DeeMichael

I’m supposed to be writing, but instead I’m procrastinating. I know what I’m supposed to be writing. I wrote it in my head this morning. Then I got here, turned on the computer, opened my documents and said, ready, set…in a minute.

Instead, I surfed the news.

My name is Michael.

It’s a pretty damn common name. At one point, during the beginning of a conference call a few years, eight people were on. Four were Michaels, and one was a Michelle.

I was scanning headlines today, and I saw another variation of Davonte. I’ve seen several variations the last few days. I don’t know the name’s origins. At one point, it was pretty unique. Now it’s becoming common, although I don’t think it’s as common as Michael, yet.

But after that, I thought, I’d always wanted to change my name. I’m tired of being a Michael because there are so many Michaels. But what can I change it to?

The answer came to me today. Mom’s nickname is Dee. My name is Michael.

I could be DeeMichael.

Maybe that can just be my writer’s name, just to separate us and provide clarity when I’m talking to him and he’s talking to me. Right now, it’s just, “Michael this, Michael that.” It gets pretty Michael-tedious.

But if he becomes DeeMichael, we could have a better conversation. Instead of just urging Michael to write, I could tell DeeMichael, “Hey, man, get on it, DeeMichael. What’s the matter with you? You’re supposed to be writing.”

Giving my writing ego a different name can be tres freeing. I can tell others, “I was talking to my writing friend, DeeMichael, and he said that more Americans believe Elvis Presley is alive than believe Jesus ever existed. Over half of Americans believe Elvis is still alive.”

Michael – that’s me – is a shy, deferential guy in most situations. DeeMichael can have a more exuberant personality. He can be more energetic. Probably is. As my creation, I can also make him younger. He can have different tastes, hobbies and habits. He doesn’t drink alcohol. “I’m not adulterating my body. It’s my temple.” He does take in caffeine. “Coffee is good for you.” Facts don’t matter to him. “I’m a writer,” he says. “I’ll make up my own facts. According to an essay I read in the Union of Concerned Scientists newsletter, most facts are been overtaken by greater understanding and insights within ten years, and are no longer true. You can look it up. You know it’s true.

“Look how facts have changed in the last couple hundred years. Science used to say egg yolks were bad for you, and then egg whites. High cholesterol was supposed to be bad for you, too.

“Used to be that they said smoking cigarettes didn’t cause any problems. That’s a fact you can look up. Doctors and actors endorsed them. They wouldn’t endorse something that, something that hurt people, and they weren’t, because they thought they were safe. All the science said they were safe, and then it turned out that they’re not safe.

“Look at the use of mercury in hats. That was considered safe and normal. Lead in paint, lead pipes, lead in gasoline. For that matter, gasoline was a brand name, like Kleenex. It’s a fact. Look it up.

“People never thought humans could fly. Never thought they’d reach the Moon, neither. Now we have a secret Moon base established up there. It has a population of ten thousand.

“Oh, yeah, it’s up there. You don’t know about it because it’s secret. But I have a cousin with a friend? Used to work for the NSA. He told me that there’s a secret base up there. Ronald Reagan established it. The budget is secret. It’s part of the Defense budget. That’s why it keeps growing. What, you really thought it was to build a bigger military? Why? We already have the world’s largest, more powerful military. We don’t need a bigger, more powerful one.

“Reagan built that moon colony up there because they realized the climate was changing and there was nothing they could do about it. So the colony was established as a place to save humanity. They’ve taken all the important paintings and things up there already. Everything in the Louvre, MOMA, and all those places are fakes.

“That’s why climate denying is so important now. They need to ensure climate change takes place, or we’ve wasted a lot of money. Plus, studies have shown that if there’s global warming, flooding and storming, it’ll scour the planet clean. Then they can come back from the Moon and start fresh with a clean planet.

“Of course, some of these big storms, like that Cyclone Debbie that just hit Australia? Man made. Yep, we can control the weather. We’ve been able to control it on a small scale for the last twenty-five years. But now it can be done on a bigger scale. Cylone Debbie was another test.

“It’s true. You can’t look it up, not on the normal Internet, but you can look it up on the secret Internet. Yeah, that’s right, there’s a secret Internet, used by the United States government, along with some of the world’s wealthiest people. That’s where the truth resides. Once you become a billionaire, you’re invited to log on. It’s true, man. Someday, it’ll all come out. Then you’ll see.

