Slippage

Yesterday, forced to curtail writing to do other things and – gads, socialize – I was distant with others. The writing didn’t leave off and the writer didn’t stop, so a secret fog shrouded me from engaging with others. I felt like a few beats off.

Today, sensing the story’s climax and denouement, looking forward to completing the novel, forced new introspection. I can’t hurry this. Why am I trying to hurry it? More correctly, why am I trying to rush the story and curtail activities?

Realizations continue to emerge about what’s transpired and what needs to happen to reach the end without shorting the characters, situations or reader. The concept editor stirred from his fortress of judgement to deliver some withering insights about continuity, logic and my made-up background physics and quantum mechanics. Utilizing an unctuous and belittling tone, he became a bit of an asshole in the process, demanding more information about how chi-particles interact with organic entities and the arrows of time.

“Let’s think about the permutations,” he said at one point. I groaned. Already sulking about what he perceived as an assault on his creative and intellectual processes, the writer didn’t react.

The concept editor pressed us on all sorts of issues. “If there is one now, what are the characters remembering?”

“They’re not remembering anything, they’re experiencing a sense of belief that they’re remembering because they’re experiencing shareover of similar nows that are slightly ahead or behind of their moments of now,” the writer answered with elaborate patience.

It seemed like the concept editor hid a sneer in response. “But if the creatures, like Humans, don’t come to be until a chi-particle inhabits them, they why would they all be experiencing nows now?”

That agitated the writer. “No, no, that’s not how it works. Yes, they came to be when a chi-particle granted them a spark of self-awareness – ”

“Self-awareness that the chi-particles don’t have?”

“Yes, yes.” The writer was almost frothing. “The chi-particles don’t have awareness. They’re driven by their nature and their properties.”

“The same properties and nature that drives the organisms they inhabit.”

“No, no. Take a flea.”

“A flea.”

“If a flea bites you, you react.”

“So the chi-particles are like fleas?”

“For that simile, yes, for the purpose of illustration and clarification, yes. The flea’s nature, properties and behavior causes it to bite and suck, with collateral effects on its hosts. Its hosts don’t respond in like manner, but by itching and scratching, by developing sores and other issues.”

The concept editor appeared doubtful.

“Do you see?” the writer asked.

“I see,” the editor replied. “I’m not convinced, but I see. Finish the novel, and they’ll we’ll see.”

The writer glowered at him. “If you’ll let me.”

An uneasy accordance to continue with the writing was accepted. I tell you, the two of them will be the death of me.

Time to stop writing like crazy, at least for today.

Disgusting

I’m going to break a rule.

I’m blogging about body functions and human habits. Other than a few books, like “Our Bodies, Our Selves,” and “Everybody Poops,” we prefer that our body functions are kept secret.

I’m writing about one of the things I do that most disgusts my wife. Now, I’m sure several things will come to your mind, depending upon your age, history and sex.

It’s in my thoughts today because I did it today. The habit in question is blowing my nose in the shower.

The water is running. I’m blowing into my cupped hand. Then I’m rinsing.

My wife has informed me several times that it’s a disgusting habit. One time when she told me that, I complained about it to female friends at work. Did they find it disgusting?

“Oh, yes, absolutely.”

Astounding. “Why?”

“Because it’s a filthy, dirty habit,” they answered. “It’s disgusting.” Their husbands and boyfriends did it, too, and they wanted to know, “Why? Why do you do this? Why do men do this?”

I had an answer. “There are several reasons. One. I have hairy nostrils. Things get fouled up there. Snot hangs on and hardens.

To quote them, “Oh, gross, do you need to be so graphic? TMI.”

Undeterred, I continued, “Two, I’m in a private location. I can blow to my nose’s contentment.”

They were feigning gagging.

I think they were feigning it.

“Three. The hot water loosens everything up. And four, I can wash it all away. It’s efficient, clean and economical. If I didn’t do it, I’d be out there blowing into wadded tissues and hankies for a long time, which you would probably find equally disgusting.”

I was thinking of that conversation today, during my third day of cold therapy, because there wasn’t any steam. There was only ice water. At least it seemed so to my naked skin. The cold water was worse today because I was washing and conditioning my hair. That gave me time to think because I turn on the water, soak my head, then turn off the water to lather up. The water is then turned on again and the shampoo rinsed out. The water goes off again while I apply conditioner. I’m trying not to be wasteful. Then I turn the water on, rinse off the conditioner, soap up, and turn the water off, turning it on again for the final rinse.

It’s during the final rinse where I blow out my nostrils. Was it as effective in freezing water? Seems so.

So my logic for doing this may be partially wrong. Maybe I’m just a gross, disgusting male with bad habits.

Well, some would claim I’m now being redundant.

 

Dream Web

A caterruption broke my sleep. I’d been dreaming of watching a high school play. I was part of a large audience in a small cafetorium. Most of the dream attendees weren’t watching the play but chatting as the play went on. It was a light comedy and I was watching and chuckling.

But now, awake, I thought about the dream’s meaning. I found nothing but dream strands returned me to high school. I’d been the lead in our junior year play, ‘Brother Goose’. At one point I was supposed to enthuse about winning a contest and a year’s supply of cereal. I always broke character in rehearsals when I said the detestable, corny line, and then, in the action’s climax, I kissed the female lead.

In rehearsal, I was aware I was breaking character. I didn’t during the performances. My ex-girlfriend was in the audience during the production for the school student body. She said that when I kissed the other girl on stage, she looked down at the floor. She could feel others in the audience looking at her. They knew we were broken up. It was a small school, with a few hundred students.

I had lunch with her yesterday after our protest against Trump’s budget outline. We’ve been married since 1975.

Meanwhile, dream threads pulled me along from the play to a creative writing class in Germany. The teacher wanted us to do a 1940s radio script. I was selected as the narrator and decided to channel Gary Owens. That surprised and delighted the class but it was a natural choice, given the exposure to him from my years of watching ‘Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In’.

I learned a great deal about creativity and active writing in that class. I consider it a breakthrough class for me. Yet, I can’t remember the teacher’s name.

That’s going to distract me all day.

I blame it on the dream.

 

Concatulations

Concatulations is accepting congratulations for how beautiful, sweet, handsome, smart, or damn amazing your cat is as though you had something to do with it other than being the one the animal selected as its servant, caretaker, mattress and intimate friend.

Today’s Theme Music

Here we are, hump day. It’s not a national holiday to go humping but rather the middle of the week hump if you’re a standard Monday through Friday nine to fiver.

The middle is the key. You’re at the hump. Make it over this hump and the rest is much easier. This hump can be in the work week or the school term, the novel, a project, or a relationship. The thing is, this hump must be crossed.

For that, I decided more upbeat music is needed as our background sound. Timbuk 3’s ‘The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades’ seems like an acceptable fit.

The song was a hit in 1986. Reagan was President in America; Marcos was ousted in the Philippines. I was living in an apartment in Columbia, South Carolina, but ended the year living in a hotel on Rhein-Main AB in Germany. The song seemed like such a natural fit to how things were going in my life that I adopted it, cranking it up on the car stereo as we drove around.

It’s not completely upbeat, though. Some lyrics are ironic and satirical, and about the world getting blown up. Some of it seems like a graduation theme song. But mostly, I hitch myself to that refrain, “Things are going great and they’re only getting better. The future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades,” and take the spin that it’s not a nuclear explosion that drives the need for shades, but bright prospects for a happier and more prosperous era.

Yeah, right on, brother and sister writers. Think of a future so bright, you gotta wear shades while you type.

 

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