Tagged: creative writing

A Short Dream and a Long Dream

What I am calling the short dream was initially not clearly a dream; this is because it happened upon waking. But the falseness of the reality I experienced has to put it in the dream category.

I awoke, as normal, to go to the bathroom. I was at work, and as you know, in a sleeping bag. The particular bag I use is a queen size (really, just two “adam and eve” bags zipped together) and so sometimes while on the twin mattress, I can get oddly wrapped up.

Keep in mind, it’s the middle of the night. And I’m tired.

So I start yanking harder at the silky outside of the bag and unfortunately I feel it tear. I finally make it out, and, glasses-less, zoom in close—in the dark—to confirm that it’s torn. Confirmed. Then the walk to the restroom and back is unremarkable.

As I am laying down to try to resume sleeping asap, I cannot help but look forward to getting a new sleeping bag. Luckily, the excitement abated quickly and I fell asleep again.

Lo and behold, in the morning there was no damage!

Obviously, to my thinking, this dream was unflattering evidence of some kind of addiction to perfectionist shopping—which I am told afflicts nearly all of us. The remarkable part, to me, was how I really couldn’t believe the bag wasn’t torn. Crazy. Moving on.

I’ll keep the long dream’s recap short.

I had pissed off an Indian I work with (feather) and he told his pals and they were coming to kill me. I knew they were coming to kill me because a really fat mutual friend, also a pow-wow Indian, told me. And this friend wanted to help me by arming me to the teeth.

The odd thing about this dream is, like the short dream, I awoke to go potty, knew that it was a dream, wanted to know how it ended, and then fell back asleep and picked it right up again! As it continued, the main action was concentrated on the fat Indian resignedly giving me all sorts of guns as I made small (and weak) talk.

I can tell you it felt real. Like I felt sick to my stomach while I was in the dream and in the bathroom over the fact that I had caused all this nonsense. I also pulled my own weapons cache into the dream and seemed to consider opening it—I’m talking about waking up and opening the gun safe—in case it wasn’t a dream. Powerful, dreams are, no?

Well, the other key feeling the dream was causing or bringing to light was a hefty resignation alongside confusion at the fat Indian’s actions because I knew I couldn’t win. Surely he had to agree, no?

This dream pulls in a lot of disparate parts of my life. The main theme, to me, obviously comes from back in college when I told the blacks that I had been hanging around that we whites told racist jokes and then inquired about any white jokes they might have that were worth sharing. Not a happy group after that. Nor unified. The ones who could take a joke clearly stopped the ones who could not from black on white violence.

Additionally, I have an Indian co-worker, who I have, this time unintentionally—I was trying to find common ground—offended. (Religion, politics, AND immigration are to be avoided at work. Also, the fashion combo of flannel and rat tails is generally not donned by hispanics. Lesson learned.)

Lastly, I am currently reading The Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. In them, he recounts a duel and offers his opinion that he would never let anyone known he was going to kill them—if in fact circumstances led him to conclude that he needed to kill someone. Conversely, if he ever so-offended someone that he learned they were out for his blood, he would do or say, within reason, whatever was necessary to make amends. (I think there was an implied “it could only be a misunderstanding” aspect to this.) My point being that this connects directly to the “resignation” and “sick feeling” part of my dream. Implied was that I knew that a group is unconsolable (different than an individual) and so they were surely going to get their kill—even though I knew in advance.

And obviously we’re all thinking about “do I have enough guns?” all the time. Hehe.

How about you, faithful reader? Anything odd in the head movies to recount? If so, don’t be a stranger. Post it and/or comment below.

The Change in Tenor

Has anyone else noticed the change in tenor?

I’m talking about, of course, the reporting about the NOLA and LV attacks.

