Help Wanted

The cat meows. I, at the computer, look up.

It’s Tucker, in the office entrance, watching me with a steady jade gaze. “What is it?” I ask. “What do you need? Are you hungry? Do you need water?” Rising, I check the dishes, confirming he has those available. He follows me, watching with expectation. “Do you want out?” I indicate the front door. He watches me.

I grow exasperated. “What, you just want to be scratched? You want a belly rub? Do you want on my lap?”

He watches me, silent, but he is thinking, “Why is he asking me all those questions? I said I wanted catnip. I was very clear.

“He is getting old. I might need to replace him.”

August 7, 2016 0

Einstein’s Blackberries

Sheldon Cooper is struggling to penetrate some impenetrable physics issue. Leonard Hofstader reminds Sheldon that tedium will free his mind, which is why Einstein worked in the patent office. Sheldon takes a job at the Cheesecake Factory where Penny works.

This is all from The Big Bang Theory, a sitcom I enjoy. On to Einstein’s Blackberries.

1. We went blackberry picking this morning. Seventy degrees and sunny at ten AM, the perfect weather has been dialed up.

The picking is being done at a friend’s place, ten acres on a small town’s fringe. Silence is the rule. Aircraft and a few cars traveling Highway 99 are the only violators.

I worry about zombies.

This is a perfect zombie scenario. A serene scene of a couple engrossed with fruit picking activity. Then a zombie arrives.

Which zombie type is critical. If they’re the 28 Days/Weeks Later rage filled fast moving zombies, we could be in trouble, but if these zombies belong on The Walking Dead, we’ll probably get away. Unless there are a zillion, or we’re stupid about it, like stopping to get more berries as the zombies close. (“Oh, look at that big, beautiful, blackberry, I must have it, oh, no, a zombie got me.” Screaming and flesh tearing ensues (according to the captions).)

If our zombie pursuers harken from iZombie, it’s difficult to judge whether we’ll escape. They like to philosophize about their killing, life choices, and plans.

Something cracks on the brambles’ far side. Snorting and chuffing follow. It could be a zombie, or group of zombies, trying to be quiet as they stalk us. It could also be a horse pasturing in the next field. Whinnying follows. That could be a zombie pretending to be a horse. Or a horse. One never knows. It’s Schrödinger’s cat all over again.

2. Berry and fruit picking, yard work, washing and waxing the car, and walking are the tedium that frees my thinking. I work on novels, current problems (like tearing up the back yard and creating a drought tolerant space), and short stories. I probably stayed at IBM for all those years because it was so freeing. My mind was rarely required in that bureaucracy. So here I was today, picking berries, thinking, dreaming, wondering, soaking up sun and fresh air, and worrying about zombies.

The blackberries, like the blueberries, squash and peaches, are amazing. Our weather, after a fast, heated start, cooled substantially in July and August. Nights benefit from cool mountain air that drops the temp to the mid 50s on most days. Fabuliciously sweet blackberries are being quickly accrued.

3. The radio plugs songs from 1983 on the way home. It’s their thing, celebrating the music of different graduating classes.

Theme from Flashdance. Yes, “Owner of a Lonely Heart.” The Tubes. “Hungry Like a Wolf.” Toto IV.

1983 put me at Kadena Air Station, Okinawa, Japan. We were mid-tour in ’83, and living on the economy, less than 600 square feet, and no heat. It was great fun.

Kadena, with jaunts to Korea, Thailand, China, Singapore, mainland Japan, Hong Kong and Hawaii, was a memorable experience. Beautiful Pacific views. Typhoons. One earthquake. In between these matters were military issues, parties and college classes. They were ancient times, free of the Internet and computers, satellite TV, or cell phones that took photos and videos. CDs were just coming out, and VHS battled Beta Max for supremacy, but it was also a zombie-less era.

4. We were gone two hours. Seventeen pints are the result. I probably ate another pint. My wife is a faster picker than me. Perhaps I’m eating more of my pick. Or maybe my wandering mind slows me down. It could just be that she’s more focused, with quicker, more nimble fingers.

