Tag: Pink

Frieda’s Theme Music

If you’re feelin’ some heat, that might be cos it’s Fried-day. Not much heat to Ashlandia’s thin sunshine. Black clouds dropped in and held like smoke curling against a low ceiling. Rain has been jumpin’ in and out, heavy at times. We have jumped from 37 F to 47 F, which is about as high as we can expect. This is Frieda, March 21, 2025.

Out to a late start. Final therapy session for the lymphedema. Things lookin’ good, fingers crossed, knock wood, ‘cetera. Just gotta keep it so.

As it was an early AM appointment and it was in Medord, my wife tagged along so we could do some shoppin’. Pick up ‘sentials. That done, since we’d not eaten, we took a late lunch at a restaurant where we chowed on eggs and hash browns with coffee and toast. Then it was back home and back here and at last I’m sat up in the writin’ position. I jumped immediately in novel writing because some muse critters were hammering at things they felt needed done. With those checked off, I’m turning to posting.

Today’s song comes from offhand exchanges between the other and me. Coming into the house, we chatted about getting online “to see what the orange hooplehead has done now,” as she put it. So we were asking of our computers, what’s going on?

That exchange gave The Neurons ammo to introduce “What’s Up” by 4 Non Blondes to the morning mental music stream, afternoon edition. But in my search for a video, I came across a cover by Pink which took me in, so here we are.

I also offer the song as theme music for all those coping with the crap which the Trusk Regime is lading on us. As one line goes, “And I pray. Oh my God, do I pray. I pray every single day for revolution.”

Coffee and I have met up a few times today, and I’m doing fine. Hope you are, too. Onward. Courage. Cheers

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The Organic Machine Dream

I had a plethora of dreams last night. This was one of the more interesting to me.

I was a younger man. I looked and acted like I was in my thirties, thirty years plus younger than my real life age. But I looked like myself from that time, tanned, thick brown hair, fit and sender.

Life was keeping me busy and active, reading, writing, playing softball and racquetball, hurrying around, doing errands and talking to people.

During all of that, I came to meet someone. I can’t describe them because I never saw them. Nor can I tell you how they sounded because I heard them, but they were speaking and not speaking.

They had interrupted what I was doing to tell me that I was part of a machine. Confusion was my reaction. Further explanations followed that they had created a machine which was wholly organic. I asked them if the were aliens but I don’t recall an answer to that question.

At that point, though, I was busy and just wanted to get on with everything and hustled off. Later, I stopped to get coffee. They accosted me to say again that I was part of the machine. I didn’t understand what they’d said, and asked for clarification. They launched a long and detailed explanation that they were using humans for many features in an organic machine which they’d created, and that I was one of two individuals who’d been selected as the brains.

While flattered, I thought they could have made a better choice for their brain than me, and told them so.

They countered that the functioning they needed from me was far above my conscious thinking level, or the subconscious. I first asked if drinking coffee with caffeine would affect the brain and the machine, and joked about their machine getting hyper from too much caffeine.

They answered that none of that affected it because the brain function they were employing was beyond an organic level.

That prompted me to retort, “Your organic machine is using parts of humans which aren’t organic?” I laughed at that.

They seriously responded, “Yes.”

I asked them if they were talking about the Id, ego, and super-ego, trying to comprehend it. They replied that it was beyond those levels as well, pushing me to ask what was beyond that level?

They asked me if I wanted to see the machine. Enthusiastially, I replied, “Sure.”

“You’re standing in it,” they replied.

Confusion and suspicions squirted up in me. I’d been outside, among trees and buildings, cars, utility wires, streets, and businesses. Now I was in a glistening pink edifice with tall, vaulted areas, reminding me of the inside of a pink church.

“How did I get here?” I asked.

“You were always here.”

That made me think of the movie, The Matrix. Before I could speak, they asked if I wanted to see my part.

“Yes.”

They told me to go further in. Not feeling anything but curiosity, I did, walking until I reached an intersection. Ahead were two pink tubes, which reminded me of short smokestacks. Five feet tall, they were about two feet in diameter.

