Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Mood: satisbeached
We’re passing through another day. Today is Thursday, August 22, 2024.
I’m still on the Oregon Coast on vacation. The weather continues favoring us with sunshine, chill temperatures, and clear air. Some friendly clouds pass by with a wave. Right now it’s 60 F, just two degrees from an anticipated high of 62 F. The tide is coming in, so I’ll be going out for a walk along the water.
Rain fell last night. Hearing it, I headed out onto the uncovered patio at a few minutes after midnight, letting it fall over me, breathing in the fresh air, solitude, and sound.
The Internet was mostly down yesterday. While others napped, I wrote or walked along the shore, breathing in the air, enjoying freedom, and thinking, sometimes writing in my head. It was about two miles in each direction. I rarely encountered another. When we did, simple nods and smiles were exchanged, acknowledging the other’s presence. The net returned in time for us to catch the DNC, watching and listening to it as we worked on a jigsaw puzzle.
I continue with the theme of a color in the song’s title today. The Neurons wavered between “Tequila Sunrise” and “Orange Crush” this morning. The 1988 R.E.M. song won my morning mental music stream (Trademark woke). Its energy today just felt right.
Be strong, remain positive, and Vote Blue. Not because I say so but because it’s better for more of us than the alterntive offered by the other party.
Coffee is playing with my body in a welcome way. Here’s the music. Cheers
Hearing something — can’t even saw what it was — today when I was in the coffee shop writing, I suddenly see a forgotten dream from last night. Really, just a shard. First person personal point of view, I’m driving in a car along a winding country highway. Leafy green trees blur by on either side. It sometimes seems like someone is with me but that’s inconsistent. I mostly seem to be alone.
Everything is going smoothly. I’m on a long road trip. Ahead is where I’m going to leave the country highway and jump onto the Interstate. The first road is climbing and turning. I split off. Cresting a ridge, the on-ramp veers left and goes down a steep hill and into intense banking as the ramp joins the Interstate and the Interstate goes left. Sunshine bathes the cars and roadway.
I won’t be on this road long, just a few miles. As I hit the banked curve and merge with the traffic, I press the brake pedal and recognize, I’m not slowing. Speed picks up despite greater pressure on the pedal. I announce, “I don’t have any brakes.” Someone in the other seat replies, “What?”
I repeat what I said and lean their way. But no one occupies the seat. I mutter, “I’m not on the road long. My exit is just ahead.” I can see it, a long, lean hill that ends at an intersection with a traffic light. “But I’m going to need to stop. I’ll add some brake fluid when I can. I think that’ll fix it. First, though, I need to stop.”
The car hits the exit ramp. It’s flying over bumps. Grinning, beginning to laugh, I kick out the floorboard. “Just do it like Fred Flintstone.” I put my feet down onto the cement road. Pressing the soles down with all my strength, I drag the car to a stop.
Dream end.
I was at a family gathering. Big family, large spread of food, all set up on a large piece of empty land. The celebration was taking place under a sprawling wooded pavilion. Painted brown, it was loaded with grills and picnic tables, and all were in use. Music was playing, and people were talking, laughing, and dancing.
This wasn’t my family, though, at least not my real-life family, or a family I know from this time and place. But they were my dream family.
Anyway, food had been consumed. Having eaten and feeling full, I was just out strolling on my own on a field adjacent to the pavilion. Mostly level, covered with gold tinged green grasses, the field rose in a lengthy and leisurely uneven slope to a sun bathed crest. I was out several hundred yards from the pavilion when I saw three critters come over the crest and pause, looking around. In those seconds, I realized they were wolves.
I thought about heading back to the pavilion but saw I was now closer to the wolves than the pavilion. The wolves headed down the slope, pausing to sniff and look around on their journey. I began a slow and careful walk back toward the pavilion. The wolves hadn’t noticed me and I wanted to keep it that way.
But their progress was faster. Breaking into an easy lope, they’d put themselves between me and the pavilion. No one in the pavilion seemed aware of them. I didn’t think the wolves would come after me but deciding to be ready, I found a pile of black rocks. I picked up one to throw and discovered that I could break the rock up into smaller pieces. I did that until I had a pile of hand-sized missiles by my foot.
The wolves were about seventy feet away. They still weren’t looking at me. I had a rock in each hand, ready to throw with my right arm and then reload.
Then – presto – the wolves are large German Shepherds. I keep the rocks because German Shepherds can also attack but watching the dogs gambol, tails wagging, I’m less worried. On some signal invisible to me the three dogs turn and head back up the hill. I was never noticed or threatened. Dropping the rocks, I watch them go. As they’re halfway up the hill, they seem to change again, and were wolves. That left me wondering, were they wolves or dogs?
Dream end.
