Sunday’s Theme Music

His royal floofness was not happy. “Meow,” he thundered quite harshly.

“What is it, my ginger liege?” I asked. Then I petted him and discovered the source of his displeasure. His floofship had been outside and guess what? Yesterday’s vigorous sunshine was replaced by a light but steady rain. No, my flooftator was not pleased with the circumstances, no, not at all. A towel was employed to dry the royal fur. Treats and catnip were administered as salve for his wounded soul.

At least it’s but 44 degrees F. No snow expected, just plentiful rain, about .19 inches, Alexa tells me, if she’s to be believed. High of 46, a drop of twenty from yesterday’s experience. Ah, weather. We can always count on you to change in Ashlandia. Probably having rain now because the sun popped up at 7:16 AM and saw its shadow. So claims Ashlandia lore. Frightened, the sun will hide from itself until it sneaks out of the valley. Weather gnomes say that’ll be 7:22 this evening.

Lovely day for reading, writing, maybe nibbling some food, perhaps napping, perhaps a walk. A day of shying away.

Well, with that, I have “Shy Away” by Twenty One Pilots, a bopping tune from 2021, stuck in the morning mental music stream, replacing the previous occupant, “It’s Raining Again” by Supertramp from 1982. We’re no longer in extreme drought in our county. The net verifies we’ve dropped to moderate drought, which is how 77% of Oregon is classified.

Onward, to things. Stay pos and be cool. I’m up for coffee. Need anything from the kitchen? Okay, here’s the music. Cheers

The Break-In Dream

I began with my wife, in our home. This place was a townhome which reminded me of our RL HMB townhome where we lived 1999-2005, but with some odd differences.

I was in the living room because I was certain I’d heard a noise. I was investigating to see if someone had broken in. As I walked around, checking to see if anything was stolen, I realized the door to the garage was open. It wasn’t before.

I walked that way. My wife stormed out of the bedroom where she’d been sleeping. “Someone broke in,” she said. She went to the garage door and rushed down the steps.

I followed, overtaking her as we left the building. We were at its rear, all grasslands, with a few trees, bordering a river. My wife said that she didn’t see anyone and went into the house. I kept looking, picking up a large stick as a weapon, because I might need to protect myself.

I spotted two couples on the riverbank. Teenagers. I called to them. They ignored me. I headed their way. They moved off, careful to never look at me. This kept on for sometime before I gave up.

Darkness overtook the land. I was more than a mile from home. Rain was falling. I decided it would be easier to get to the street and follow it home.

I reached the street. A small brown dog was trying to cross it but was afraid of the traffic. It wasn’t much but I understood the dog’s fear. “Come on, I’ll help you,” I told it.

It came to my side. As we looked, it started across the lane. I saw a car’s yellow headlights coming toward us from the left. “No, not yet,” I said to the dog. “Come back.”

The dog did. We watched that car pass. There was a median strip. I told the dog, “Come on.”

The dog and I crossed to the strip. It stayed with me as we waited for traffic to pass and then went on.

I trotted along in the rain, the dog beside me. I saw no collar on him or tags, and talked to him, asking questions. As we crossed one street, he suddenly turned left and took off in a run. Going home, I guessed.

I turned right and crossed the street. I was home now. It was daylight. The rain had stopped, and I was dry.

I went into the house and armed myself with some hard plastic tubing. My wife was making dinner. I heard a noise from the garage and went to investigate.

A Filipino man was there. Seeing my plastic tubing, he became withdrawn and acted like he was leaving. I asked him, “Who are you? Why are you here?”

He said he had something to give me and held out a hand. I recognized a manuscript. “No, thank you,” I said. “You need to go.”

He took my hand and pressed the manuscript into it. I sighed. “You want this published?”

He nodded with eager smiles.

I repeated, “You need to leave. I’ll go with you and show you how to get this published.”

We went to his house. His family were waiting for his returned. They crowded back when I came in. Getting on his computer, I explained how to self-publish and the query process and how to submit to publishers and agents. He nodded, indicating that he understood.

I returned home. My wife asked where I’d been. Dinner was getting cold. Putting the tubing aside, I explained what had happened as I sat down to eat.

Dream end.

Wednesday’s Wandering Thought

Rain was coming down. Black asphalt reflected the oncoming traffic’s lights. The speed limit was 35 MPH here but he guessed that the approaching SUV was doing closer to 50. He couldn’t identify what brand the big, silver SUV was, because its grill and front end were gone. As it went by — a Toyota, he noted — he saw that the young female driver was holding a cell phone on top of the steering wheel. Her jaw and mouth were moving like she was shouting at the phone.

