Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Watching others cope with diseases and declining health, slowly moving hunched bodies as they struggle to remember simple words and phrases and master common movements, do you ever wonder, what’s secretly going on inside yourself that’s waiting to come out?
It’s like looking for the monster hiding under the bed.
He sighs when he wakes up, realizing it’s another day, and sighs when he gets out of bed, stands, and sits, motions stiff with pain. Sighs slip out as he makes his meals and eats them, and as he reflects on his life. Sighs accompany every task, as if his world is filled with strife. Sighing, he works hard to do what he can, trying to get by, contemplating his death, sighing, holding on, and trying to stay alive.
“Start again,” I said. “Let’s start again.”
Salazin was posed to listen.
I composed myself to think and speak. “Ten miles is a very long vessel.”
“Yes.”
“Why does it have to be so long?”
“Don’t think of it as just a vessel.”
I waited.
“Think of it as a destination, Dylan,” Salazin said. “Think of it as an exclusive island floating in the sky. Think of it as an exclusive destination. We will grow organic food and raised organic animals. We’ll serve them in our exclusive restaurants.”
“We’ll have more than one restaurant?”
“Yes, yes, why not? We will have an inland sea and luxury villas. And vineyards, wineries, and breweries. We will sell Nautilaus wine. Imagine it.”
“I’m trying to. Why call it Nautilaus?”
“Nautilaus is the perfect name. Nautilaus is associated with adventure and technology.”
“Maybe for you, but I think of exercise equipment.”
“No, no, not exercise equipment. Think of Jules Verne and Robert Fulton.”
“Robert Fulton?”
“Yes, yes, he named his steamboat the Nautilaus, and Jules Verne named his submarine after Fulton’s steamboat.”
“That’s another thing,” I said. “The Nautilaus is a submarine.”
“It is a masterpiece, Dylan. It is a luxury jewel, a vessel to fire imagination, inspire adventure, and embrace luxury. It’s mysterious and unique.”
“Fine.” I’d drop it for now. Salazin was smarter than me, and he’d thought about this more, so I was behind. I knew I’d probably give in soon, but it’s my custom not to be graceful about these things. Actually, it’s not my custom, but my nature. I think I get it from my parents, or maybe the whole damn clan. None of us surrender with grace. We fit to the bitter damn end. Come see us at the holidays, and you’ll understand.
“But ten miles seems extremely long,” I said.
“It needs to be so long for what it will have and be.”
“It won’t be able to land anywhere.”
“Yes, it will. It can land on the ocean. It can land in many other places.”
Salazin leaned in toward me. “Dylan, Dylan. Listen. I know that you must think about things before you say okay. I love that about you. I do.
“But, let me give you more to think about so we can hasten the moment when you say okay. Imagine a floating island that can travel anywhere in the world and be there in a matter of hours. Imagine living in a place isolated from war, disease, and pollution. Imagine being able to dine in a fine restaurant while watching a volcano in Hawaii explode, or floating over Antarctica or the North Pole, watching the glaciers break off and float away. Imagine being able to go to the best place to see meteor showers, eclipses, and the Northern Lights. Imagine the greatness of such a vessel. This is why it’ll be more than a vessel, but will be enshrined as the ultimate destination. As a destination, it can be anywhere.”
“On Earth.”
Salazin winked. “And maybe further.”
Imperfect knowledge.
Imperfect truths.
Imperfect understanding.
It was a perfect mess.
You ever think, wouldn’t it be cool if they could chip our minds so that they can be found and recovered when we lose them?
Don’t you love it when you go into a book store, especially a used book store, for a specific book, and go right to the location and find it on the shelf within seconds of beginning to look?
Sweet feeling. Today’s target was The Darwin Elevator by Jason Bough. A friend recommended it as a fast, enjoyable read.
Fun fact! Did you know that the expression, “That old chestnut,” originated with with Henry Chestnut? Henry was a pharmacist who liked telling comical tales about the way things were in his grandparents’ era, often exaggerating facts to absurd lengths. People in his town often passed on his stories, and the response on hearing them was often, “That old Chestnut,” usually with laughter. Eventually, Henry’s stories were published in a weekly column called, “That old Chestnut.”
The things you can learn on the Intertubes, right?
Do you ever seem to wait literally forever (right, no hyperbole or exaggeration here) for something like pizza or an ATM delivering your cash, so you begin a drum roll, because it seems apropos?
No? Is it just me, then? Are you implying that I’m impatient?
When it was almost one, I thought the thoughts would soon be done.
Then it was past two, and there were still a few.
When the clock showed three, I got up to pee.
Then, at four, I peed some more.
Seeing five, I fought to close my eyes.
Then it was six, and there was no fix.
When I saw seven, I mourned the dawn,
and realized at eight, I was going to be late.
I hit the road before nine with a tired head,
now it’s ten, and I want my bed.
At eleven, I stole a nap in my ride,
which did nothing for my back, neck, or side.
Dragging myself back in at twelve with sunken eyes,
I sucked down coffee just to feel alive.
At one, I splashed my face.
At two, I realized I had three more hours of this place.
Striking three, the coffee made me pee.
But at four, I drank some more.
Then it was finally five, and I’d somehow survived.
Home at six, I got ready for a party mix.
Seven found me with my friends, ready to go.
When it was eight, we got some food on a plate.
Then at nine, we paid the dime.
Ten found me at a club, having fun.
By two, I was heading home, tired and happy, but wishing it was one.
At three, I laid down in bed,
and then the thoughts returned,
plaguing my head.
You try the high road,
but you struggle with the reach.
So you slip into the low road,
but suffer in the stench.
So you look for the middle,
striving to be comfortable and well,
but every time you read the news,
you feel like we’re on the road to hell.
Michael Seidel, writer 