It’s obvious to everyone but the Democrats that MAGA is replete with conspiracy theorists. Of all folks who know this, law enforcement tops the list—because they’re heavily represented in the conspiracy-theorists-who-support-MAGA group. But what I want to bring to the fore is how the actual positions of power, the ones being interviewed—the four star guy in LV—seem to be interested first and foremost in debunking all the rapidly spreading new or furtherances of the classic conspiracy theories. An unintended result of this approach, if you happen to see the same world that I do, however, may be the best result we could ask for—the truth has become the emphasis.

The truth is the emphasis. Is that crazy? Am I crazy for seeing this? And for thinking, “This is great!”?

On the Biden/Harris side of things, Kamala just attempted to hoodwink everyone into thinking she celebrated Kwanzaa—despite not being African-American or providing a single photo or evidence of any kind. Why? Because someone thought that lie would be a good idea and further some agenda.

On the Trump/Vance side of things, the police are already showing the evidence from the truck that it wasn’t a lithium battery issue—and, in fact, the truck is still essentially intact. Drive on, Tesla Nerds.

Naturally, the age old proverbs, “Don’t walk around NOLA after dark” and “Don’t be anywhere at 3am” still hold. (Don’t take that to mean I abide—just that I know that I deserve what is coming.) So no need to revamp Wisdom.

There is one other thing that I need to say, though. What exactly is the symbolism of the Tesla in front of Trump’s hotel? For my part, I don’t see it.

People, listen up. The Captain has turned on the seatbelt sign.

There are no terrorist masterminds. Our culture needs to drop that concept. Instead, I only see mushy brains particularly crafted by generations and generations of unreasoned and limitless breeding in illiterate, ignorant filth faucets whose resultant, and singular, thought is, “I must destroy other people’s shiny things.” And, reader, if you’re not with me yet, time to catch-up. My assessment is spot-on. But I need help with the solution—nothing comes to mind.

I don’t know about you, but at these moments, my anger towards all non-Western peoples seethes—to the point of splashing a few non-Western acting Americans and Europeans—namely the woke. Physically, this manifests as a head-shaking to the rhythm of, “You were supposed to thank and learn from the demi-gods who granted you access their Eden, ya morons.”

On Reading “The Divine Comedy”

Oh sweet Book, thou mantlest thyself with a smile, by what ardentcy dost thou require my time whose arrow, aimed right or left, loosed evermore sheathgone, anon to crawl, broken mirror upon, ever opening virgin wounds ere disconsidered more believable than metamorphastication of hell’s lord to heaven’s Supreme Good, be collected!

On Cold Showers

It’s been a year and a half and only lately have I not held myself to perfection. I have to admit that I lost a little motivation when Wim made the news for allegedly disturbing behavior vis-a-vis his first marriage. But I still enjoy the challenge.

In the end, if I’m feeling like a warm shower, I take one. But if I am feeling like “not a cold shower!”, then I force myself to take a cold one. And cold showers all other days too.

Oh, the dread.

At the “work house” I have pleasantly avoided the dread twice now, in two distinct ways. The first time was like this. I didn’t check the faucet selector valve and so was shocked that the water came from overhead immediately. Normally there is a slight delay from “cold water – on” to “feet cold – confirm” to “here goes” to “water traveling up” to “AAAAHHHHH! FREEZING!” And this is followed by a song, often a broadway hit. So the day of this first dreadless experience, I skipped all the middle steps and went directly from “cold water – on” to “AAAAHHHH! FREEZING!” and song.

The second time happened just tonight. While I had learned a valuable lesson from that first mistake, I apparently have not worked out all possible kinks—again the work house with its rotating occupants is tricky. Tonight I didn’t think to check where the shower head was pointed and so in the aforementioned sequence went from “feet cold – confirm” to “GAPING CHEST WOUND! FREEZING” as I immediately and simultaneously shrank down to take the brunt of the impact on my skull (the preferred option) as I reached to adjust the angle of the cold demon’s barrel.

Crisis averted.

And a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS! to you, faithful reader.