He wondered what the story was behind the vehicle’s front-end damage.

The Messenger Dream

I’d been selected to be a messenger. Don’t know who chose me, nor the message.

I was waiting to get the message in my place, a small apartment in a large high-rise building. Few windows let in light but natural sources outside were diminished by storms. Friends and acquaintances visited. Several noticed that I had four model cars in a case. These were Formula 1 cars from the 1970s and 1980s, 1/12 scale. People bent down to look into the black case to see them. As they began commenting, I turned on the case lights so they could see them. Up front on the right was the Ferrar 312 T which Lauda drove to championships. Behind it a little was a Mclaren MP4/4, a model driven by Senna and Prost, with the markings and settings for Prost’s vehicle. I explained these things to everyone, but then, the time for me to act as messenger arrived.

The message was given on a slip of paper. I went out and delivered it, no problem, despite a deluge. Coming back, I descended a long, steep hill on an asphalt path. Left of me was busy thoroughfare, twelve lanes of newly paved road, packed with cars. At the bottom of the hill was an intersection where a wide new road came down from the right. I needed to cross that wide road. My building was on the other side. I could see its parking lot.

Rain still poured as thunder rumbled. I stepped onto the road into the crosswalk, then looked back and left to ensure the cars turning right from the main road were letting me pass. They were stopped and waiting, so I waved thanks and proceeded. Mind shifting to the traffic coming on the road which I crossed, I saw a huge tanker truck approaching, going way too fast for conditions. I stopped to await the outcome.

The long truck, a blue tractor with a silver trailer, was rushing toward the intersection, sliding with his brakes locked. As he passed me, the truck entered a slow jack knife and then fell over onto its side and slid more, stopping just after entering the intersection. Everyone saw it coming and stopped. No one hit it and it sat on its own, alone in the intersection.

A young Black man on a blue bike had been riding down the hill toward the intersection. When the truck arrived and jack knifed, the bike guy braked hard, slid, lost control and was thrown from the bike.

I rushed to help, recognizing that he was also a messenger. He was conscious but dazed, sitting on the roadway, his twisted bike to one side, rain drenching him. Others came to help him, too. I told them to call for an ambulance. Someone suggested helping the truck driver, but I disdained that; he’d brought that on himself, I thought, and others were undoubtably going to help him. A glance that way confirmed that people were at the truck.

I asked the bike rider, “Are you a messenger?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. People went to help him up. “No,” I said. “He had a big tumble. There may be injuries which we don’t know. Wait for the EMT.”

Then I asked him, “Where does your message go? I’ll take it for you.”

Dream end.

Friday’s Theme Music

We’ve come to Friday. Full stop. What else needs said? Everyone has a Friday sense, a feel for what Friday means for them. We do that with every day, though, depending on schedules and activities, wants and needs, desires and confusion, determination and goals.

Rain is falling on this Oregon coast August 19th. The sun’s reappearance was dampened by clouds but still took place at 6:23 this morning. Turning away from Sol — which often invokes Pink Floyd and someone singing, “On the turning away” — takes place at 8:19 this evening. By that time, we’ll expect to be at 67 F, a small jump from our current 16 C. They say it feels like 60. Whatever, it’s loaded with soft salty fishy oceany fragrances sprinkled with dirt, sand, and asphalt, along with plant smells. Know that melange? It’s a relaxing scent to inhale, one that unfolds the soul and pours out cares, at least for a little while. It also invokes memories for me, of where I’ve been, my present intersection of time, space, and being, and the final leg, who I am. Cue The Who, “Who Are You”.

Falling rain means Elvis Presley for The Neurons, today, though. They could have gone with Blind Melon and “No Rain”, I suppose, but no, they have “Kentucky Rain” (1970) circumambulating my morning mental music stream. Why? Silly one, The Neurons don’t explain their processes and decisions. Perhaps that’s only me. Your Neurons might be much nicer. Well, my neurons are nice, just as wild and free as a clowder of kitties chasing dandelion seeds on the wind.

Here’s the music. Stay positive and test negative. I must go on a coffee quest. (Yes, now The Neurons have folded “The Impossible Dream” into the morning mental music mix.)



I knew that I was attending a NASCAR race, though which wasn’t apparent, as I never saw the track, cars, driver, or race. I was with my wife and hundreds of others. We were cozy in a tunnel, under a blanket or tarp, with rain falling outside the tunnel. My wife and I were cuddling and kissing but she was concerned about my girlfriend’s location. She didn’t like my girlfriend and didn’t want her to find us.