Arriving home, we check on the cats and conduct visual inspections for ticks and zombie bites (on us, not the cats). Neither are discovered (ticks and zombie bites – the cats are found, asleep).

The freezing machine (my wife) is activated. The freezer is precariously full of frozen fruits and vegetables. This year’s crops have been bountiful.

Einstein would have enjoyed the morning.

August 7, 2016 5

Computer Coming Back

My HP Envy is on the way back to my home. Although I’m happy, that’s not news, and it’s not prompting this post.

What prompts this post is how it’s coming back. Sent Fed Ex 2-Day service, picked up on 5th, it’ll reach me on the 9th. That’s a sign of our times, that 2 days = 4 days without a wince of embarrassment. It goes right along there with logic that says the answer to gun violence is to arm more people with guns. That ketchup is a vegetable. That water boarding is not torture, and that torture rewards us with the truth.

That America is the world’s greatest country. That corporations are people, my friends. That companies care about their customers above their profits, that market corrections will fix problems, that climate change can be ignored by legislating the words out of the public’s view, that charter schools run for profit will do better than public schools supported by taxes, that professional sports stadiums are good for the local economy and do much more than serve the wealthy owners, that things were better for everyone ‘in the good old days,’ and that the answer to war, is more war.

August 7, 2016 0

Understanding Him

He walks through the door with commanding arrogance, expecting others to step aside so he may pass, with0ut acknowledging their presence.

When the light is on when he enters, he turns it off, even when others are in the room. If the room was unlit and he turned on a light, he leaves it on.

Doors discovered opened will be closed and those that are closed will be left open.

Distractions draw him, step by step. He’s going to put on his shoes and take a walk but along the way, he sees fur on the floor and picks it up. Then he moves to the counter, sees dust and wipes it away. Others wait, fuming with growing impatience.

“I’m ready,” he announces, and then, as others begin to leave, announces, “Oh, wait.” But beware, if you’re not ready and make him wait, for that will bring a sharp, “Come on, we need to get a move on,” as if we’ve not all been waiting for him.

He always cleans up after others but procrastinates about cleaning up after himself, and likewise, pesters others about the things they said they would do. He always excuses his own lapses without explanations but with promises that he’ll do it, ‘soon’, which seems like a synonym for never.

He locks us out without thought, and then explains, “Oh, I saw the door unlocked.” He doesn’t apologize for locking us out; he’s done nothing wrong.

Oh, is he bitter, too, bitter about results that others have forgotten, bitter about battles that others never knew.

Known facts gather sharp focus but anything that is stained gray is dismissed. Colors must always be coordinated, and he is dismissive of any fashion trend that isn’t following him.

Yet he’s fun, intelligent, quick witted, with many admirers, and is in demand socially. It’s just us few, in his inner circle, that see these other things, and try to understand more.

August 6, 2016 1

Description: Tools from the Apothecary

Great post. Demonstrates a lot behind the research I do, to discover one true fact to accurately depict the rest, and then boiling it all down.

Corey Truax

Writers are literary apothecaries. We scour books of all types, and extract strange components, only to shelve them in our mental storehouse for use later. We pull from those dusty shelves various ingredients to suit our nefarious purposes. Even the word, “apothecary,” derives from Greek and means a repository or storehouse.

It’s from this growing collection of ingredients we begin experimentation. A newt eye here and a butterfly wing there. We take the parts and pieces that intrigue us, and stuff those into our mental crafting satchels as we chuckle under our breath.

Then, often in the dimly lit confines of our secret lairs (writing nooks), we start combining those ingredients. We grind, and slice, and extract the juices, combining them into a strange smelling slurry. Then we apply open flame.