“Where do I go now?” I asked.

“That’s it, you’re here. You’re the brain on the left.”

I looked at tubes. “Those are brains?”

“Yes, they just need the energy. We wanted to tell you and show you because as your brain changes, our brain will grow more powerful. As it grows more powerful, you will become more intelligent and powerful, and then, so will it. As each of you change and grow, you’ll feed the other. We thought you should be aware of that”

Dream end.

I have no idea what this dream was about. I woke up feeling surprised. Thinking about the dream, I concluded, “That was different.” I wanted to just dismiss it but instead felt compelled to keep thinking about it, as though I was preparing for more to come. Intrigued, part of me thinks, wow, some power is informing me that I’m going to go through great changes. A more cynical aspect thinks that’s highly dubious; it’s just random neurons firing parts of my brain as I sleep.

I’ll let you know if more of the dream ever does come.

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The Beer & Organization Dream

Middle-aged to the young side, I’d join some sort of commune. We were interested in helping one another by joining resources. It was a sprawling, wooded compound with multiple cabins and buildings. I wasn’t part of the core group, but I was an early member, joining while the group was still small. I was member number ten.

After joining, I noticed that they were a bit disorganized. I’d always had a knack and desire for organization and began addressing the organizational needs. I didn’t want to be aggressive about it nor upset the balance; I just wanted us to be more organized. As newcomers arrived to join — a young couple, then a smiling, middle-aged white male (who turned out to be retired military, like me), then several single women — I began inserting gentle reminders to the people placing them about where we’d put others, suggesting we could write these things down.

Several people suggested we have beer. A group of us sat down and sampled several different beers — IPAs, red and brown ales, stouts, porters, lagers. Another man asked me how I viewed the general groups. I told him my first preferences were stouts and porters, then ale and IPA, followed by pilsners and lagers. But drinking beer was like listening to music, and my preference and desires changed with the moment. We had a good conversation, full of laughter, about this.

We went back to the compound. It was a sunny day. More arrivals entered. One of them, a tall, tall-haired man, came to me and suggested I was the resident beer expert. I denied that and we joked back and forth. Then he invited me to have a beer with him. We sat down at a table. A woman asked us what we wanted. I wanted to know if she had any Oregon beers. She didn’t know and invited me to look around.

While looking at the beers and going through them, I noticed a food section that’d fallen into chaos. It was part of a circular display. Beers were on top; under them were layers of food, napkins, and utensils. Gleaning what was meant to happen with the setup, I re-organized it into what I thought was a better flow. A burly black man came up and announced, “I’m the proprietor of this establishment. I saw what you did with that display, and I’d like to offer you a job.”

We shook hands, and I thought about it, but declined the job with a smile. He replied, “I didn’t think you’d take it because you don’t look like you need it, but it never hurts to ask.” He told me to help myself, that he’d cover my bill.

I was flattered by his generosity. I found a dark, creamy ale to take back to my body. I poured into a glass; the creamy head rose up and overflowed. I sipped off head, laughing while I did. After talking about what I liked about the beer, I invited him to sample some. He did and declared that it wasn’t to his taste. “Too creamy.” I understood his criticism, as others had said that. “It’d been good as a beer float,” I told him. He’d never had one. I explained what it was and offered to order one for him when I realized that I was supposed to be meeting others. I said bye and left.

The others were supposed to meet me in a pub along the street. There were dozens of pubs, so I started at one end and entered, looking for them. Someone bought be a beer to sample at each. I thought it was would be boorish to decline their offers, so I accepted and drank. By the time I reached the last pub and found my friends, I’d drunk a lot of beers.

The new place was light and airy, with light pine walls, many windows, and picnic tables. I apologized to the others for being late and found that one of them, a female, worked there as a server. I didn’t know that and told her so, then sat. She brought me a beer.

On the table was a pair of women’s athletic shoes and a tube of pink gel. I wondered about these. The serving woman pointed out that the shoes had grass stains. The pink gel was supposed to get them off but it didn’t work.