God Bless the Master of this House

And Its Good Mistress too

And All the Little Children who round the table goo

And all your Kin and Kindred who dwell both far and near

We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

“A Plan For What?” She Said.

“You need to tell A- that the next time he calls his dad, they need to make a plan!”

“A plan? A plan for what?”

I calmly, though unable to hide irritation, say, “My wife. His dad wants to talk to him. Well, the boy is 14, not 8. So A- can tell his dad all about how he is in school and then has basketball, and then dinner, except on days when basketball is later, and then A- and his dad can figure out when a good time to schedule phone conversations would be. This is not complicated.”

“My husband. You know all about this. Don’t you want to talk to H- and she won’t talk to you?”

“What? This is nothing like that at all. We don’t care and have never stopped or tried to stop A- from talking to his dad. And no one is trying to stop them from talking now. Again, you and I have no business being involved anymore at all. The boy is 14! Tell him to explain his schedule to his dad so they can come up with a plan. Why do you and I need to go back-and-forth about this? There is nothing complicated about it.”

****

Dear reader, can you guess what is at issue here? Can you imagine the underlying rub?

You got it. The dad, and apparently every physical and spiritual force—nearly power itself—wants my step-son to have his own phone. The dad wants to be able to text him and have him respond right away. The dad wants to be able to call him as he pleases with his son answering promptly.

It makes no difference that the dad is in a foreign land. It makes no difference that the dad has taken zero interest in the boy for pretty much his entire life, even though he had him to himself for the first eight years of that life. Nope, none of these things matter. When you’re dealing with humans, you are dealing with children or children-grown-older.

I need to be clear—mostly to my maker—the smart phone does not solve any problems!! And the smart phone creates innumerable problems for all it touches!! I would honestly rather give kids hard drug samples rather than smart phones on the off chance the kid just doesn’t like the effects. I don’t think I could be persuaded that, for example, crack hooks every human that has sampled it. But the smart phone? 100% addiction rate. No one can resist. We’re junkies one and all. It’s astounding.

Well, when it comes to kids in my “sphere of influence”, they have to wait before their first high. Step-children from the dark continent as well.

At face value the situation is so laughable it isn’t funny. It’s almost a joke with a punchline.

So, ha ha ha, here’s one. There’s this 14 yr old boy and his dad—impeded by no one—who can’t figure out how to call each other in 2024. The dad says, “Ring ring.” And the boy doesn’t answer because he’s at school. The boy says, “Ring ring.” And the dad doesn’t answer because he’s at work.”

Here’s the punchline I like best: “I guess ‘colored people time’ transcends time-zones!”

****

“A plan? A plan for what?” she said.

One last note. While hanging out at an airport the other day, a few of the super rich came strolling through, just off their private jet. The dad—keep on mind we are talking very wealthy people flying on private jets for leisure trips—the dad, I overhear, is complaining that his teenager won’t answer texts. He goes on to say it is easier to get a response if he posts in snapchat or instagram or whatever other app the kid is known to be absorbed in day-in-and-day-out.

So, no, this has nothing to do with anything but morons being morons. The international factor is irrelevant. The family history and dynamics are irrelevant. If people want to talk to each other, they can. If people aren’t talking to each other, it is because they don’t prioritize it.

Case closed.

Knowledge Is Irresistible; It Defies Rebellion

Come close, ya stiff-necked supercargo. This one is important. This is a story about laundry. It is a story about power. It is the story of knowledge.

It may come as a surprise that pilots, especially military pilots or their veteran counterparts like me, spend many nights of each year in sleeping bags. As an Eagle Scout who knows the true value of a quality sleeping bag, I remember being very proud when I heard that our deployed commander used one instead of sheets while in Iraq. You see, I was no longer alone. To this day, I spend about 1/4 of the year’s nights in a sleeping bag—not including camping trips.

