Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Lovecathlon / Lovecathlete (Catfinition): The lovecathlon is a series of feline behavior demonstrating their affection for another; felines participating in these events are known as lovcathletes.
In Use: “Demonstrating his full lovecathlon prowess, Quinn began with a trill that curled into a purr. Hurrying forward, he bunted my leg, and then threw himself on the floor. Rolling and stretching, he exposed his belly for a tummy rub. After receiving the tummy rub, he bounded along me as I went to a chair to read. Curling up in my lap, he nibbled my chin, and turned his purr up to eleven. It was an impressive lovecathlon, lacking only a dead present.”
Differences struck me as I finished editing sequences. Diverting my thinking, I considered the differences.
The difference was external to me. I puzzled over that. The world surrounding me seemed calmer, quieter, and more relaxed than it had a short time before.
I thought about it more, trying to understand if it was quieter, or a false impression. I thought, instead, it’s spillover. The first chapter that I’d finished editing had been intense and chaotic. Reading through it and staying focused challenged me. It seemed like the surrounding coffee shop echoed with noise and activity while I worked on it, and I restlessly, almost anxiously, fidgeted while working on it.
The next chapter being edited began with a calmer scene, and stayed calm and thoughtful. The coffee shop around me seemed more relaxed, and quieter. I, too, became stiller.
Disbelieving, I considered these differences for a while, and then walked myself back through memories. Yes, writing battle, fight, disaster, and emotional scenes consumed greater energy, demanding deeper concentration and tighter focus. I often felt more physically, mentally, and emotionally spent when writing them.
Editing them affected me in the same way. Writing and editing more reflective scenes push me to become more reflective. What I wrote and edited seemed to impact my impression of the surrounding environment. It leaves me feeling disconnected with the world. My thinking feels disjointed, like I don’t belong where I’m at.
It’s probably something all writers experience. I don’t know why it surprises me; I know I experience it when I’m reading books and stories. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I experience while editing my own. Perhaps, it’s because my experiences seem more intense, because it is personal, and comes from within me, thereby amplifying the impact.
Does this post makes sense? What of you, writers? Do you, too, experience this?
Today’s music, from two thousand eight, is by Lady Gaga. When I hear a song, I try understanding what’s being sung and the words’ meanings. “Poker Face” seemed ambiguous, at once about sex and gambling. I liked the combination because sex and love is a gamble taken, a roll of the dice, and relationships often become efforts in reading others’ expressions to discern agenda, meanings, and truth.
I later read that Lady Gaga wrote the song about her rock and roll boyfriends. That knowledge didn’t answer all my questions about the lyrics. Still, it’s a good song to stream as you beat the street in the heat.
Killper, Killpurr (variant) (Catfinition): An activity that stops a cat’s purr. Not to be confused with the Killper Sanitizers.
In Use: “Tucker was purring and enjoying a tummy rub, when a sharp noise outside acted as a killper.”
Marc Lotter, spokesman for VP Pence, 2017
I, Juancho, stared at the man. “Why are you telling me this?”
He measured me with annoyance, which irritated me. That’s how it always happens. We bureaucrats deliver truth, and others take it personally. The truth here is, I didn’t care about his missing Uncle Vaughn. I knew who Vaughn Parks was, yes, he was a distinguished person, but he was on the Beagle. They’re all dead. I’m surprised this man was alive. That’s who concerned me.
“You asked me how I came here, so I was telling you my story.”
“Your story is gibberish. It’s garbage. Why are you spewing garbage at me? What have I, Juancho, done to you? I asked you a simple question, “How did you get here?” And you give me garbage. Stop giving me garbage.”
“It isn’t garbage, I’m telling you how I came to be here.”
“You haven’t even told me your name.”
He looked insulted. “Why should I tell you my name? Your system should have picked it up.” A frown of deep thought and suspicion creased his forehead and mouth. “Isn’t this the Coronado? Aren’t you from the Beagle? I thought you were. I pinged your systems. They tell me that you’re Juancho Ferrado, and that you’re assigned to the Beagle, and you’re on — we’re on — the Coronado, which was a Beagle research vessel commanded by Commander Alves that was sent down to Feynman.”
He was correct about all of those things. “Very good,” I said. “What’s your name?”