Well, that was like a challenge to me. I took a shoe and applied pink gel. The gel started sliding off. She said, “That’s what always happened.” Undeterred, I used my finger to spread the pink gel along the shoe. Like that, the grass stains disappeared.

“You did it. You’re my hero,” she said.

The dream ended.

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The Cougar Dream

My wife and I were in an austere but large, yet old, cement apartment. The walls were deep pink. So was the ceiling and furniture but the floor was burnt gold. Furniture was scant – bed, table, one stick chair. The ceiling was low and the lumens from the few lights weren’t high.

It was night. Awakening and turning on the lights, I discovered a huge cougar prowling the room. The animal’s presence shocked and terrified me. The cougar was closer to me than my wife. I told her, “Go open the doors so it can get out.” Meanwhile, I made myself big to keep the animal from attacking me, raising my arms over my head. Extending that thinking, I climbed backwards up on the bed. Picking up the pillows, I held them over my head.

The cougar watched all of this with quizzical interest. It was an enormous, healthy, beautiful animal. Meanwhile, my wife was walking around and talking. I kept telling her, “Open the door, let the lion out,” but she seemed more interested in trying to make friends with it. The animal moved away from me. With its back to me, I jumped down and shooed it toward a door. Just as I got it out, two men opened the door and let it back in. They were joking about letting my cat out while I told them, “No, no, no, we were trying to get it out.”

I then left. Outside was bright and sunny. I was on a narrow, sandy beach. Turquoise water lapped gently to my right. Nobody else was around. I walked a while, enjoying the breeze, sounds, and sunlight, before stepping into the warm, tranquil water and bathing myself.

I shared this dream with my wife. She noted the cougar never threatened anyone. I agreed; I saw it as a threat, but it never threatened anyone. She said that bathing myself was a sign of cleansing myself. I told her, after encountering that cougar, I needed to clean myself off.

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The Festival Dream

I went to a bank, a modern building, small, almost empty. While there, I heard rumors of something else being behind the bank. I decided to investigate. After following a hallway briefly, I entered a large chamber. All of it was a very light gray stone, stone the color of pale, thin fog. The chamber is broad and tall, with an uneven but flat floor. Centerpiece to it is a giant square head carved from the rock. Trying to take it in has me craning my head back and shifting position. Three columns are hewn into the rock on either side of it. A sense of time thousands of years past washes out from it.

I’m turning toward the right. I can see that the broad chamber continues that way. I’ve decided to follow it but as I’m walking, I grow away that the chamber reverberates. I stop to feel it. It’s not a heartbeat. At once softer and more powerful, it flows through the rock and me. Feeling it, I become lifted by a glorious spiritual mood. The chamber grows brighter and whiter.

Next, I’m walking on a paved path through countryside. I’m among many people. My wife is with me, along with families with children. A large percentage of the children are riding little carts that they stood up in and propel along with their foot. Everyone is laughing and merry. We’re on our way to a festival. Conversations are struck up. We enjoy the company of two other couples for a while. They’ve just bought new homes and moved into them. I’m surprised to learn that they moved into my old neighborhood in Penn Hills, PA. I learn that one couple are now living in the house that my aunt’s family lived in up the street at 314 Laurie Drive. I wonder if anyone has moved into my old house and start asking questions.

We stop at a cafe. Adjacent to the sidewalk, it’s open on every side except the back. The cafe is light, airy, white and yellow decor. We sit in the back right corner. Drinks are ordered. We’re chatting with others. Everyone is so friendly and happy. Elderly people in black are passing on the sidewalk. One slips and falls. We all shout and leap up to help her. Five or six others fall. We realize that they’re playing a joke on us as sly grins spread across their faces. We all have a good laugh.

A little blonde girl sits beside me. She tells me she’s moved. She says she lives at 314 Laurie Drive. I turn to one of the men and he acknowledges, yes, that’s his daughter.

Then we’re walking again, resuming the way to the festival. My wife and I reach a hill. We can see a new housing plan below. The houses are all pastels. Many are turquoise and pink. Some are yellow and pink. They have round, green yards. Most have one or two doghouses in their yards. The doghouses are always in the same color as the people’s house. I ask my wife if we should buy one of those houses. She laughs and answers, “Those aren’t for us.” I nod in agreement because I feel the same. They’re too contrived and conform to some code that’s alien to us. We turn and move on.

