Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I awoke at about half past darkness with a dream in mind. Realized that I was writing in my dream.
I went over what I’d written. Considered rising to capture it. Decided not to. Resumed sleep.
Awoke in the morning. Went through dreams while doing light exercising and stretching. Daily ritual. The cats assumed the position. Stared fixedly with misery. Tucker seized a more active approach. Moved over and sat on my foot. Looked up at me. Eyes big. Waiting. Expectant. Give a little, “Mello,” in a friendly baritone.
Done with exercising, feeding cats was necessary before starvation took them. We went down the hall, they with eager anticipation, me with resignation. Cleaned out bowls — “You never even finished what I fed you last night” — opened a can. Doled out the wet food. Refilled the kibble stations. Cleaned and filled the water stations.
Coffee was brewed. Before it finished, I was back with the dream writing stuff. Headed to the computer. Wrote for an hour. Surprising how fresh and clear it had remained. Got up when my Fitbit reminded me that it was time to move. Remembered my coffee. Now cold. Drank some anyway. My taste buds immediately sent notices that this was unacceptable. I nuked the coffee hot. The taste buds were appalled.
Writing in my head was still happening. Hadn’t eaten yet but the muses were strong. So, despite the stomach’s increasingly vocal demands, I made fresh coffee and returned to the keyboard. Got back into the rhythm.
Half the coffee remains. It’s almost cold. Mug radiates an ant watt of warmth. Taste buds are not overly pleased with the dark fluid’s progress over their realm.
But it all works. Coffee and dreams. At least, today. Time to eat, according to my stomach. Get some real coffee, too, the taste buds request. Something hot and dark, please.
Welcome to Saturday, September 4, 2021. Here in Ashland, smoke veils a cloudy spread. We’ll probably see 80 F in our area. The sun arose at 6:39 AM. Pearlescent hues on the cats and walls. Sun fade will be at 7:40 PM. The window of daily sunshine is closing.
After a week of noisy news, my soul seems spent. People are enduring some hard times in the U.S. from coast to coast, Canada to Mexico. Fires and flooding, hurricanes and tornados. Lies and more lies. And, yeah, COVID-19. People who otherwise fasten their seat belts, go through security with shoes off, without water, passing through metal detectors, who otherwise agree that public safety and security are important now can’t wear a mask. Others remain vaccine hesitant. They have their reasons, we’re told, and shouldn’t be mean to them. Meanwhile, others still find time to be racist and cruel. Murders and abuse continue.
I sort of chuckle, though. I’m reading HIlary Mantel. The Mirror and the Light. About Thomas Cromwell and that period. England. Henry VIII. Anne Bolyn’s beheading. Henry’s other wives. Conflict with the Pope. Empires and kingdoms. Dukes and ladies. The church and the state. Wars. Among it all, the poor, the starving, the diseased. We are better off now. I think where my disappointment builds is that we could be so much better. We should be so much better. Guess I watched too much Star Trek as a child.
Muse filled my mental music stream with “Uprising” from 2009. Specific lyrics.
Another promise, another seed
Another packaged lie to keep us trapped in greed
And all the green belts wrapped around our minds
And endless red tape to keep the truth confined
(So come on)
[Chorus]
They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not control us
We will be victorious
h/t to Genius.com
Anyway. Test negative. Stay positive. Wear a mask as needed. Get the vax. Please. Here’s the music. Enjoy your day. I’m gonna enjoy my coffee. Cheers
I was in an office and answered the phone after it rang. Standard gray office set found in the U.S. around the century’s start. The female on the other end said, “Hello. This is your muse.”
I sat up and paid attention. Dream or not, your muse calls, you pay attention.
The office was busy. Noisy with ringing phones and conversations. Focus was required. I had several items in front of me. Truth is, I was expecting my muse’s call. I was ready. Also, weirdly, but this is dreamland, I could see her on the phone talking to me but also saw myself talking to her. Like two cameras were in use. I was in my mid-forties. She seemed of a like age. White. Short. Short dark hair. Glasses. In a dark gray business suit with a white blouse.
She told me that she had two assignments for me. I had prepped for them. These were the items before me. On the right was a board. Divided in the middle, it had pegs to move around. Left was something else. She told me what she expected me to do with them. I thanked her for the help. Then she said, “Now tell me what you want me to do.” I told her to her satisfaction. We said good-byes and hung up. I got started.
Can you believe it? I can’t remember any of those things she said.
A little late getting here today.
For that, blame my ‘puter. It suffered a severe case of Microsoftitis.
Last night, the blessed machine told me, “Install Updates and Shutdown”? Why, yes, seems reasonable.
The little machine went about its business for a while. Percentages passed. Twelve…fourteen…eighteen…twenty-three.
I drifted away for a time. On my return, the machine said, “Couldn’t install update. Trying again.”
Okay, go for it.
Off I went to do other things. The machine was shut down when I returned. Well, it must’ve succeeded.
Maybe yes, maybe no. I experienced the latest version of the Blue Screen of Death (BSOD) and went into an endless loop of trying to start, failing to start, running diagnostics, failing to repair the problem (kmode_exception_not_handled). Taking matters on for myself, I ran various diagnostics. They claimed that everything was great. Updated BIOS. It was great. Checked the image. Super-duper. Well, WTF?
