Tag: life

Twosda’s Theme Music

At 4:07 AM, the cat announced, “Let’s go!” Yes, he batted and chatted me awake enough to sleep walk to the door and release him back into the wild. He didn’t stay in the wild long. Cold, wind, and hunger drove him back in. “Not that wild, are you?” I asked him. He meowed back.

Thus began Twosda, April 22, 2025, much as many other days begin. Twosda and Thirstdas are the worse for me in this regard. My wife gets up early on Mun-Wen-Fri to attend exercise class. She deals with the cat between 6:30 and 8 AM on those days. But today has Papi testing the limits, in and out. I suspect he has two twins and they’re taking turns at this.

It was 39 F at 4:30 AM. If you trust Alexa. I asked it the temperature after Papi came back in. I was curious because it felt cold to my half-naked body. Like Sun & Mun, today features a clear blue-sky sauce and a glaze of sunshine with a tincture of wind and mild temperatures that lose their punch in the mid to upper sixties.

Trump continues to pile instability on instability, crazy on crazy, losses on losses. Like all great leaders, he sets ridiculous goals using ideologically-driven data, fails to take many details and factors into account, and then pretends it’s going great as everyone else prepares to get out the toilet plunger because this shit is overwhelming the crapper. He is consistently terrible and proud of it. Living in a Teflon-coated bubble, he’ll probably never recognize his insanity and the disastrous, negative impact he delivered to millions of people.

Unless, of course, his secret goal is to completely undermine and destroy the United States. That’s also possible. He could well be in collusion with Russian and oil oligarchs and are busy setting the table up to establish a powerful global cabal. Makes as much sense as any other shit he spreads.

They say that the Roberts Court is finally getting a backbone. “They’ll reign Trump in.” Ha. I think Trump is already smirking at the Roberts Court as he says, “Hold my Big Mac.” Harvard and other universities are suing the Trusk Regime. He doesn’t care. He’s already destabilized and disrupted our education systems and research programs. A third of the national NOAA weather offices have lost their leases. We’ll see what that does to the ability to warn about weather disasters. Then, Trump and Noem have been dismantling FEMA, so when these disaster squat on communities and drop a load, the state and community will struggle to recover and rebuild. Meanwhile, DOGE is raiding personal data and will probably weaponize that on behalf of Russia. He’s truncated international alliances and friendships that effectively worked for over half a century, isolating our nation. Besides all that, he’s been running due process over with a golf court.

And Trump and his supporters think this is just great. Anyway…onward.

When I first heard this Led Zeppelin song when I was thirteen, I thought, holy fucking shit. That was a startling development because I’d never sworn before that. That’s when I took up coffee, too. It all seemed to go together.

The song — “How Many More Times” — is in my morning mental music stream for reasons which The Neurons have sealed. They have better security than Kristi Noem and keep secrets more effectively than Pet (Pete) Hegseth. Not saying much, given how terrible and sloppy the Trump Regime has demonstrated itself to be, outside of the Musk-driven DOGE dogs.

Here is the music. When I listened to it today, my inner thirteen-year-old sat up and said, “Holy fucking shit.” This is a recording of a live show. Anyone familiar with Zep knows it’s gonna be a jam and will vary a bit from what was on the album.

Coffee has again insinuated itself into my body’s systems. I’m prepared to rock another day, at least until nap time later today. Hope your day is as purpose-filled as you need it. Carpe diem. Cheers

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Munda’s Theme Music

My body and mind were unanimous. More sleep was wanted. Yesterday was busy with an Easter Brunch. We’d been preparing all week. 10:15, we set off to go help with setup. By 11:30, all were there. A smorgasbord awaited. Mexican quiche, salmon with asparagus, salmon and cream cheese rolls. Dutch babies and lemon cake for dessert. Salads. Juices and libation to make it chippier. Easter egg hunt and korn hole. A half dozen present shared their latest stories about demonstrating against Trump in Ashland and Medford. 2 PM, it was all over.

Over to a friend’s house for his 93rd birthday. Just family and my wife and I. He has health issues and didn’t want a gathering. After singing the birthday song, witnessing the candle blowout, and visiting for two hours, we headed home to unpack and wash everything.

Blue skies were the day’s order. Light wind kept it from becoming too warm. 69 F was the tops. Today seems like it looked over yesterday’s shoulder and copied the weather.

I reminded my body and mind that sleeping in wasn’t an option. Today is Food & Friends deliveries. Crank up the car, pick up the food, and roll through the streets on route 3 to knock on doors and ring bells and drop off a small meal in southeastern Ashlandia. I’m the driver; my wife makes the deliveries.