An uplifting sequence of dreams all the way around.

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A Sweet Dream Trilogy

I’m not going into details about dreams last night. I think, remembering so much, it would consume chunks of time and I have things planned that need time. So, in summary.

I dreamed first that I was with men in the military. It was not the U.S. military, but I don’t know what nation it was from. I was a young man, training the men how to build things. We were just finishing up, and it had been very success. I was basking in popularity. Young women came along. To help with celebrations for finishing, they set up a small store. The white store was decorated in purple and pink with heavy glitter, amusing me. They were giving out candy that was in buckets. A place beside them was grilling food. Everyone, including me, was eating, and having a good time.

Then, dream change, I was with a group of women. Again, I was a young man. We were out in a meadow surrounded by lush, heavy forests. It was a small group. The women were variously dressed in white, purple, or yellow gowns. I’m not certain what I wore. I think I may have been wearing orange. I was teaching the women. We were just finishing when a flock of birds flew overhead, seizing our attention. I said to them, “That’s a fitting ending.”

The third was briefest, where I, once again, a young man, was in a little classroom in a small, old schoolhouse, teaching young children. The schoolhouse was white. We were sitting on the wooden floor. I was talking to them, telling them stories, and they were laughing and cheering in response.

Remembering the dreams invigorates me and makes me smile. All were so sweet and affirming, even if it doesn’t come off that way in my brief captures. If only all dreams left such a positive impact when we awaken and take on the day.

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A Ragtag Dream

I was staying in a disheveled sort of place, a ramshackle series of hotels connected to a large, decrepit aircraft hangar. The hangar was white; the hotels were pale green and light pink. A number of friends and my wife were there. We seemed like refugees trying to pull it together and move on.

Activities were taking place in all of the hangar. One person with us was S, a short, energetic woman who’d been an office manager where I’d worked. S and I met up by an aircraft in the hangar. The jet was something like a 737. We planned to take it to leave. But before we could board, S said, “We need to have all the rivets sealed.” She had a rag and some stuff. Showing them to me, she went on, “A little of this needs to be rubbed on each one.”

Looking up at the aircraft, I answered, “We would need to start at the top and work our way down, section by section.”

S said, “It needs to be done in about an hour. Can you organize people and get this done?”

I replied, “Sure, okay.”

She thanked me. We parted.

After we walked away, I thought, we don’t need to do that. That’s overkill. I’ll talk to S about that.

I kept going. I saw some other friends just arriving. They had some clothes. I recognized the clothes as some stuff I’d left behind. They were returning them to me.

But we didn’t meet up. I needed to get back to my room to get my wife ready to go. As I wend through people across the hangar to my hotel section, I saw another pile of my clothes on the cement floor and scooped them up to wear, then went to the room.

My wife was still in bed. I roused her. Our room was small and cramped, with a bed and a tiny bathroom. She was confused about what was to happen. I went about, explaining it to her while packing. She climbed out of bed; she was wearing gray pajamas. As she started moving and looking for clothes, she went into the bathroom. In there, I saw a huge cobweb with a dead mosquito eater hanging in it. I pointed it out to her, saying, “That’s been here the whole time that we’ve been here.”

She agreed, then as she moved around it, we saw other, larger ones.

We exited the bathroom. She said, “I need to think.” She took out four small gray rectangles from a bag, then set them on the floor, spacing them about four feet from one another. I didn’t know what she was doing.

Bending to the first one, she pressed a button on it. Music began playing. She repeated this with the next two. I recognized the music with each. She began dancing and singing to the music coming from the third. It was an old pop song by Abba, “Dancing Queen”. Then she moved to the fourth and pressed its button. She stopped dancing and singing, listening. I realized that it was playing “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen and sang along with it. She seemed unable to hear the music and stood listening.

Dream end.