Tried Restore Point. Failed: unspecified error OxO8OO70570. Using another computer, I looked for solutions. Tried logging into safe mode but couldn’t.
Geez. Eventually, I again refreshed and reinstalled matters.
(Funny, but just the other day, I mentioned that I felt great, but I was anxious, because this is 2020, and 2020 has a habit of biting people in the ass, as it did me today.)
Onto the music. Today’s song is Paul Simon’s 1980 hit, “Late in the Evening”. For him, it was late in the evening, and the music’s seeping through. For me, it was late in the evening, and all the news and my writing muse was seeping through. I swear, the muse seemed like she’d guzzled tankloads of coffee. Or maybe she’d gulped down sugar. Whatever it was, she was hyper-active. All her ideas just kept seeping through.
So here we go. Since I liked Simon and Garfunkel and enjoy recorded ‘live’ performances, I’m offering up S&G in Central Park. As always, hello, and see you later.
General background for this dream didn’t particularly coalesce. I was somewhere with others, inside a building, busy on a project. It seemed to be about indexing things, but I’m not sure.
This man (vague and indescript in the dream, except he was white), came along and demand to know what I was doing. Without allowing time for me to answer, he told me to get busy, then told me he wanted me to write an ad for him. Annoyed, I attempted protesting and explaining that I was working on something, but he was pushy as hell. He was also the boss and very successful, so I allowed latitude for that.
Settling down, I started to work on the ad for him. For this purpose, I picked up a pad and started writing in red ink.
Red ink wouldn’t do. He shouted at me, “Who told you to use red ink?”
Pissed, I replied, “No one specified any ink, and you didn’t say not to use red. What color will work, then? Blue? Black? Purple?”
He shoved a narrow notepad at me and a black pen. “Use this.”
I moved away from him to find a new place to write, settling on my knees at a low table, but he followed, trying to peer over my shoulder and see what I wrote. The pad he’d given me was full of writing. The pages were lined and everything was handwritten. I flipped through pages, looking for white space, while complaining to him that he’d given me a full tablet.
I finally found clean pages and started writing, but he hectored me. “What are you doing? What are you writing?”
I began explaining, “I’m writing an ad for you,” but he interrupted. “I want you to write me an ad for a person who needs help for a four-year-old.”
“What kind of help?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just get their attention.”
I kept starting to write, then he’d interrupt me. I’d move, find another page to write on, and begin again, and he’d interrupt me. I don’t know how many times it happened but I reached the point where I was ready to tell him, “Fuck off,” and leave it all behind.
But the dream ended. He was such an annoying asshole.
I was thinking about my muse, or muses. They were having a party in my head, a.k.a., a head party. Apparently, they’re feeling frisky. I enjoy their energy and company. Starting to learn some of their names. Won’t reveal that, per their dark request. (“Yeah, reveal our names and say good-bye, because we’ll be a word on the wind.”)
Anyway, here’s the song that was written about a muse, “Never Let You Go” by Third Eye Blind, January 2000.
I often dream about four things: being in the military (again), cars, houses, and animals. Two of those made it into the second dream. It was the main event. First, though, came a dream snippet.
I was working on rice flavors. I came up with a new, exciting idea: cinnamon rice. Awakening, I thought, cinnamon and rice? That’s been around for eons, as in, say, rice pudding. I was quite excited in the dream, though.
My boss entered. I made my announcement.
He loved the idea. “Cinnamon and rice. That’s our new potato chip flavor.”
Whaaat? I’d been working on potato chip flavors? I was aghast, horrified, and crestfallen. Then I said, move on.
My second dream found me in a huge house. My wife and I had been living there for years, but the place surprised me with its size. Besides several levels, the house featured several wings and a huge yard.
I’d been living on the main levels, I realized, and had forgotten about the other parts. Now, remembering them, I went on a re-discovery exploration. Everything was well lit, plush and well furnished, but some of the white marble steps were dusty. I had to clean those off, I told myself.
Back in the house, my black cat was clamoring for my attention, but I had a house guest. I took her to a breakfast nook off the second dining room (the more informal one). There was a table with three chairs. Two were standard dining room chairs, white with light blue padded seats. The third, in the same motif, was on wheels and featured a wicker headrest that could be folded up to extend the back.
I presented this to my friend. I hadn’t seen here in over a decade. She’d never been to my house. Dressed in light blue and white that weirdly matched the dining room and breakfast nook, she stood there with a laptop bag over her shoulder. “Perfect.” She set her bag down. “I will write and type here.”
Good. She wouldn’t bother us there. But I said, “You’ll be facing a wall.” That was anathema to me; I liked facing a window so I could look out.
“No, I like facing walls, so I’m not disturbed,” she replied.
Weird to me. Meanwhile, I had to pick up the dogs from the vet. I went out as the van arrived, bringing them back. (Yeah, that confused me for a second; I thought I had to go get them, but no, they’d been brought to me.)
I took the dogs inside and let them go. They rushed to one bathroom. Surprised, I followed them in. There, I found kittens: a gray, ginger, and two black and white. They were toddling around, their little tails straight up the air like pointers. The dogs avidly sniffed them.
I called to my wife, “Where did these kittens come from?”
She didn’t answer. That’s where the dream ended.
Michael Seidel, writer 