Then, finally, it’ll be back to writing at the coffee shop for a few hours, and then home to wash clothes and attend yard work. The grass and weeds are gladded by the sunshine. It’s all shooting up fast.

Papi is beside himself with happiness by the time the air warms. It’s rolled up to 49 F now. He heads outside and sniffs out the sunshine. Then wind sniffs him out and he’s back in. It’s a never-ending game of ‘In & Out’!

The mountain air loads the night with temperatures that dribble down into the mid thirties. That temp feels colder. But we’re on the regular Ashlandia spring track. Only troubling thing is we’re not seeing any bees. They’re normally all over the place with their buzzing presence. Their absence disturbs.

Yesterday’s Easter Trump dump again illuminated his pathetic ways. That vitriol and lie-filled text mess is a sign of an insecure, demented, ignorant person. Trump’s dark forces again rose to show what a sinister and ugly place the United States is becoming under his hand as two young and wholly innocent German tourists were detained and deported, all for the crime of not having accommodations already reserved. Such fools are now in charge. Then there’s Trump’s undocumented bullshit broadside against Abrego Garcia. WTF, United States. Is this truly your vision?

With those thoughts spinning through my groovy organic thought machine, The Neurons spun up Aerosmith in the morning mental music stream: “Same Old Song and Dance”. Last time I used this ditty was in 2019. Trump occupied the White House then. I wrote back on that day,

Reading the news yesterday and today, I was shaking my head, partially laughing while crying. You know, it was the same old story.

That led to me streaming Aerosmith.

It’s the same old story
Same old song and dance, my friend
It’s the same old story
Same old story
Same old song and dance

It was an easy song to identify with when I was a teenager and the song was released. When you asked questions, you often heard, “That’s just how it is. That’s how it goes.” It was always the same old song and dance, no matter what you were asked.

So here we go. Trump is attacking and bullying whatever he can — law, courts, common sense, history, morality, it’s all open to a Trump attack. He’s like a puppy gnawing on clothes, shoes, and furniture. Nothing is safe from his brainless chewing. A puppy does far less damage, though. A puppy will grow out of it. Trump, with his deteriorating and aging mental capacity, will get worse.

Same ol’ story, same ol’ song and dance.

Have the best day you can, my friend. Fueled with coffee, I’ll rock on for another day, it seems. Cheers

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The Learning Dream

My wife and I were at a pool. I somehow got involved in a swimming class. Others were doing it. There was a white cloth or panel on the pool’s bottom. Our guidance was to take a deep breath, dive to the bottom, get the item, swim to the other side of the pool and surfaced.

My wife laughed. “He’s a really strong swimmer. He’ll do that without trying.”

I did. I’m not a strong swimmer but I’m good at holding my breath.

After doing that on the first attempt, they set me loose in free-practice to keep getting better.

Next, we moved inside. Now I was helping with some kind of television or streaming shopping channel. I was to write on a piece of cardboard and then slid the info forward so some announcer could see it. The info was being given to me by another person, and I was to keep writing the new price as it came in and show it.

Well, I screwed it up the first two times. I did well the third time, and then the people told me to keep practicing. I did for a while and then someone came by and told me I had a new assignment. This involved reading textbooks. The assignment confused me. “I’m just supposed to read them all? Will there be tests?” Yes, I’m to read them all, astounding me. A large range of topics were included. Stacks of books awaited my eyes. And yes, I would be tested.

I began that assignment and was startled about how fast I discovered I could read and learn. After four of five books, I was just fanning the pages. Witnessing this, my wife chastised me. “You’re supposed to be learning this.” I laughed back. “I am. Give me a book. I’ll read it and you can ask me questions, and I’ll answer them.”

She gave me a book. I read it. She asked me three questions, and I answered them all.

Another instructor arrived. I was being taken to a new class. The instructor said, “In this class, you’ll be taught how to use energy to change things.” I asked, “What kind of things will I be able to change?”

She answered, “Wait and see.”

The dream ended as a cat tapped my hand and meowed.

It was a very uplifting and energizing dream.

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Frida’s Theme Music

The morning was spent texting with Mom. She prefers texting these days over phone calls. She had a day of doctor appointments yesterday and provided summaries. They’re going to work on her balance with physical therapy. That’s good news to me.

Her fiance’s son and my sister both approached Mom and her fiance about moving into assisted living. They did these separately. I don’t know if they coordinated their attempt.