My wife spotted my GF walking our way. Hurriedly she moved away from me and hid, urging me to hide, too, which I did. We decided that we needed to get out of there. We got into our long silver minivan. It featured a luxurious cream-colored interior. My wife and I sat in the back row of the long vehicle, kissing a bit.

She said, “We need to go.”

I answered, “Okay.”

We realized that other cars had pulled in on either side. We wouldn’t open the doors. I said, “That’s okay, I’ll drive from back here.”

Putting the car in gear, I reached over the seats and took the steering wheel and gently accelerated forward. We started moving toward another car. My control wasn’t that good. I went to brake and shouted, “I can’t find the brake. I don’t know where it’s at. I can’t see it and I can’t feel it.”

We somehow stopped. I said, “I need to climb over the seats so I can drive.”

Dream end.

The Order

The clouds spread like thick, gray frosting.

Then came the atmospheric cannon fire.

The cats arrived at my feet, leery of the sky barrage.

Then came rain, powering down the sky, sluicing down the streets,

followed by the smell, the petrichor of warm asphalt and cement,

grass and dirt, lingering in the afternoon’s fading embrace.

Finally, there was tentative Robin song, announcing,

The end.

Sunday’s Theme Music

Yesterday, Saturday, July 2, offered us heavy rain, thunder, and lightning. We don’t experience a lot of this in Ashland. As my partner commented, we usually receive a rain like this at the end of July. We do get ‘dry’ thunderstorms, where the clouds pile up over the mountains and then roll across the valley, darkening the sky and dropping the temperature before singing their bass throat music. Far lightning came sometimes be seen. It was all different yesterday, the once-a-year storm that we typically experience.

Today is Sunday, July 3, 2022. It’s cool, just 10 C now, with predictions and forecasts that we’ll reach the upper to mid 70s F. Clouds have blanked the sunshine and blue sky. Mists cuddle up to the tree line on the mountains. The air smells of wet grass, dirt, and bark.

Sunrise was at 5:39 AM. The sun will do its disappearing act about 8:51 PM. Again. That sunset time hasn’t changed since before the solstice.

I went out and listened to the rain, alone, enjoying the smell and sound. Drops hurled down, dashing off the pavement, an unsynchronized drumline in a private public performance. Thunder erratically punctuated moments. As it faded, I enjoyed the silence. No cars, birds, cats, or people. Nothing but me and the storm as it carried its show north and away. The silence was a balm for the day, and I thought, I hope nothing breaks this silence. Just let me have this for a little longer.

Well, The Neurons said, “We know that song.” I replied, “What song?”

They responded with “Don’t Answer Me” by the Alan Parsons Project from 1984. I don’t recall when I’d last heard it. Lines in the song go, “Don’t answer me, don’t break the silence, don’t let me win. Don’t answer me, stay on your island, don’t let me in.” Oh, how The Neurons love playing these word association music games. I think they might be a little compulsive-obsessive about it.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as and when needed and get the boosters as, when, and if you’re able. Time for a morning jolt, you know what I’m saying? Here’s the music. Cheers

Saturday’s Theme Music

Raining again, as the song goes. It’s Saturday, April 30, 2022. The rain is light, the air is chill, the neighborhood is quiet, the children are still. It’s 51 F now but feels lower, thanks to the moisture hanging in the air and permeating everything. Low mists hid the top of the northern ridges’ pine-loaded top, imbuing the scene with a gothic air. All we need is a black castle. The valley’s high will be 59 F, they say, and I believe ’em. The sunshine so far seems as listless as me without my morning coffee. Arriving with a yawn at 6:08 this morning, it’ll depart our area at 8:09 PM, giving us almost fourteen hours of the sun’s presence today. Huzzah!

But wait! Sunshine has punched through! The temperature is now…51 F.

Oh, wait. The sunshine is blocked again.

Rain is falling again.

The neurons have Bonnie Raitt singing and playing in the morning mental music stream, “Nick of Time” from 1989. This song is from an album by the same name. The album was part of my wife’s album rotation back in the 1990s and became ingrained into the neurons. I believe they brought it up today because of the weather. On rainy days like this, she’d declare, “Let’s put on some music and clean, and then we’ll just sit around and read books.” It worked.

Here’s the music. Now the neurons are singing the praises of coffee and suggesting that I go indulge in a cup. Have a better one. Cheers

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