There are so many elements of my life in there about isolation, separation, and fears that seem to be there, but never materialize into threats. Yet, I always prepare for them.
That’s life.
First, my wife and I were in a department store, one like the late K-Mart. We were some variations of our real selves. She was shopping and I was just hanging around, hovering, waiting. As I meandered, hands in pockets, I spotted four young woman. Nothing remarkable about them, they were short young adults. Each was different from clothing to hair, except they were all dusky, with dark hair, and all seemed happy. I gathered they were planning some prank. Something overheard made me think of them as security, as in law enforcement, which baffled me because nothing in their appearance, age, or demeanor declared, Security!
So I kept wandering, watching them, trying to understand what they were plotting. Each produced a toy gun. One noted my presence to the others. They talked and laughed about me — I could discern this although I didn’t know what was being said — and then, guns raised, they walked toward me and started shooting. Their ammo were small eraser like pellets. They didn’t hurt at all. Nonetheless, I hunkered down, turning my face away and covering my head with my arms and hands to protect myself.
Laughing, they walked away and I stood. My wife came up and asked what was going on. I explained it all, finding her one of the many pellets on the ground and showing it to her. She declared that I should turn them in. I didn’t want to, thinking them harmless. My wife returned to her shopping. I watched the girls more as they separated, then decided to leave. As I was leaving the store, going down a small set of steps to the door, one of the girls shoot me a few times in the back and laughed. I shook my head, dismissing her.
The dream shifted. Someone unspecified and unknown asked me if I was interested in some event. Details were sketchy. Bored, I agreed. I then met up with a young man, no one from RL, I knew him. He was tanned, with a thatch of thick, black hair, a wide, toothy white grin, short and pudgy. We went to catch transportation to the event. The running shoes I wore were new and hurt my feet. They just felt too narrow, pinching the sides of my feet.
We got on an old school bus with many others, all males, and were taken to a field, a short journey. There I learned that we were supposed to be taking part in a running event. I was annoyed because I didn’t know that’s what we were going to do. If I’d known, I would have worn different shoes. But I was stuck with us. Waiting, many of us took our shoes off. We were all wondering why we were waiting. I realized that most of the others were in military uniforms, variations of desert style camouflage. Unshaven, they were in the US Army. I held myself away from them because I as ex Air Force, but didn’t say anything.
I wanted to get running and get it done. Several others were expressing the same thing. My young friend was saying no, wait. I kept asking why, what are you waiting for. While he would explain, I gathered he was waiting for other friends, which annoyed me. Finding my shoes, I announced I was going to start running.
My shoes fit much better. I was surprised how comfortable they were and then realized, that was because they weren’t my shoes. Taking them off, I found my shoes and fiddled with them, pushing out the sides and loosening the strings to make them more comfortable. That worked to a moderate degree.
Feeling like the shoes would work for a distance, I announced that I was going to start running. Others were saying the same. A few began jogging. I decided I was going to run the entire route and took off running fast. As I ran, I heard others talking about how fast I was running. That prompted me to run faster and harder. I vowed that I was going to run fast the entire way. Everyone was going to be amazed by how fast I ran.
Then I was off, by myself, running.
I kept encountering an error message. Sometimes it was written on a printout: [Error 1988: Michael does not exist]. I saw it in emails and text messages. Sometimes it was also spoken in the same voice my Roomba makes an announcement: “Error 1988: Michael does not exist.” As this happened, I was hurrying down hallways, looking over my shoulder, and pushing on doors, trying to find one that opens, hunting for an exit.
But, in one sense, it was understandable. On vacation, a person who needs isolation and solitude, who enjoys writing as their escape and therapy, who is forced to spend almost eighty percent of their time with other people, will end up dreaming about escape.
Right?
The question is, why those numbers?
I was introduced to a game. I’m not strong on remembering details, but coins were involved. These coins were copper, brass, and gold. They had patterns cut into them. The game was about matching and stacking coins in precise patterns. As each pattern was completed, the player advanced to the next game, which offered more complexities. The nineteenth game was the hardest game level.
Playing the game soon absorbed me. I played alone under a light, on a table. Sitting, bent over the table, I examined the pieces, selected the stacks and positions, arranged them, re-arranging them as necessary. If you had a piece wrong, the game ended. You had to follow a predestined set of arrangements.
I finally screwed up. A buzzer announced that I’d lost the game. Lights came up. A man entered. He informed me that I was playing the nineteenth game. Surprising news for me. He went on to say I was very close to finishing it, which pleased me, and then informed me that I was the only one left playing at that level. With those circumstances, they’d been streaming my play globally for the last twenty-four hours. Everyone was watching, cheering me on, hoping that I would win.
The experience left me happy but eager to begin again to reach and finish the nineteenth game.
Michael Seidel, writer 