I need more caffeine. One little cup of espresso—especially the lukewarm espresso that dripped into my cup—has not yet thrilled my tongue. I must find the YouTube video I once saw, giving instructions for resetting the machine to [possibly] correct the temperature.
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I hear the rumble of an ocean wave crashing onto a sheer cliff. Is the noise I hear coming from the ocean or the cliff? Or is it from their intersection with one another—and, if so, which with what? Would that sound have been made—regardless of source—in the absence of air? If dreams allow us to see without the use of our eyes, can they let us hear without the use of our ears? Would we be able to speak in a dream in which our tongues or vocal chords were removed or paralyzed?
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Luxuries can contravene other luxuries. I think a luxury-meter would help in situations in which one decadence must be enjoyed over another; one equally as appealing. Perhaps the same meter would serve the purpose of helping pick between dissatisfaction and sorrow.
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Several years ago, I realized my reading interests had changed from scientific fantasy to fiction; novels that relied far more heavily on characterization than on action. Later, my interests swayed in a different direction again—away from fiction to nonfiction. That was about the same time I decided fiction was more engrossing, but I had rather read my own fiction than someone else’s. So I began to write more fiction and read more nonfiction. But for a complex swirl of reasons and excuses, my interest in all of it, regardless of genre, declined. Today, my reading time is limited. More of it is spent consuming what gets by as news written by incompetent wanna-be journalists. I devote a sizable chunk of time, as well, in feeding my rage with the outright lies distributed by bigoted propagandists. These are the folks, calling themselves “citizen journalists,” who appeal to a populace of gullible, stupid, and equally bigoted demons. Even the reportage that spills from individuals and organizations that share many of my political, social, and fiscal philosophies often is a complex web of lies and half-truths. Journalistic fraud that supports my points of view is not journalism but clearly is fraud. I want to believe that the supportive “non-fiction” that comes my way, but it is just a nasty mirror image of the “citizen journalism” I despise. They all are like firefighters, who stand across the fire line from one another, emptying gasoline-filled hoses on their fellow flame-throwers.
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The costs to produce films, film series, and television productions reported by entertainment news outlets are often so high I have more than a little difficulty in believing the figures. Yet the expenses associated with key actors, alone, must be phenomenal. And, watching the credits roll, I can only imagine the exorbitant payroll expenses for almost endless lists of crew. During a recent binge-watch of Mayor of Kingstown, the potential cost of a single scene slapped me in the face. It showed an excavator uncovering a school bus that had been buried under several feet of soil. When enough of the vehicle had been uncovered, several police detectives and officers entered it by breaking the windshield glass. As I watched all the people in the scene and as I absorbed how extremely time-consuming its set-up must have been, my head filled with numbers I can barely conceive as real. Later in the series, a series of scenes involving explosions, gunfire, and blood gushing from hundreds of rifle wounds added to the unfathomability in my mind of the costs of the program. I imagine the total costs of producing the series could have been cut in half, but much of the substance of what makes the film so engrossing would have been left on the cutting room floor. I’m stunned by the money the film’s creation and distribution must have required. I’m glad I was able to experience all of it, including those pieces that thankfully were NOT left out of the finished film. And we’ve only started watching Season two of four currently in distribution. Plus one more in production.
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I drove my car, alone, to the oncologist’s office yesterday. The day before, I drove it to the shop to get a new battery. Alone. Both days. I feel like an adult! An aging adult. An aging (aged?) adult who has grown to enjoy naps, in spite of my complaints about how many I take and how long they last. I do NOT nap in my car. At least not when I’m driving. I do not need to own and operate an SUV. Not even a 10-year-old SUV. But replacing my vehicle with a smaller and/or newer car would be an expensive proposition. For what? An occasional brief escape from the house? If I trusted myself and other drivers on the road with me, I might go for a motorcycle. I do not, so I will not. But a 2-seater Miata…that is appealing. Although, as I think I have mentioned before, I might have a hard time getting in or out of one.
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Grey morning. Coolish, but not uncomfortably so. Nor comfortably so. Someplace between acceptance and tolerance. Sweater over a t-shirt weather. With gloves. Or a bed with a heavy, warm blanket. Nothing seems suitable for what is…only for what has been or could be.
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Tightrope over a volcano. That is a disturbing and soothing phrase, full of languid tension and precarious security. The sort of phrase that causes a love-fest to erupt between mortal enemies and their friends.