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A Cat Dream

I was at some way station among people who I know, including a young child. It was a cozy place, a little dim inside, rain beating against tall narrow windows, mild rain battering them. A crowded place. Tables, overstuffed chairs, bookcases, brook stone fireplaces with fires going. Noisy.

Meanwhile, I’m giving the little girl a gift: a small cat. This cat is purple, white, gray, and pink. Really sweet little critter. About ten pounds. Of greatest interest, the cat has a set of controls in its side. See, the cat is a radio. It’s a live animal and it’s also a radio. I’m telling her, “Look at this. Listen.” Showing her the controls. But you can also lightly tap the cat to increase the volume, or tap it in another place to change the song.

The little girl is fascinated. Runs off. Comes back. Time and again as the cat hangs with around me, rolling around on the ground, being petted.

But there’s more! Besides the little cat, there’s a larger, almost identical purple-white-gray-pink radio cat. This one is much larger: forty to fifty pounds. And not as friendly. Or playful.

I’m playing with the little one. It’s on its back. I’m about to rub its belly. The little girl comes running up. “No! Don’t rub its belly! It doesn’t like to have its belly touched.”

I’m petting the belly, though. The little one makes a distressed meow. The big one comes running over through the crowd. Gives me an angry look and some serious tail switching. I leave off petting the little one, who gets up and rubs against me.

It’s time for me to go. I get up and dust off, look for the door, and make my way across the room.

Dream end.

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Saturday’s Theme Music

A pause, you know, a pause from thinking, writing, and looking at bad news, you know? So tempting to enumerate it all in a mini-rant but that could easily turn into something longer and uglier and I just am not going in that direction today.

Today is Saturday, and Saturday night’s alright for fighting, get a little action in. It’s also August 7, 2021, my 46th wedding anniversary to my high school girlfriend, daughter of my father’s best friend. Sunrise came at 6:10 AM. Sunset will be at 8:23 PM. Sunny overall, with highs around 88 degrees F. (Oh, but the smoke — no, stop, damn it. Reel that thing in.)

I’m going with Pink today, “Raise Your Glass”, from 20…(hang on, looking it up)…10. Here’s the music. Here’s hoping you have a good day. Cheers

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Friday’s Theme Music

My political ire is rising with the latest trumpshit. First is the jump out the gate questioning whether Kamela Harris is eligible to be POTUS. If you haven’t read the ‘opinion piece’ in Newsweek…don’t. Such garbage. Be a while before my respect for Newsweek returns.

That was just starter fluid for my anger. What’s going on with Trump and the GOP the destruction of voting rights is first class authoritarian play. Further infuriating me is the GOP obstacles arising by sabotaging the USPS. We as a nation have worked to find improvements in the USPS and how the mail is handled and delivered. Here comes the GOP, breaking the fucking system so they can undermine democracy to remain in power. It’s a scorched earth plan for victory. Sickening, sickening, sickening.

As it’s happened in the past whenever a political party dirties a nation, enablers turn their heads so they don’t see. In this instance, they’re burying themselves in misinformation.

Eventually, Trump, the GOP, and their users will follow the natural course to crash and burn. By then, judging from their current activities, the destruction they’ve wrought will be huge. Then people will stand and cry with shock, “Who knew?” 

That’s happened every damn time. Then they’ll shed croc tears and protest their innocence, “I didn’t know.”

All that at last takes me to a 2006 Pink song, “Who Knew”. Frothy and poppy in melody, it carries dark lyrics about things happening that’s not noticed until you awaken to events after it’s all over, when nothing can be done. Pink sang,

I took your words and I believed
In everything you said to me
Yeah-huh, that’s right

When someone said count your blessings now
‘Fore they’re long gone
I guess I just didn’t know how
I was all wrong
They knew better, still you said forever
And ever, who knew?

h/t to Genius.com

That’s where Trump supporters and enablers stand. They believe his lies, and that of his administration, rationalizing his morality as good, twisting logic and facts to fit their spin , and will profess to believe until it all comes crashing down. Then, when the air is filthy again, climate change is crushing our society, and the number of people starving and dying swells, they’ll whine, “Who knew?”

Yeah, that’s right.

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