Naturally, this level of commitment leads to the need to wash a sleeping bag, and wash it with more regularity than your own sleeping bag laundering habits have ever included. In fact, you’re likely thinking this very moment, “Where is my sleeping bag?”

Washing a sleeping bag is an adventure of its own. Not just the washing, but the drying as well. For any ground-pounding, civilian pukes who never have spent a night under the stars (let’s not forget the boldly illiterate hippie camping community), there is a tag right on the bag that says, “Only dry in commercial dryers” or some similar wording that forbids the pilot from his perfect dream of living as an island.

(I have laundered my sleeping bag(s) many times at home and never had a problem. This post is not about rule-following.)

So the other day, despite both cars revealing mechanical issues almost simultaneously, I learned at night that the dryer stopped heating. (LORD? You watchin’?) It made the same noises and tumbled as surely as any other day—even longer when on the “automatic” setting; but the clothes wouldn’t dry. I tracked down that they weren’t getting warm either.

Enter YouTube.

There were two probable issues. One was that a thermal fuse on the heating element had tripped/blown. The other was the heating element itself had broken.

I tracked down an appliance parts guru in town who loved to chat on the phone and he assured me it was the fuse. But I forced him to concede it was worth ordering both just in case his foresight proved dim. During this back-and-forth, he said something like, “It’s all about airflow. The air has to blow the heat from the heating element into the dryer and then that air has to find its way past the clothes, past the lint trap, and through the vent all the way to the outside world. If any part of that path is blocked, the heat will remain and eventually blow the fuse. You may never know why the path got blocked. Could be stray article of clothes got caught in the wrong spot or maybe someone washed too big a comforter. But it’s all about the air.”

Fasten your seatbelts.

“Only dry in a commercial dryer,” the tag reads. Any warm-blooded human says, “Huh?” And we proceed to rebel and possibly damage the dryer.

But…

“It’s all about airflow. If the sleeping bag blocks the incoming heat, the fuse will blow—which is annoying. If the fuse doesn’t blow, the heating element could potentially overheat and cause a fire—lots of variables in that one,” the facts are. And any warm-blooded human says, “Okay.” And then assesses the risks and gets on with their decision.

The passive, uninformed warning fosters rebellion, and well it should. Instinct informs us to demand respect! “Don’t boss me! You have my attention. Now treat me like a man!”

But the knowledge is irresistible and fosters sound judgment and good decision making. “Hmm. Good to know. I’ve dried many things of similar size in this machine and so I’ll risk it.” Or whatever.

What is knowledge? Knowledge is irresistible. It defies rebellion.

Go get some.

PS – It was the heating element. And Speed Queen dryers are super easy to work on—should they not live up to their name.

PPS – Yes, I have gone back to the original name of my blog. I do want to use the fact that I stare down death for a living to get your attention. Whether I can keep it is the thrill.

My Not-Unanticipated Gloat Text To My Family

I haven’t shared too much directly personal content of late, but for the bigger point, here is the text I fired off to my immediate family (my folks and my siblings and their spouses, only one couple being Harris supporters). I do not believe anyone but my mom or dad will have read it. And I generally only experience glee when picturing my brother-in-law smiling as he reads what he would never say.

After the text I have addd here some much needed commentary—as no one but me seems to enjoy taking writing at face value and thinking about what it means and doesn’t mean.

****

I’ll keep this absolutely predictable text short:

S-. H-.

Gotcha!!

Like you, I feel like the biggest “soul interrogation” just ended and you two failed. Racism (BIPOC are not better), sexism (women are not better), and communism (theft is not better) are evil. And you both have to live with the fact that you voted according to them (and, in spite of at least superficially agreeing with me and being surrounded by people who also agree).

Fear not! It’s beautiful, in a way. That is, it is truly a powerful (think sunrise 🌅 , not democrat machine’s gun-to-head) moment, if you approach this “lived experience” from the twin Biblical perspectives of divine patience and grace, as offered by the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

The maker and sustainer of the universe has given you more time to repent. Be happy. Consider it.

