Tanglefloof (Catfinition): A cat with knotted fur.
In Use: “Although they brushed him daily, Quinn continued to be a tanglefloof, particularly around his silky chest and the long fur of his belly.”
Midnight Cha-Cha-Cha and Tabasco
A friend’s picturesque and intimate memory of herself and her mother, and the life they lived.
I am about sixteen. I wake up in the middle of night. The sound of distant crunching, faint music and the light spilling into the corridor lure me like the tune of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. I get out of bed. Naz, the canine of miscellaneous origin curled up at the bottom of my bed, opens his sleep-glazed eyes briefly, then closes them again. No cause for alarm. He’s seen this happen before over the years. Many, many times.
At the small kitchen table, my mother is leafing through an out-of-date Il Corriere della Sera or Le Monde which she hasn’t had time to look at sooner. She’s at the office all day and sometimes doesn’t come home until late. She is buttering a row of three of four grissini, trying not to break them, balances a small piece of parmigiano on the pan flute-like construction, then shakes…
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Cosmopolitan Dress
We stopped in mid-morning during the round of errands to drop a book off with a friend. She was embarking on travel. It started with several lengthy flights, and she lacked anything to read. Could anyone suggest anything?
What did she seek? She’s well-read, but for this, she thought she’d like a mystery. How ’bout “Dissolution,” by C.J. Sansom? After a brief description, she was enticed into accepting our offering.
Opening her door, we were impressed with how she was dressed. Usually, she looks like most folks in southern Oregon, ready to hike or pick fruit. Today, she was dressed in svelte black clothes. We gushed with admiration.
She blushed with confession. “These are my p.j. bottoms. I haven’t dressed yet.”
Ah. Well, she still looked quite cosmopolitan.
Today’s Theme Music
I woke up in a Foghat state of mind.
I’d had an exciting and interesting dream about a recent dream. Without disclosing more, it was tremendously uplifting, bolstering my self-confidence to scary levels. I will note that I dreamed about the number eight again, which makes, unofficially, but what I can remember and enumerate, seven times. I’m waiting to see if I’ll dream of eight an eight time to end the series.
Back to Foghat. Those of you of certain ages and inclination will remember this song. “I Just Want to Make Love to You” is a blues staple that’s been well-covered by some great artists. But I encountered Foghat’s version first. It was nineteen seventy-two, and I was sixteen, a wonderful combination. By then, I was enamored with rock and guitars. Foghat’s cover of this song opens with rocking guitars, and doesn’t let up. What else needs said?
The Last Name
Well, this is an embarrassing confession.
Here I am, on page three hundred thirty-four of the first half of the novel, when I encounter a little reminder to insert Brett’s last name. So, being a semi-pro, I open up the novel’s bible to look it up.
Damn if it’s not there.
I know I used it at least once elsewhere in the novel. Of course, this is a sequel, so the last name was used in the first book. But searching for it has proven daunting.
I’m surprised this happened, and it’s irking me. I keep documents to help me remember and understand who’s doing what to who, and what’s happened to everyone, to sustain internal logic. I can’t believe I can’t find his last name.
In my defense, this is a science fiction novel. Although the majority of space-travelers and colonists have westernized their names for public use, names aren’t critical in the future. Digital personal identifiers are what identify you and socialize who you are. You P.I.D. is constantly being broadcast and scanned. The P.I.D. defines you. Based on your birth date, time, location (including planet), universal master number (U.M.N., which includes your cultural and ethnic heritage, and is assigned sequentially), and D.N.A., it’s generated when you’re born. While first names are used in conversations, the last names are generally superfluous. There are cults that hold to traditional norms, bandying their last names about as though they’re greatly important, but you don’t need them.
It’s the second day of the search. A rational internal section cheers me to ignore it for now, that this can be found later, but finding it has become an obsession. Tangentially, I believe my writing soul is enjoying the departure from the editing routine. Plus, fortified with a quad-shot mocha, my confidence about finding it is racing along on wings of caffeine, sugar and chocolate.
Let the search commence! Or, recommence.
Michael Seidel, writer 