“All those wars going on in the Middle East? Fake news, just to distract and confuse people. It’s a front to help divert resources to the moon base. And Donald Trump isn’t POTUS, either. That’s all a fake government. The real government works in secret. It’s not led by Barack Obama, either. All that political stuff coming out of Washington, D.C., is just for show. Believe me. It’s a fact. That’s why Congress never really passes anything. They’re just supposed to be putting on a show, which is exactly what they’re doing.”

That DeeMichael. I’ll tell you what, he’s quite a character.

 

Anyone Like Me

When I was fifteen,

I’d been noticing girls.

And I saw this one and thought,

she’d be good to know.

 

So I sat beside her,

once at lunch,

and then tried to talk.

 

But she cut me off before a word was out.

Standing up,

she said,

 

“I’ve seen you around,

“I know who you are.

“I’ve never met anyone like you.

“I’ve heard the stories about who you are,

“I don’t think I’ve ever known,

“anyone like you.

“But I’ve thought about it and I have to say,

“I don’t think I want to be hanging around,

with someone like you.”

 

Then when I was eighteen,

I moved out from my parents’ place,

telling myself, “You’re finally free.”

 

I got a job in a coffee shop,

and started making a little more money.

 

I saw a chick,

at a table,

reading a book,

by Somerset Maugham.

And I thought,

she’d be good to know.

 

So I sat beside her and tried to talk.

 

But she cut me off,

with barely a glance.

She said,

 

“I’ve seen you around,

“I know who you are.

“I’ve never met anyone like you.

“I’ve heard the stories about who you are,

“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you.

“But I’ve thought about it and I have to say,

“I don’t think I want to be hanging around,

“with someone like you.”

 

When I was twenty-three, I was making a living,

done with college,

I knew

I wasn’t free.

I saw this woman, at this place,

watching me across the room.

She looked okay, but I looked away,

because she reminded me of someone like me.

 

Next thing I know, I’m looking up,

because a shadow crossed over

the top of my laptop.

 

I turned to see, who could it be,

but you know, you know,

it was her.

And she said,

 

“I’ve seen you around,

“I know who you are.

“I’ve never met anyone like you.

“I’ve heard the stories about who you are,

“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you.

“But I’ve thought about it and I have to say,

“I thought I might want to hang around,

with someone like you.”

 

And I said,

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around,

“I know who you are.

“I’ve never met anyone like you.

“I’ve heard the stories about who you are,

“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you.

“But I’ve thought about it and I have to say,

“You seem to be,

“a lot like me.”

 

And she said, “Yeah, that’s probably true.

“Because you seem,

“a lot like me.

“I don’t know,

“how it’ll go,

“Let’s just try it for a while,

“and see.”

The Compulsion

It was between his second and third, or maybe fourth and fifth, pints of a Pacific Ale that he realized he, and his friends, had become zombies.

Mouths slack, they were snarling and growling. Part of his brain still functioned sufficiently to observe and think. Those in the pizza place who were drinking beer were becoming zombies. A young family was about to be attacked and eaten on the other side of the room. The family, and perhaps a few kids that weren’t part of the family, ignorant of their impending fate, were still laughing and yelling and eating pizza. The young parents had their hands full.

There was no more conversations at the table. His friends were eyeing other people as possible meals. Ron was already staggering to his feet. Anyone watching might think he was drunk and going off for a piss.

Screams and shouting with tinges of shock and horror broke out. All his friends rose up, rushing to eat others. He wanted to go to, but —

Beer remained.

He reached for the pitcher. He understood his compulsions and what kind of zombie he was.

Get Going

Get going, get going,

rise up, do your thing.

What do they say, just do it?

Get going, get going,

drink the coffee, eat the food,

get dressed and go.

Get the house cleaned and the bed made,

don’t pause, just go.

Get to work, get to class,

get up and get off your lazy ass.

If you want to be something, you know what you gotta do,

you want to get it done, here’s advice for you.

Get going, get going,

rise up, do your thing.

Time didn’t wait for anyone else,

time won’t wait for you.

D’jer Ever?

D’jer ever enter a public restroom, basically a one commode affair with a locking door, and stagger back from the smell? But then, you know…you gotta go. So you do so as quickly as possible.

