I had a strong and productive writing session yesterday. But being so involved, my sense of time evaporated. I found myself leaving the coffee shop an hour later than usual.
I couldn’t go directly home, but had to go buy light bulbs. Finishing with that errand, I jumped into the car to head home. By now, I was an hour and a half later than usual.
My phone rang. It was my wife. “What’s up?” I asked.
“Where are you?” she answered. “You’re much later than your usual time. I’m calling to see if you’re dead or unconscious in a hospital.”
“You called to see if I was dead or unconscious?” I laughed.
Today’s microexistence is Sunday, Aug 6, 2023. I’m in Ashlandia, where the deer eat everything and many people are annoyed. 70 F now, the bottom line for how high the temperature will go is 89. Sunset and sunrise are now contracting our daylight hours. We’re pushing through August. September lurks, waiting to hustle in autumn for us.
Another night of riotous dreaming was experienced. The most surprising one had me as a young gunman trapped in a suburban house with three others. We had automatic weapons and were in this situation because we’d shot and killed another young man, apparently in conjunction with a gang feud. Now, trapped, we decided we were going to break out blazing and make, a shoot and run to escape. Corporeal I was protesting my dream I’s thinking and behavior, cursing him for being a fool, urging him not to do it. But whatever I urged him not to do, he did it anyway, damn him. Real me couldn’t stop dream me. I twice forced a redo, but it went the same. It felt like the dream scene was my subterranean neurons cooking up a movie to show my battle between different sides of my self.
I awoke, thinking about that dream and others, and ended up ceiling staring in thought. Running with that cue, Der Neurons started streaming “Brian Wilson” by the Bare Naked Ladies (1992) in the morning mental music stream (trademark existential). At least I readily knew the connection this time. One line goes, “So I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling.” Okay, well done, Neurons. Take a mental bow.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of when my wife and I married. Totally other existence when we did, when we were young in 1975. Been a bumpy road. Almost went over a few cliffs. I enjoy her company and have great admiration for who she is. I think she likes me, too, although I exasperate her. Well, she does exasperate me as well. Love is a spectrum, as is hate — hell, marriage and all the emotions are spectrums. We constantly slide back and forth, finding and losing balance, opening and closing the distance between us.
Stay pos, be strong, find the course and follow it, correcting as is needed. Coffee has already slipped past the guards and is supplying The Neurons with needed energy reinforcements. Let’s hear some music.
He always found himself waiting or planning for the next thing, as if he was trapped in some personal version of “The Jolly Corner”. The next season, the next birthday, the next death.
The next marriage, the next divorce, the next trip, the next vacation..
The next election, the political scandal, the next mass murder.
Next step in finishing a novel, the next novel to write, the next meal, the next task, job, bill, the next expense.
He kept reminding himself, stop. Stay in the moment and enjoy. But the next always kept coming.
One of the finest aspects of having a partner is the impact it has on learning and memory. In my case, this spot is filled with my wife, a woman. She’s smart, reads many books, and researches matters. Most of which she researches involves women rights, social justice, and health. She shares all that she learns with me, often piquing my interest to go read more on the subject. Not infrequently, some of what she teaches me ends up in some character in a story. For instance, she taught me two things today.
Men have more collagen and thicker skin than women, in general.
Women donate more kidneys but receive fewer kidney donations. When you think about it, it kinda makes sense. If men are having kidney problems, they can’t donate them. So the next step would be to look for information to vet that.
We also act as memory augmentation for one another, covering the other’s weakness. She’s great with social memes, voices, faces, poetry, cooking and baking. I’m passable with math, science, history, pop culture, and technology. It works.
I think it’d work for most, regardless of gender or pronoun, sexual orientation, and maybe even political persuasion. Everyone should at least should not have the right to try taken away from them. Who knows what we all could learn?
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
Two dark pieces nestle on it. I stare at them, then shift the stare to her.
I had been smelling them since I came into the house after my coffee house writing session. Chocolate.
K is on a diet. Today is day 30. She is allowed to add one thing today. She added vegan honey to her breakfast amaranth. Now she waits three days to see if there’s a reaction. If a reaction — pain, a flare, stiffness — is experienced, that item is banned from her diet. Forever. Then she resets for a few days and adds another item. If no reaction is felt, she adds another item and waits three days. So it goes.
This means that she can’t eat what’s on the plate.
She’s hosting book club next month. The moderator opted for something lighter for March. Lessons in Chemistry. Bonnie Garmus. Kay is making vegan brownies studded with chocolate chips. These are vegan chips from Trader Joe’s. Vegan butter was used. This is a test batch. A Ghirardelli mix was used.