Sometimes there is a puff of acrid smoke and we are blinded for days. But every now…

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August 6, 2016 1

I Am A Writer, I Write

As a writer, I have opinions on many topics. I scrutinize and judge just about everything. I think about politics, values, experiences, events, issues, history, arts, books, food, beer, wine and coffee, sometimes deeply, sometimes intelligently, but often sort of vacuously. Just ask me about something. If I don’t have an opinion immediately available, I’ll create one, because not only do I write, but I write fiction. Hence, I’ve come to write reviews on Travelocity.

It’s been going on a few years, and it’s not under my name. My origins as a reviewer are obscure. I suspect a place either pleased or annoyed me and I wanted to share it with the world, because, see the post title.

And then they kept hitting me up. Do you have more to write about? Why, yes, I do. I don’t write often, though, and I try to be careful. Five stars are not given. Five stars means something close to magic has been experienced. I think too many people too quickly issue five stars. But then, ratings are based on experiences and expectations. If you eat at McDonald’s everyday, other places can quickly seem like fantastic food, and if you sleep on wood, a decent mattress is amazing. I imagine ratings also have the same sort of immediacy and experience auras encountered in performance reviews, too.

So I write reviews, trying to say more than, wow, was this place great, or crap. Travelocity encourages me, “Hey, wow, you’re a level 2 reviewer,” (I think that’s what it said), “and your reviews have been read by 13,000 people.” My writing ego was impressed. Then it tells me, “20 found them helpful.” Twenty, from 13,000? That throws my ego under the truck. “You have 300 followers.” Well, it’s someone.

But I still like writing the reviews. Because — see the post title.

August 6, 2016 0

Familiars of our Past

A carpet of fog was rolled in with majesty in the afternoon’s middle, and that was it. Sunset decided not to show and sunrise didn’t get up. Twenty miles an hour sea breezes stretched the Stars and Stripes into a snapping fabric panel and tortured our hair into brambly messes.

We were in Bandon.

The fishy fresh smell from tides, ocean and piers hooked its fingers up our nostrils and jerked us in – again and again, often eliciting, “Whoa, I’d forgotten that smell,” that sort of primitive and unfiltered smell associated with small coast towns we’d lived in and visited. Sea sprays blended with mists to coat us with salt and sand.

Bandon was a step away from our first world existence of dry and hot Ashland, but it was further than we expected in technological miles. While the hotel room had a flat screen tv, coffee maker, frig and nuker, the things required and expected for the modern American urban traveler, the wireless connections were spotty and phones never acquired a signal. Your experience may vary.

Sunshine heralded our arrival, so we were absurdly hopeful about how the visit would go. We used that time on the first afternoon to stroll the beaches past Facerock while the tides were out. Imagination easily informed us, we are the first, we have discovered a new territory and ocean, thinking about what it must have been like for the first humans to travel that way and look out on the powerful sea.

Returning to Bandon’s Oldtown, we wandered the windy streets, unchanged from two years past, save businesses had closed or moved away. Menus were perused. Food offerings were the same as before, basic pub grub and seafood offerings. Without knowing the reasons for it of season, month, weather or day of week, the streets were usually free of other souls. Waiting to eat was only encountered for breakfast on the second day, as one eatery was closed for repairs and the other was closed for good, reducing where to eat breakfast by almost fifty percent.

There wasn’t even a Starbucks, Dutch Bros, or Seattle’s Best, for heaven’s sake.

No, those places are not my first choice when traveling but their ubiquitous availability has become a meter for how far from the norm we’ve gone. It’s odd to find a place in America without these places. Nor were there fast food places, except for Subway. Other than a Dollar Tree, the chains have not found Bandon. That would have been wonderful, if Bandon exuded more charm. It was like visiting an aged movie star who no longer knows who they are.

A wallet of money and credit cards were found on the First Street sidewalk the second day, requiring a visit to the police station and foisting worries about the person who lost it on us. Hopefully they’ll be re-united with their wallet. Then we drove up coast to Coos Bay. Heading back down, we missed a turn and ended up in a state park, which was cool. A coyote trotting down the road was encountered. We stopped and gawked. He gave us a glance and veered away, disappearing into the forest. But there he was again on our way out, giving us a longer, more appaising gaze as he traversed the forest along the road. Being romantics, we thought encountering him was significant. Some precious web time that evening was spent trying to determine what his appearance meant to us, and which of us it was meant for. I believe he was a messenger telling us to let go of the past and pad into the future.