I, for my part, thank the LORD and will think of you before all others whenever I see a rainbow or cloth representation of a rainbow’s colors going forward and am inescapably reminded of patience.

****

Notice I didn’t say anything about Trump. Do you see? Not one thing was about Trump. This is for many reasons, all equally as noble as the true thrust of the text.

Firstly, I didn’t vote for him, so “my guy” didn’t win. My problem with dems has never been that they didn’t support “my guy” or “Trump.” My problem with dems is their support of evil.

Secondly, and more importantly, nobody voted for Trump because he is a man, or because he is white, or because he is old. Naturally this is hyperbole—I cannot know for certain that those DEI features were ignored by all his voters. But I can say that anyone who did cast such a shamefully-reasoned vote would never admit it. This is also hyperbole. But not hyperbole is the following: any racist, sexist, and ageist voters for Trump had no influence on the contest. And more specifically, I know my Trump-voting family members voted for him for his policies or humor or record or simple hope that his MAGA slogan is his earnest hope and plan.

Lastly, Kamala Harris is so empty, so devoid of reason, so obviously puppeteered that it is impossible for me to be wrong that her voters were voting with evil intent. Besides the manifest logical truth of this claim (you can’t reasonably vote for someone who isn’t for at least one thing), the Harris voters’ own silence on any non-DEI (evil) reasons for their vote is impossible to ignore. 66,000,000+ citizens voted with race, sex, age, theft, and lies as their motivation. 71,000,000+ voted with, at their core, hope as their motivation.

They hoped he wants America to be great again. They hoped he knew he was fibbing all the time he lies. They hoped he wouldn’t put himself before America.

Now we wait.

Sleep, Sleeper

If I could change one aspect of modernity, it would be to un-invent the clock. I know, I know, it wouldn’t work. Modernity needs the clock like fish need water. But living by a clock has always felt unnatural to me. Most unnatural is the idea of waking up because of “what time” it is. Sleep, I say.

Running right alongside my fantasy is that I hate waking people up, no matter what time the clock says it is. I feel that I have done my small part in increasing happiness for my fellow man if I help keep people asleep. Specifically, I do everything in my power to keep babies, toddlers, and children asleep. This sleep benevolence of mine extends also to spouses and family members and house guests in general. If I am at work and someone is sleeping, I tip-toe away and do whatever is in my power to not wake them.

I cannot recall the last time I caused or allowed (or let pass without strong rebuke, for that matter) a sharp noise to be sounded while someone was sleeping.

I do confess there are moments where my posture towards sleep is more difficult, perhaps impossible, to maintain. When H- was small, we went to the symphony together and she would fall asleep despite the racket. At the end, I couldn’t just close the place down as she slept. So I woke her.

On Sundays, the black baptists run long as a rule. J- often finds the padded pew similar enough to a bed. I cannot just allow him to sleep as they come to the conclusion of the whole matter. Life must go on.

But I ask you, dear reader, what about when I show up to H-’s orchestra concert only to be carefully ignored by her? What if H- plans a trip to visit my parents and siblings (her grandparents and aunts and uncles) and is sure to confirm that I do not have a coordinated surprise visit in mind before boarding?

What then? Should I let H- sleep? Should my family let H- sleep?

H- is told the worst kind of lies by her mom, her mom’s parents, her step-dad, and his parents, and my parents, my siblings, and—unless I miss my mark—the entire fucking population of this great country have decided to let her sleep.

H- is living a lie.

She doesn’t know it, but she has been kidnapped.

She doesn’t know it, but her dad is robbed monthly and has been for 12+ years.

She doesn’t know it, but she would not have a roof over her head, food in her belly, or a pot to piss in, if it wasn’t for me.

She doesn’t know it, because she sleeps.

Should I wake her?

Nahhh. Let her sleep.

Sleep, Sleeper.