It would be less dangerous to poke a hornet’s nest with a stick a few times. Mom and her beau are adamant against moving to a home of any kind other than the one where they live. He’s 95 and has difficulties seeing and hearing. She’s 89 and has mobility, heart, and balance issues. She copes with those problems via a massive regimen of medications, vitamins, minerals, lotions, and equipment. The house was built during WW II and has steep, narrow steps. But Mom loves her house, and her companion is happy living there.

Observing the health issues and the home debate always prompts conversations with my wife. “What will we do?” she asks. “I don’t know,” I say. I’m not looking forward to dealing with it.

It’s Frida, April 18, 2025. Good Friday, I suppose. 63 F, sunny but windy. A high of 74 F is in the works. I don’t think we’ll see that. 68 F was projected yesterday but the thermometer quit advancing at 64 F.

The cat has expressed his irritation with the wind. He applied to my wife and I to change it. My wife patiently explains, “I’m sorry, we can’t do that. Here, have a treat instead.”

He was spoiled via several treats. Then he came to me for his standard four-course breakfast. Two of the courses are treats that hide his meds in them. The thorough feeding does take his mind off the wind. The next time I see him, he’s going through his post-eating pre-napping grooming on the bed.

I have read several news articles. Some dealing with politics and rulings against Trump please me. On the whole, though, it’s another heavy serving of disappointing developments. After hearing my GRRRRRRRRR rising in my throat, I order myself to go do other things.

Today’s theme music is a beer group relic. I met with my beer group last Wednesday. The friends beside me began a conversation about popular music and what they listened to when they were young. One commented that some lines were going through his head, but he couldn’t recall the rest. I recalled the rest for him. The song is “I Think We’re Alone Now” by Tommy James and the Shondells. Conversation then swirled in other hits by the group, such as “Crystal Blue Persuasion”. Now The Neurons have those two tunes sharing the morning mental music stream. Thus, I’m forced to share them to break the pattern and release them from my stream.

That latter song is a woke DEI offering about peace and good, brotherhood, love, etc. Sure the Trumpites dislike it, or say that they like it and are all for love, peace, and brotherhood, but only for select people.

Coffee is working its positive way through me. Hope you have a positive day and a solid weekend. Cheers

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Wenzda’s Wandering Thoughts

It’s Wenza. Middle and high school are in session. You know what that means.

2:03 PM, the murmuration of children begins. Noises double in decibels and echo like we’re in a gym. Screeches, shouts, laughter, blow out my ear drums in three second sound bites.

Cliques form. Tables and chairs are hunted. Backpacks are dumped. A line snakes out from the counter. Drinks are ordered, picked up, shared, consumed.

Happens every Wenzda when school is in session in Ashlandia.

Oddly, today, besides the sounds and visuals, the school children bring in smells of a lunchtime cafeteria. It could be roast turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s just memory of another time making itself known.

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Wenzda’s Theme Music

“Meeyouow,” the cat says.

I shake my head. “I don’t understand what that means.” I guess, treats, water, outside, attention, scratching, Lassie’s in the well? Papi keeps talking. He’s a chatty cat this morning.

I’m less so but have been talking to my computer. My computer doesn’t say much but it’s a good listener. Never interrupts. Most of my words are sentences of disbelieving comments about some of the things I’m reading. There is some spirited cursing thrown in. Like, the thirty thousand eggs the White House is using in this time of high egg prices has me saying some things to my monitor. Poor optics, as if the man gives a shit ’bout optics. He wants the eggs.

“They were saying that for Easter ‘please don’t use eggs. Could you use plastic eggs?’ I say we don’t want to do that,” Trump said earlier this month during remarks announcing a new tariff policy.

Yes, so, there you go.

It is Wenzda, April 16, 2025, 64 F, and sunny. Yesterday clipped 79 F. That’s a good temperature to enjoy when it’s a hot sun and cool breeze. Nice combo. I’ll probably order that regularly once we’re living in virtual reality and ordering our weather. Snow still whitens some higher peaks and ridges, such as Mt. Ashland. The green trees and white mountains dazzle in the sunlit blue sky. I went out and pulled weeds. The front area is a weeded, cut and trimmed. The back yard is a tall grass, weedy, bee and pollinator paradise. We’re seeing few bees so far this year.

Today’s theme music is “It’s Good to Be King”. This is a 1995 Tom Petty song. My Neurons slotted it into the morning mental music stream after reading many of the things Trump said and do. Yes, he acts like the American King which our founders warned us about.