Glancing around, he reared back. “Say, where is everyone else? Where is Commander Alves? She’s a personal friend of mine. I’d like to talk to her, or her second.”
I saw his mind look for Cark’s name. I could have given it, but I let him ask his systems, or think of it for himself. Why should I help him, when he was being such an arrogant asshole? “Lieutenant Commander Cark. Where is he?”
“You haven’t told me your name,” I answered.
I saw the fury grow on his face like black mold. I refused to capitulate. I wanted him to tell me his name so I could watch his face and look for the truth. Our systems will indicate when others are lying, but I believe the systems that nature gave me remain more capable. Those technological systems can be cheated and misled, I assure you.
“Why can’t you ping my name?”
“I want you to tell me. Why can’t you tell me?”
“Why should I tell you when I can ping it?”
“Because I’m asking you, human to human, to speak your name to me. It’s the way we prefer to do it in my culture.”
“What’s your culture?”
“That doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said that. Forget that I did, please.”
“I can’t. You can’t put your words back in your mouth.”
“Just tell me your name, please.”
“No. I want to speak to Commander Alves.”
“Very well. Ping her.”
“I have pinged her.”
“I’m sure she’ll be here at any moment, then.”
He stared at me.
I smiled back. “See, I know what’s going on,” I said.
He scowled. “Where is everyone? Who are you, Juancho Ferrado?”
“See how easy that was? You said my name. It was very easy. Why won’t you say your name? What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything, and I’m not going to answer any more of your questions.”
“Fine, don’t. Then I won’t answer your questions.”
He sputtered with indignation. “I’m a Level Ten Engineer. You’re just a bureaucrat. I outrank you. I order you to answer my questions, or better yet, summon Commander Alves for me. My systems seem to be malfunctioning, so if you would just summon her….”
“Summon her?” I showed him my amused derision.
“Yes, or point me in her direction.”
I chuckled. “What will you do if I don’t summon her, or point you in her direction?”
He stood. “Never mind.” He looked around. “I”ll find her myself. I know the Coronado. My systems know it, too. I know the operating deck’s location. I’ll go find her, myself.”
“Very well. Go, go find her. Tell her hello from me, Juancho.” I laughed. “Tell her, I, Juancho, say hello.”
He was snubbing me, walking away like he was a king. I was furious. “Of course, it’ll be difficult to do,” I shouted. “Because she’s dead.”
That drew him up enough to slow his step and prompt him to turn back to me. “Commander Alves is dead?” He appeared shocked.
I gave him the best mocking smile that I could summon. “Didn’t your systems tell you that?”
He came back more slowly. “No. No, it didn’t tell me. She’s deceased? How did it happen? When?”
I stared at him. His response surprised me. I pinged Commander Alves for myself. “Commander Alves is not available,” my system said. “She is deceased.”
“Your system isn’t telling you that?” I asked him.
“No.” He looked genuinely disturbed. Either this was real, or he was an actor worthy of awards.
I pinged his system to confirm his name. It gave it to me. Then I asked my system, “What is his status?”
“Deceased,” my system responded.
Janfur and junfur (Catfinition): Refers to a cat’s seasonal coats. Originating in Australia, junfur refers to a cat’s thickest coat, grown to keep it warm in winter, and janfur is the coat’s lighter, summer coat. In regions north of the equator, the situation is reversed, and the janfur is grown in winter to keep the coat warm, while the junfur comes in during the summer month’s.
In Use: “Quinn’s thick, luxurious janfur, grown to cope with Oregon’s cold winters, had given way to a thinner, lighter, and shorter junfur. He appeared to lose ten pounds after his janfur was gone.”
For some reason, “Panama,” recorded by Van Halen in nineteen eighty-four, is streaming through my head today. This came out while I was on Okinawa; the next year, I was living in South Carolina, and the year after that, I was living in Germany. But the song is most associated with a friend who came along in nineteen ninety-one, when I was living in California. He was my age, and passed away a few years ago from cancer.
(And no, for those who are curious, Randy wasn’t Case A nor Case B from my other post. He’s just another person the big C victimized.)
For you, Randy. He enjoyed listening to Van Halen almost as much as he enjoyed rooting for the Atlanta Braves. In retrospect, he was a boy of summer.
Michael Seidel, writer 