous about where I’m going. But you know, write on.
That’s what it’s all about.
***
So…I finished a novel last month. Felt damn good about it. Began firing up the querying mechanism.
Meanwhile, I handed it off to friends for feedback. But, without telling them, I capped it at part 1. I figured, if they finish part 1, I’ll give them parts 2 and 3. I did this knowing that the manner the novel unfolds will be confusing by the end of part 1. You need part 2 to see where it’s going, and part 3 for full illumination. But I still thought it would be a fast read for them. Instead, I’m hearing that they had to reread parts; they were creating notes. They want to sit down and talk about what’s what. All of that’s pushing my hopes and confidence toward the writer’s abyss of despair. I just need to hang on. Wait for their feedback. See where it goes.
That, too, is part of the writing process.
Out walking on break today, a Honda Civic passed.
1983, and silver, I saw. As sis had.
Sis’s Honda suffered from cancer rust. This one was in good shape. A Sarah Lawrence College decal was on the back window.
I was taken back. I’ve never been to Sarah Lawrence College, but it’s been in pop culture in sufficient settings that I knew it’s located in New York city. How did that car with that decal end up almost all the way across the nation, in Ashland, Oregon?
I wondered about the car’s history. Was it a gift to a student freshman attending Sarah Lawrence College? Conversely, maybe they bought it for themselves after graduating and beginning a new job. Maybe, though, the car was located here, and a Sarah Lawrence grad bought the car and put their alma mater on the window.
So many questions. When I returned to the coffee shop, I did a distance check between here and Sara Lawrence College: 2901 miles via I80. Take note, though: there’s a lot of construction enroute between here and there, and toll roads. But traffic is light. It’ll take just under 42 hours if you drive straight there.
I wonder if the car would make it. I imagined it returning to its home, like salmon returning to their spawning waters. Then it all veered along science fiction lines and became a tale about cars gaining intelligence and becoming homesick for their first owners, and then seeking them out.
Guess I’ll call it “Tires & Wheels”. That’s the name of the two main characters: a red and white 1985 Chevy K10 pickup called Tires and a 1983 silver Honda Civic named Wheels.
You know what? I think it’s a love story as much as an adventure.
Michael Seidel, writer 