Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I’m a someday believer
A fluid self-deceiver
An optimist convinced I’m making it ahead
Probably be the way
Until that final day
When they solemnly announce I’m dead
But what will I find
Beyond that life and death line
Remains to be found I’ve said
Because I’m a someday believer
Thinking there might be more to conceive or
Even know beyond the book of dead
1973 found me living in West Virginia, having moved there the previous year, after moving to Ohio from Pennsylvania, and a high school junior. Yeah, changes were underway.
1983 – an adult, in the military, married, stationed on Okinawa with trips to Korea, China, and Japan that year
1993 – still married and in the military, in Sunnyvale, California
2003 – retired from military but still married, living in Half Moon Bay, California, working for IBM
2013 – married and in Ashland, Oregon, still with IBM
2023 – Ashland, married, retired from everything except writing
Different places and careers through the years, but the same marriage since ’75
He always bought her earrings when he traveled. He thought she would like some dangling seaglass ones with a smalls silver hoop. Arriving home, he carefully added it to the collection. Someday he’d meet her, and he’d watch her eyes when he gave her the earrings.
He was certain she’d have beautiful eyes.
Sunshine! Blue skies. Been wondering when they’d come a-calling again. Beginning to think blue skies and sunshine were ghosting me. I thought we were getting on well but then suddenly, nothing. Honesty, this weather is so fickle.
Back home in the manse. Cats thrilled to see us, demanding that we show how much we missed them. Attention and affection. Treats and food. More attention and affection. More. More.
It’s 54 F outside and feels like a pastoral spring day under development. 6:17 AM saw the sun step into Ashlandia. It’ll be here until 8:01. Weather debates offer us a range of high temps from 67 F to 71 F possible. I’ll take the higher one, thanks.
Came back to news of a death, cousin’s wife. Cousin died two years ago, cancer. Few years younger than me. Nobody has details about her death. Just catching up on more general news, mostly political, and Alphabet’s CEO’s pay of $200M per, local news. Been off the grid basically.
Songwise, Der Neurons plugged “My Generation” by The Who from 1965. I was nine when it was released but I became an enduring Who fan. That line, “People try to put us down,” is pretty apt. We’re boomers and oh how some of the youngsters are pissed with us. Speaks huge tomes about generational attitudes toward one another, doesn’t it? We were being put down as teenagers and put down as oldagers. Well, screw ’em, we say, but with more words. Of course, the most famous line out of the song is, “I hope I die before I get old.” Talkin’ ’bout our cynicism. Let’s not all just f-f-f-fade away.
Stay strong and positive. Hope the sunrise favors you with a satisfying day on each and every one. Here’s the music. Half my coffee is already gone. Good stuff.
Cheers
Sometimes when he glances in the mirror, he sees his younger self in there grinning. “Looks like you made it, old man,” the kid says.
He scoffs, “Yeah, despite all your efforts to kill us.”
Her car needed its gas tank filled. They devised a plan. Run errands — mail bills, drop off the utilities payment, pick up some needed items at the grocery store, drop off her top to return it — the color wasn’t at all like the blue depicted in the photo online — and get gas for her car.
Going by order of direction, the gas station was first. He pulled in and headed for the pump.
“No, go to the other pumps, the filler cap is on this side,” she said from the passenger seat.
“No,” he retorted, glancing at the gage. “Look at the arrow. It’s this side.”
“No, it’s on this side,” she answered. “They won’t do it on the other side. It has to be on the same side as the pump.”
“Which is this side.”
Silence fell as she looked at the gage. He clapped his hands and burst out laughing, then she said, “Oh my God, we brought the car,” and threw herself back with laughter.
Of course, it was so funny to them, she had to call friends and share.
I was given a DVD. “Review this. It’s your life.”
I don’t know who spoke to me. I took the disc and put it in a player and sat in a chair, feet on ottoman, remote in my hand. Surprise number one: I looked like a young Roger Moore.
Watching the video of a young child doing things outside in bright sunshine, I felt doubt. This isn’t my life, is it? Doubts increased when a blonde white woman in a red dress showed up. That’s not me. She was driving a red Lamborghini Urraco. Dream me drove a gray Urraco. She couldn’t be me, could she? My doubts began diminishing as a watched her driving around, walking around, attending classes, talking to people, all snippets, all while she wore various red dresses.
Another woman, Campbell, came on screen. Also white, brunette, she drove a white Urraco. White cars are not my preference, so it couldn’t be me, but she weirdly resembled me — she could be Roger Moore’s sister. Like the other, I witnessed her doing various activies always dressed in white but not always a dress. All of it was weirdly familiar, as if another person had been plugged into my life. These were dream memories, not RL memories.
Then I appeared in a dark gray Lamborghini Urraco, the car dream me drove. Okay, that is me, I was confident. But how could all of these be me when two are female? It has to be more about us than the cars. But the memories being shown were familiar. While I watched, I thought, the car represents my body. Why different colors, then? To present different aspects of myself? Sounded feasible but needed more research.
Stopping the video, I moved over to my desk and laptop, and searched for colors in dreams. A man came to the office door and said, “You need to finish the review. We have good things planned for you but you need to know yourself before we can go forward.”
I replied, “That sounds very new age-y.”
The man was short, white, black hat, black suit. “Finish your review. Get on it.”
I felt impelled to do as he said and rose, moving around the desk to continue.
Dream end.
An acquaintance died. Over eighty, he lived a solid life. He’d been diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer not too long ago. He and his wife were getting ready to go for a walk. She said something to him, behind her, as she put her shoes on.
He didn’t answer.
She looked around and found him dead.
She’d prepared herself. Still, a shock that it was so sudden, without preamble. She has kept on with all her usual activities. I learned of his death through my wife. She went to exercise class and heard the news. When she saw the widow, she hugged her.
The woman asked, “What else can I do?”
My wife replied, “Keep dancing.”
“Exactly.”
Smiles, hugs, and tears went on.
Michael Seidel, writer 