Then, when leaving, you discover a line of people waiting to use the restroom. And you pause to think, ‘They’re going to blame that smell on me?”

That ever happen to you?

Streaming Preparations

Spring is barely awake, clearing her throat.

Give Spring some coffee.

Winter is staggering in, trying to make a last stand. “I shall not pass.”

Cold in here. Gonna be a freezing cold therapy shower.

Look how big my head looks compared to my naked body.

None of the cats like that food with the cranberries in it. Five cats can’t be wrong.

Catvincing. Trying to convince a cat of something.

Jade would’ve eaten it. Jade ate everything.

OMG, THIS SHOWER IS FREAKING COLD. JESUS, JESUS, JESUS.

Woof. Glad that’s over.

What happened to my hair? It looked good a minute ago. What happened?

Good is a relative term.

Not going to trim the beard. Looks okay as is. For now. So don’t look later. Right.

Oh, there’s emails to write and things to do and look at the time. Time to get moving.

Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.

Where the hell are my shoes?

The Wave

Have you ever been here, at a moment like this or a situation like this?

Somebody drives by and waves. Naturally, you wave back.

And you think, were they waving at me?

A mental muddle ensues. Who that was? What car make was it? Who drives a car like that? What did the driver look like?

You ponder a list of suspects like you’re solving a major crime, trying to winnow down who it was driving by at this time of day, in these conditions, waving at you. Ugly propositions arise. Maybe they thought you were someone else.

Maybe they weren’t waving at you.

You try to reconstruct the scene in your head to see if someone else could have been the target.

Or perhaps, like me, you’re sitting without your glasses on in the cafe, limiting your functioning vision to a dozen feet. Just beyond that, where you can put sight and awareness together to get some idea of who it is but not enough to see their eyes, someone waves.

And you think, like I did, they’re waving at me.

That automatic hand rises in a wave back but then….

In retrospect, you wonder….

Were they really waving at me?

The Reality

Khalvin rolled out of his bed with a snort and dropped to the floor.

Something had awakened him.

Everything seemed normal.

He moved to the reveal and transparented it.

Starry skies held outside. The ship still moved. Moonlight lapped the dark sea. He pinged his Backhand for the ship’s location. Systems confirmed they remained over the California Sea. Airspeed was ninety. The outside temperature was eighty-four degrees. Their destination was forty-nine minutes away.

Ordering a water bulb, he plucked it out of the air as it arrived, massaged his head against lingering sleep, and considered what to do as he sucked up water. He didn’t know what had awakened him. A dream’s wreckage drifted through his consciousness. He’d dreamed he wasn’t himself, Khalvin, but another person. He didn’t know that name, and he didn’t look as he now looked, but he knew it was him.

He’d been somewhere he couldn’t fully perceive. It seemed like a shop. Others were there, but he didn’t know them and didn’t speak with them. Music he didn’t recognize played above burbling conversations and crisp clacking and clinking noises. His dream self barely noticed. Sitting and bent over a keyboard, he was busy thinking, typing and talking to himself.

The image lingered with him, powerfully real. Wondering it meant, he considered the California Sea and thought of the ruins purported to be under its surface. In many ways, being here on Earth, about to explore ruins, seemed more like a dream than the dream he’d just experienced.

He realized he’d been Human in the dream. He was a Cat. He’d always been a Cat. To be Human….

He smiled. That seemed like the strangest dream of all.

***

Sorry for the shaggy cat story. Blame it on my dreams. Cheers

Last Night

I checked last night before going to bed: still a man. The three AM rise to pee told a different story.

I felt odder when I walked, a warning that I’d suffered the change again. I was supposedly awake and walking, going to pee, but was stumbling through a dream’s fading chaff. I wasn’t really thinking, moving in auto-mode. It wasn’t until I raised the toilet seat and lid and flicked on my Fitbit to give me light to piss that I discovered my missing pecker.

It always happens during the night, and people are always asleep. I’m black again, too, although not as black as one of the other times. I’ve been through this change enough to be angry, irritated, resigned and frustrated simultaneously. While sitting and peeing, I reflected on how long it had been since the last time (three weeks) so I had clean female clothing available. I don’t know why it makes a difference. Male and female clothing fit me differently and I feel ‘better’ wearing clothes appropriate for my sex.