“Taste these,” she tells me. “Tell me what you think.”
She can’t have them. Diet. Two of the Ashlandians in the book club are vegan.
I force myself to eat a chewy, gooey vegan brownie.
“Wonderful chocolate taste. Not too sweet. Greasy,” I announce. That makes sense to her. There was something about the vegan butter melting and then measuring it again. She didn’t do that. “And they’re not done enough.”
“Five more minutes?”
“Maybe just three.”
She nods. She’ll make another test batch this week.
They go great with black coffee on a winting Ashlandia afternoon. An entire tray waits for me in the kitchen.
I’ll need to pace myself or it might be death by chocolate.
Monday began with a crash. The cats rushed in. One tentatively walked forward, eyeing the wreck. The others sat down and looked at me. “You’re in trouble,” he said.
I knew he was right. I’d begun unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher. A small ceramic bowl was on the counter. I picked the white thing up, thinking, where can I put this so it’s out of the way? As I turned, it yelled, “For love,” and threw itself from my hand. It crashed to the floor and splintered into forty pieces or more, like a huge white KFC offering. The bowl’s last words were, “Tis my heart,” then it was no more.
I cleaned up the mess with care. It had landed on a kitchen throw rug. I took that off and shook it out, and then vacuumed the crime scene. The cats monitored everything to ensure I did it right.
My wife came into the kitchen as I finished. “What happened?” I explained it all. I knew it would affect her. Yeah, it did. The white bowl sits in the middle of a bamboo serving tray. We’ve had it since I took my first lesson in being married. I’m still learning. We paid about $20 for it at a store like K-Mart, but you know how it is with these things that you buy when you’re poor and first starting out. They’re cheap and priceless.
Or maybe you don’t know because you were never poor or never started out, or you lack sentimental bones and think, it’s just a bowl, get over it. Oh, you heathen.
Anyway, I can still see the bowl leaving my left hand. I still wonder how it happened. I still see my wife’s look when I explained, and I still hear the noise it made when it kissed the floor.
Depressing way to begin a day but not as bad as some things which could’ve happened, I tell myself. That’s true. Just read the news.
The Neurons began my day with two songs in succession in the morning mental music stream (trademark pending). First was “Abacab”, a 1981 song by Genesis. I believe that’s in mind because of yesterday’s theme song, “Turn It On Again”. That lasted until I looked out the window and checked the billowing trees and crashing rain. Then The Neurons dropped “Manic Monday”, written by Prince, performed by the Bangles, released in 1986. But then, watching rain and wind and a single scrub jay out the window, Les Neurons pulled up another 1986 song, a reflective tune by The Steve Miller Band called “I Want to Make the World Turn Around”. It starts with a sax, which surprised me when I learned it was a Steve Miller offering. Wasn’t startled to learn later that was Kenny G. playing sax. Had that feel.
Today is December 26, 2022. Hope you and yours can seize the day. Sun rose here at 7:38 and will set at 4:45. The high will be 56 F and there’s a wind warning out. Right now, it’s 51 F. A Christmas cactus sits in sunshine in the living winter, offering some joy in its red blossoms. Other than, it’s just another Monday.
My wife – K – was on the other side of the room on her Apple laptop, grousing about the state of the world. News about Trump, COVID-19 (and something about lying), and his supporters triggered an angry explosion. “I’m tired of this. I have no sympathy for any of them today.”
I looked over at her. “So what K-con are you in?”
“K-con?”
“Yes, it’s like DEFCON, you know, defense conditions that the United States employs. DEFCON 1 is the highest state of military readiness.”
Yes, she knew about them. I was in Air Force command and control for twenty years. She’d heard me talk about LERTCONs, DEFCONs, EMERGCONs too many times.
“Would K-con 5 be my normal level?” she asked.
“No, K-con 5 would be when you — “
Realizing I was walking myself into a trap, I stopped. I’d been about to suggest that K-con 5 would be when she was happy and easy-going. I’d been about to observe that she usually stayed in K-con 4, or maybe higher. Anyone who’s been married for over forty-five years, like us, knows that the other has moods. Hell, most people discover this about their partner in the first year, if not the first month, after marriage.
She realized what was happening. Her eyebrows went up, her warm brown eyes grew big, and a grin split her face.
Looking around, I jumped up. “What was that noise? I better go see.”
I hurried out of the room to the sound of her laughter. Yes, I’m a coward, but I’m no fool. If she’s in K-con 1, those nukes are armed and ready to fly.
Michael Seidel, writer 