Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I had a terrific workout this morning, focusing on balance, coordination, strength, and flexibility — and successfully got my underwear on. Damn things seem to have a mind of their own and mos def did not want to be near my body.
I empathize with them.
I’d noticed time and again how far back some people stop behind other cars at traffic lights. It surprises me to see a vehicle three to four car lengths behind the one in front of them. My wife always suggested that maybe something happened to them, and I agree; people carry baggage even as drivers. The things which happen to us often shape our behavior. Driving isn’t different. I recently learned about one driver and why she stops so far back.
My wife mentioned to her coffee group that I always wonder about it. A friend responded, “Well, he’d be wondering about me.” She then told a story about a serious traffic accident. She and the passenger barely survived. It was all about icy country roads on a snowy day and a car unable to stop behind them, pushing them forward and off an embankment into a ravine.
See, I still don’t understand why she would stop so far back when it was a car hitting her from behind that caused the issue, with exigent circumstances influencing the situation.
But I recognize that I’m trying to apply logic to what is emotional for her. In the end, I remind myself, what difference does it make how far back she stops? It bothers me on an intellectual level, but that’s my problem.
Yes, it’s a little early in the week for a rant, but here I am.
In July of 2023, Twitter was renamed X. Since then, there are many who still write things like, “X, formerly known as Twitter,” or some variation of that.
Do those posting that really think people need reminded? Are there people out there asking, “Say, whatever happened to Twitter? And what is this ‘X’?” Are people reading those posts and articles where it’s written, “X (formerly known as Twitter),” and then turning to others with a gasp of surprise and asking, “Did you know that Twitter is called X now?”
How many more months will pass before this trend ends? Do we need to have a New Year resolution about it?
The writing center — known by everyone other than him as a cofffee shop — had a full parking lot. With past experience as a guide, he thought that getting a prime writing table* wouldn’t be possible. Head for number two, he ordered his brain, which delivered the message to his body, which set his car on the required course.
Coffee shop number two was packed. He selected a tertiary choice location with plans to move to a better spot when one opened, and joined the short line to acquire the necessary hot and dark magic water that helped stimulate his writing efforts. As he stood there, movement flickered in his eyes’ left periphery. Leaning a little, he confirmed, people were leaving a prime space. Hustling followed as he relocated his gear and thanked the coffee gods.
The place, he realized as he picked up his coffee, was packed. Every table, prime or not, was in use. Both conversation pits were filled, and almost all the window bar seats were engaged. Five baristas in black outfits worked in mechanical precision behind the wood-encased retail island to restock food and dishware, prepare orders, take, or deliver them. About fifty people filled the small business.
The place’s warm hum keyed his sentimental side. Such a friendly, happening scene. While a few patrons were like him, solitary animals focused on keyboards, staring at phones, or reading books, most people were chatting and laughing in twos and threes as they ate breakfast sandwiches and pastries and sipped coffee drinks, chai, or tea. The scene made his heart swell three times its normal size.
Then he sipped his coffee twice — once to sample it, the second time to more fully appreciate its warm, bitter flavor, put his head down and started typing. An hour later, he looked up and smiled as he gazed across the quiet, almost empty place. Music unheard over the previous rattle and hum was audible. The baristas were reduced to two, and plenty of seats and tables were available. Take your pick.
How quickly things could change.
*The prime writing space is a table or counter with space for a laptop, mouse, and coffee, a chair, and an outlet, and is located two to three feet away from others for privacy and isolation.
My wife and I are fumbling around plans to move to the northeastern US. Part of that is researching locales and checking out houses on real estate sites. Some of the interior decor ideas startle us, and not in good ways. We’ve always preferred lighter colors on our walls. Seeing them in cherry red, lemon yellow, and apple green — not infrequently in the same room — takes our breath away. We remind ourselves, it’s just paint.
Several facets strike us about these homes with brightly painted walls. They seem to be older homes, and they seem like they’re in places where cold, long winters are endured. Just saying.
Rain showers the street and sidewalks outside the coffee shop windows. Between the clouds and rain, gray smothers the day like swaths of gray flannel.
The coffee shop is cold. It’s always cold when the sun ain’t cracking through to brighten and warm us. Despite wearing a fleece jacket, I’m shivering, and my hands are cold. My wife, who suffers Renaud’s disease, would be in misery.
And I had to pee again. I finally decided to seek the answer about why I pee more often when I’m cold and did a search.
“Cold-induced diuresis,” thenakedscientists.com on the net informed me, basically an increase in urine due to more blood being filtered due to vasoconstriction to conserve heat, more or less.
At least I know the reason now. At least my laptop’s keyboard warms my fingertips a little. How we artists must suffer.
It was a grim task set before me. I, not a fan of tasks and less enamored of those tasks of the grim variety, didn’t relish taking it up. But duty, right.
All were assembled around the table. Leaning forward so they could see me, looking around, I loudly said, “I have a question for you.” I waited for silence, which came fast and cast another check on their attention; all were regarding me. “Do you wear socks in the shower?” I asked.
Staring followed, then questions. What, what are you talking about, and say that again was heard among the ten facing me, along with some sputtering, uncertain laughing.
“Do you wear socks in the shower?” I repeated.
“No,” several responded, and then a few inquired, “Why are you asking that?”
“Well, my wife read an article about bizarre things people from different states do, and she read that people in Oregon like to shower with their socks on. Then she asked me, ‘Have you ever heard of this?’ No, I told her. She said, ‘I’ve never showered with my socks on, but I don’t shower.’ I told her, ‘I shower, but I don’t wear my socks.'” Then we talked more and realized, maybe people do this but don’t talk about it because it’s a normal routine for them, so they see no need to speak about it. So, I said that I’d ask you guys, my beer group.”
“No,” all chorused, fully laughing now. “None of us wear our socks in the shower.”
Satisfied that the grim task was done, I sat back and sampled my ale. It was very good.
Do you ever imagine that invisibile beings surround you, watching what you’re doing when you’re in your home alone, commenting on it to each other?
They seem to come in three flavors: aliens from space, time travelers from the future, and deceased individuals — especially family — returned as spirits. What they say and how they watch varies, depending upon which group they’re in, and their intentions.
So, for example, aliens crowd around you in the kitchen as you clean up, remarking upon the cultural significance of your routine, applauding your efficiency (or lack of it), comparing it to their own processes and habits.
No? You never have this happen?
Yeah, neither do I.
I awoke feeling tired and realized I’d gotten about six hours of sleep. Wasn’t real concerned as that’s been my norm for years. But I usually don’t feel tired, and I wondered if it had to do with aging, as I’m now sniffing on the border of being 68. So I thought, yes, this is probably the case.
When I went into the office, cranked up the ‘puter and turned to the NYTimes this morning after breakfast, the first story spotted was, “Why Does Sleep Become More Elusive As We Age” in Salon. I don’t think sleep is my issue per se, but rest. Still, it made me feel like they were spying on my private thoughts.
I wouldn’t be surprised if another story emerges soon, “Why Do We Get More Paranoid About Being Spied On When We Age” soon.
Michael Seidel, writer 