Coffee has landed in my gullet again. Time to rock on through another day, though it might be a slow-paced rock. Hope the best for you. Cheers

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Munda’s Wandering Thoughts

I’m just a Venn diagram. I’m at a point where massive disappointment in my nation fills me. I didn’t expect the GOP to fight Trump. It saddens me that I’m right. They just rolled over and became the Grand Ol’ Trump Party.

Pisses me off that the Trump Regime thumbs its nose at the law, treating elements like due process as something beneath them. Unfortunately, I predicted this when Trump was campaigning in 2024. So did many others. They laughed at us. But Trump said he would be a dictator on day one. We knew that wasn’t a joke.

Politically, I’m angry, disgusted, disappointed, and a whole dark rainbow of other negative energies about what’s going on from bullshit tariffs to the damaged economy to the ridiculous and unlawful gutting of the Federal government to — well, fill in the blank.

But it’s a sunny and warm spring day. Promise is in the air. I’m getting ready for beer with friends on Wednesday. They’re intelligent, good friends. I’m looking forward to seeing them. Preparing for a secular Easter brunch with friends on Sunday. That’ll have bittersweet toppings drizzled over it. Some of the regulars are gone. Others are in hospice.

Writing is fun and full of promise. That puts me in a very positive frame. A novel draft is finished, and so many other novels are lined up, eager to be written. But will that finished draft hold up in the next round of editing and revision? Then there’s the publishing game. That closes the damper on my enthusiasm.

Mom texts me and reminds me that she wants to be cremated. Do what we will with the ashes. Play Glenn Miller at her service. Hold it in the garden. She’s lived almost nine decades but she endures hourly pain and discomfort. Her quality of life can be categorized as miserable.

Down to one cat, my cativities are truncated from what they once were. An air of depression clouds that aspect of life.

Financially, my wife and I are okay. Viewing my health, I can be better or worse. Got all my limbs. They function well. I endure little regular pain on a daily basis. I’m not as strong nor limber as I used to be, and my hair is trekking away from my forehead. Memory still works for most of the time on most of the days.

My wife’s health is not as good. She searches for words more often and doesn’t find them. She’s developed a new habit of forgetting to turn things on or off. She’s bitter and angry with the world, especially with Trump, and the Roberts Court. She’s furious and anxious about women’s rights. Shoulder and back pain are building up their frequent flier miles with her.

So, I am here. In the middle of it all, happy and sad. Worried and hopeful. Bitter and angry. Joyful and loving. Loved and frustrated. I read of far worse situations for people. Like those in Gaza. Ukraine. Immigrants hunting a better existence for themselves and those they love. War and disaster refugees trying to find a home. People working hard and struggling harder. Sleeping in cars and hanging on for meals and help. Women and people of color hiding, living in fear, beaten and killed for who they are. People with a gender that doesn’t fall cleanly into male or female dismissed as less than equal, unaccepted by narrow-minded bigots. People starving to death as billionaires pile up more money and more property, self-pleasuring themselves with mindless greed.

We seem so far away from Star Trek‘s ideals and so much closer to Mad Max, Solyent Green, and The Handmaid’s Tale.

Life is one hell of a spectrum.

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A Loaded Dream

It was a long and involved dream. Here are some dreamlights.

I was a young middle-aged man and head of a small business unit. We were located in a semi-tropical, warm, high humidity area. It was not the United States. Outside of my co-workers, the people I knew had all lived in the same huge brick apartment building. All Americans lived there for at least the first four months after their arrival in counrty.

A black 1968 Camaro Z/28 with silver stripes seen three times. A young man was driving it. In real life, I owned a Camaro but not a Z. Mine was not black and silver. Black and silver were Bruce McLaren’s original colors before he changed the team to Kiwi orange or Gulf orange. McLaren was a New Zealand driver and car constructor I idolized as a boy. I had an HO scale racing car of his black and silver McLaren Elva in my car line up.

Musical groups were offered, including the Suzy Qs. That CCR song, “Suzie Q”, was played. Sam Smith was offered, too. His hit, “I’m Not the Only One” was played. In conversation, I was told that not all offerings were available. A weird and arbitrary fashion was invoked to decreed who could be seen, and who could see them. After listening to that, I rejected that method. Said that I wasn’t going to follow or enforce it because it was stupid, and then left. That ended that.

The weekly entertainment was offered on a waxy red poster on a brick wall outside among some foliage. 80 pounds was listed as the admission price for one of them. Hearing that, I opted not to go. A friend was sunbathing nearby. I lied and told her I wasn’t going because there was a baby shower for a woman living in the building the same night as the concert.