Those are the highlights. Bandon, we decided, needs a new tide, a new wind. Despite the sea breezes, the town is in the doldrums. Perhaps it’s as they wish, a nostalgic visit to a fading past. It did recharge our batteries, sooth our anxieties and blow out our stresses, as was our desire. Visits to the oceans do that for us, though, and there are other coast towns to visit.

It’ll be a while before we return to Bandon.

August 6, 2016 0

Quinn Wants Something

I’ve been informed that as someone on the intertubes with cats in their household, that I’m required to post something about cats periodically. So, here is Quinn, looking like he’s expecting or requesting something.

Now get off my case, you diabolical IoT.

August 2, 2016 1

Reading Writers’ Blogs

All the world’s events have upsides and down, depending on your framing mood and which glasses you put on. Even sunrise can suck, as it counts down to a personal Armageddon, something bothering you alone.

Reading writers’ blogs reinforces the ups and downs of trying to write, publish and sell, but also shows the humanity behind writers. They’re revealed not to be just mad typists and scribblers, but beer and coffee connoisseurs, sports freaks and political junkies. It’s fun learning these things about them and discovering you have something in common with them (hey, Louise Erdrich likes drinking water, too!)

Upsides include great references to novels, short stories, poetry and information about writing and publishing. I often encounter intelligent, stunning writing from unknown writers.

Downsides include grimace inducing, clumsy writing.

Upsides – revelations about what not to do.

Downsides – realizations that damn it, I do that.

Big downside, too, is that I’m competing in some sense, because only so much can be read, with brilliant, intelligent, inventive, clever writers with skills that humble me.

Definite upside, no matter what level of writing I’m achieving, the discovery that a whole world of writers work in much the same esoteric and secret way of other endeavors, like pro sports, banking, software programming, name it, and recognizing I’m part of that world. Often hardest about writing is the lack of validation of my work. Nobody wants it and nobody reads it. It’s not necessarily crap, but it’s not easily accessible. I think weirdly so I write weirdly. Writers’ blogs remind me that this isn’t unusual, burning off some of my personal loneliness and frustration.

Writers’ blogs help me hope for that big breakthrough. They remind me how long it took Ursula LeGuin, JK Rowlings, Andy Weir, Lisa Genova, Stephen King, John Scalzi, Kathryn Stockett, Theodore Giesel, and others, to achieve their success. Their secret was that they kept writing. Their efforts, and success, inspire me.

I don’t know where I stand on the true spectrum of writing skills and talents, but I’m also not certain how much that matters. But, although I’m a seriously suspect Space Cadet, I will continue writing and trying to find my audience.

Because that’s what reading writers’ blogs tell me to do.

August 2, 2016 1

The Six Types of Writers (Reblog)

I’m a happy space cadet (as I’ve always suspected and F&F will confirm) with dreams of being a Magician. But whatever, I like lighting the fuse, blasting off and writing like crazy. BTW, I recommend the original post and QE’s post as well. Read both and enjoy.

Corey Truax

I stumbled across the above image on Twitter today and felt it was too hilarious to not share. This image was created by Alexi Maxim Russel, on his blog, The Guerrilla Ronin Writer. I had to play, follow-the-bread-crumbs, for about ten minutes to finally get back to the source. I’ve saved you the trouble with the links above, and also the image is linked to a higher resolution version.

If you are unfamiliar with Russel, he has written some gems including: Alexi Maxim Russel’s Field Guide to Assholes, Instruction Manual for the 21st Century Samurai, The New Homeowner’s Guide to House Spirits, and many more.

You can probably tell by those titles that Russel has a unique outlook on the world, and this comes through in his writing and in the image above. It should be noted, Russel is a bit of a…

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