Except shoes. I won’t wear heels. No way.

I have no cosmetic experience, so that’s always an interesting aspect. I go without make-up. Mom is a natural beauty and my sisters are gorgeous. I thought that gave me a chance, but no; I look like a female version of my father. My mustache and goatee automatically sheds during the change and my physical structure changes. I have a rack of floppy boobs and I’m busty as Mom. You’d think all these changes would wake you when it happens but it never wakes me.

By the way, Mom and my sisters look great as men, too. Some people have all the luck.

When I first read reports of it happening to Trump, I thought it was hilarious. That was the first I’d heard of it. It wasn’t so funny when it happened to others. There was nothing funny about it when it happened to me four days after it had happened to Trump. At least I wasn’t moved to kill myself. Many men do when they awake as a woman. The percentage of women killing themselves is much smaller than men after they suffer the change. Women seem to adjust better. The percentages of suicide drop as you experience more iterations. This is my eighth or ninth time, I think. I think. I don’t know.

No one is forthcoming about what started it. It might surprise you to know that the Internet has some theories. Some of it involves secret government activities. Some claim it’s the Russians, but female Putin vehemently denied that. Others blame Muslims, GMO food, witches, sorcerers and aliens. Some put the onus on an angry god.

I hate this erratic cycle of changes. I wish I’d stay either a man or a woman and one race or the other. It doesn’t comfort me at all that everyone in the world is going through this, no matter what age, race, culture or religion. I’m not a violent person but I swear, if I ever find those responsible, they will pay. How?

It’ll depend on whether I’m a man or a woman.

Last Meal

For my last meal, I went all out. Prime rib with horseradish sauce, roasted new potatoes, roasted asparagus with a small spring salad. A blackberry cobbler with real vanilla ice cream. A nice pinot noir to drink with the meal was requested for the meal, with a Praeger tawny port to drink while smoking cigars after my meal. Although I’ve made friends and re-established three friendships with others who died and are here, I’m dining alone. I like being alone. The Caretakers weren’t surprised. About half the people request solitude for their last meal. The other half like being part of a big party.

As I understand it, and they made it clear in orientation, I’ve already died, killed in a car crash in my new Ferrari. I can’t believe my timing. I was just making it big. Now I’m dead.

At least I don’t need to worry about my heart and cancer any longer. Or my hair. I can’t gain weight or do anything to this body. I won’t have it tomorrow morning. I’ll die and be reborn, starting over.

Doing the stroll, I say good-byes to the world. Bright orange poppies proliferate in a sandy field. Birds wheel, collect and land. A comforting sea breeze chops up the ocean. Waves splash with sunshine. This place, Aition, is temporary. It reminds me of the central California coast, just south of Half Moon Bay, where I lived my life. Born and raised, a California native. I stayed there, except for Vietnam, marrying twice and divorcing the same, with five children resulting from these unions. Richard, one of my boys, had preceded me in death. He was the oldest and the brightest. I tried finding him here but he’d already left, they said. I would have like to see him again. His death in a plane crash gutted me.

These thoughts carry me to the Solarium. I sought a final glimpse of my new sun and planet. Looking at them, I still can’t accept the truth of what I’m being told. The sun is the size of an orange. My planet is like a blue, green and white pea.It’s already populated with eight billion humans. I’ll join them tomorrow.

I kept asking, “Is this a model?”

No; that’s the planet. Those are all planets and suns.

“How many?” I wonder aloud.

“Billions and billions,” they reply.

Expanding my scope of seeing, I look up, down and across from the overhang where I stand. It looks like billions and billions.

I’ve compared my new Earth to the Earth that I left. It’s several suns over. They look pretty much the same.

We never cease, they told me. We just leave one place and go to another. This stop is a sop to us because we’re always wondering what happens when we die. It’s not a good sop. It opens up as many questions as it answers, and then, I’ll die here, be reborn elsewhere, and have most of my knowledge gone.

“How do I get a job here?” I asked a couple of the Caretakers. They’re all beautiful, perfect people and seem serene and happy. Why not? They’re living the perfect life. “Who do I see?”

“You can’t do anything to get here,” they all answer. “You’re born to here,” Juarez said. “Just like you’re born to other worlds.”

It seems capricious, arbitrary and unfair, just like the world I just left.

Time to eat. See you all later.

I suppose.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