Saw two therapists, both women. The therapists were seen three times total. I walked with one of them, talking to her about some of my career frustrations and disappointments. When I saw the other therapist a second time, she couldn’t find my records. I then told her that I’d spoken to the other therapist about that therapist, and then told that therapits what I’d told the other therapist.

Overall, a very good dream.

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Sunda’s Wandering Thoughts

Planning for Easter Brunch is underway. I am fortunately a passive participant. My wife keeps me apprised of developments. She was searching for some Easter-themed drinks. I found some for her. She rejected them. I did find Chocolate Bunny Coffee. She laughed at that.

“Prude wants to have a Prosecco bar,” my wife says. Prude and her hubby, Carl, are hosting the Easter brunch for the third consecutive year.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I’ll chat with her. The brunch is getting big. Twenty-seven people are going to be there.”

“Twenty-seven.”

My wife nods in confirmation.

I do the math. “That’s almost twice as usual.”

“I know.”

My wife gives details of new invitees. Many are people I don’t know. I’ve heard about some of them via my wife’s recounting of ‘Tales from the Y.’ The main characters are all members of the Y, like my wife, and they bring a guest, like me. Most participate in Mary’s exercise class. Mary is celebrating her 50th anniversary of her class next year. The Y wants my wife to organize something for them. Mary’s exercise group has given birth to multiple friendships and activities, including a book club, New Year’s Eve gatherings, and nights out to go dancing.

“Deborah is in charge of the coffee,” my wife says. She’s talking about the brunch. “I mentioned the Chocolate Bunny Coffee. She laughed but said she is not buying that.”

I’m not surprised. Deborah takes her coffee as seriously as I do.

“Mary told me that she has champagne left from a party at her house last year that she’ll donate,” my wife says. “I told her it’s supposed to be Prosecco. Mary said that Prude told her that you and I are going to be there at 10:30 to help set up.”

“We are?” I helped with that last year. Everybody prepares and brings food. A buffet is set up in the kitchen and dining room. The drinks and coffee and dining tables are outside.

“I don’t know,” my wife says. “I’ll talk to Prude.”

I have to decide what to make. Last year I made a potato casserole. It seemed pretty popular. I don’t know what I’ll make this year. I was thinking about a French toast casserole.

Maybe I’ll just buy a fruit tray.

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Sunda’s Theme Music

Blue skies and sunshine immediately informed me that it was a cold day. “Must be cold out,” I said to the cat. “Ooop,” he replied, rushing for the door.

Papi’s first response to almost all stimuli is to rush for the door. Loud noises like fireworks dictate a course to his hiding spot in the primary bathroom.

Today, though, he was hitting the door, exiting the back, into sunshine. I went with him. The measuring device told me it was 42 F. I felt that even with sunshine bathing me. Back inside, I asked the various digital prophets what the weather be like in Ashlandia on Sunda, April 13, 2025. All agreed it was going to be ‘more of the same’ — sunshine and clear blue sky — with a high of 74 F. As they used to say in another era, I can dig it.

I was thinking about words as I motored from coffee maker to kettle to sink to bowl to cat feeding station, doing the necessaries. The thinking about words came from thinking about news stories. For a while, I had Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine performing their 1986 hit in the morning mental music stream, “Words Get In the Way”.

Then The Neurons abruptly pivoted. I can’t source the pivot’s origins. I only know that I began humming a different beat. A melody began rising, then new lyrics flowed into the morning mental music machine: Jesus Jones” with their 1990 techno-pop offering, “Real Real Real”. My mind seemed to be stuck in that period, 1986 – 1990. As it often happens with The Neurons and their mysterious ways (oh, now we have U2 in the music stream), there’s little explained.

Well, now I’ve slipped back to 1991. I remember when “Mysterious Ways” song was first heard for me. My wife and I were enjoying a Sunday morning on our apartment deck in Sunnyvale, California. We’d only lived there for seven months. The cats, Jade, Crystal, and Rocky, were sunning themselves and washing. We’d just finished a breakfast of fresh croissants, bought at Milk Pail Dairy and baked at home, and fruit, and were talking about what to do that day. It’s strange that this scene is so vivid for me. I have no idea what else we did that day. Memory is a funny thing.

Coffee has lived up to its commitment. Ready to rock another day. Sunlight is guiding my way. There’s a promise of a decent day. Hope you have the same. Cheers

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