I saw this at a glance while walking. I’m not certain I correctly re-created it. The car was going by, and I was dodging things. But I saw it, and laughed.
Tuesday’s Bumper Sticker
Tuesday’s Theme Music
It feels like an eighties kind of day. I should clarify that it feels like a day from the nineteen eighties, vice another eighties, like twenty-one eighties, or seventeen eighties. The clarification is needed to reduce confusion that older people or time-travelers might have.
If you didn’t live in the nineteen eighties, you probably don’t know what I mean. Having lived in that period, I’m not certain what I mean. I’m assuming that I lived during the nineteen eighties. I have memories of the period and events. But, for all I know, I could be an unknowing time-traveler. I also could be suffering from a disease whereas I think I’m someone who lived in the nineteen eighties, or a robot, or alien, unaware that I’m a robot or alien. I could be a fiction character, writing about that time to make a point to others, or entertain them. Or, I could be living in a virtual reality where the matters of nineteen eighty that I remember are all fake, to make me think that I’m alive. Who knows, right? We assume we do, and cling to that, because it’s safer and more comfortable than alternatives, and as far as we know, it’s true.
So, here’s “It’s Like That,” by Run-D.M.C. It’s a song that I think I heard when I thought I was living in the nineteen eighties.
On Earth, BTW. Just to clarify.
Weaving the Novel
I compared writing my novel to weaving a tapestry today. I was talking to myself as I walked and thought about the writing day ahead.
Then I laughed at myself.
Weaving as a way to describe novel writing can be apt, but it’s very limited. I don’t weave, so I’m not certain of its process. I always refer back to a meager elementary school introduction. Watching a weaving demonstration somewhere during a field trip, I recall shedding, picking, and battening, and the loom and the shuttle. I also remember being told about the warp and the weft.
(The Loom and the Shuttle could be a good pub name. I can imagine myself saying, “I’m going down to The Loom and the Shuttle for a pint. See you later.”)
(That also gives rise to the notion of drunken weaving.)
My vague youthful memories are not enough to go on. Thinking about weaving, I imagine the fates doing some spinning to create our existence and fates. I don’t know much about them, either. I’m seriously short of knowledge for this post.
Which is really the point. I claim, I’m weaving the tale because I go back and forth across the novel, adding, changing and deleting events, characters, and explanation. That’s what draws me to this comparison. Starting with small threads, I’m combining them into the fabric of a story.
These current chapters embrace that impression. “Bells,” “Destruction,” “Aftermath,” and “Change” are the chapters’ working titles. They might be the final titles. When I’m weaving new parts in the latest chapter, “Change,” I often go back to the three previous chapters and address details to maintain congruency. Although enjoyable, because it is fiction, which is terrific fun, it’s not my normal methodology. Normally, I pour some coffee into my mouth, address the keyboard, and start typing. I call this splash writing. It’s my favorite motif. I type like mad for a while, spinning out paragraph, scenes, dialogue, and chapters. Stopping, I go back and edit, refine, and polish the stuff.
BTW, when I address the keyboard, I’m like a rock star on a stage in an arena. “Are you ready to rock and write?” I shout at my keyboard. I do this in my head. I may be wrong, but I think that shouting that in the coffee shop may cause some untoward reactions. It’s a quiet place, the sort of silence you don’t want to interrupt with a fart, leave off a shout.
Having written all these words about weaving these chapters, I feel my inner earth trembling. A splash scene is building within. It’s ready to explode onto the pages. (This, unfortunately, reminds me of a tale my wife related to me about a juvenile male whale masturbating against the aquarium glass while elementary school children watched. I haven’t vetted the story, but that doesn’t stop it from being memorable.)
Okay, time to weave like crazy, write like made, splash on the page. Whatever.
Time to write.
Pawtente
Pawtente (catfinition) (Origins: French felines) The easing or relaxing of tensions by negotiation and agreements between animals, especially between cats, or cats and dogs.
The Email
Did you ever get an email from your U.S. Representative and ask yourself, “Who wrote this?” because the writing is horrid?
Yeah, me, neither.
Leaves
Have you ever been walking on an autumn day, and encountered drifts of dry, fallen leaves, and start kicking them them like you’re a little kid?
Yeah, me, neither.
The Note
A timid knock interrupted our early Sunday afternoon, a noise so soft, I was confused about its source and intentions.
“Is that you making that noise?” I called out from the office.
“Someone is knocking on the front door,” my wife called back from the living room.
The front door is between the rooms. I went to see what was going on. I expected to find a child.
It was a woman. “My cat got out,” she said. She then explained where she lived, and how her cat, Bear, got out. “He’s all black. I was walking along the fence, peeking between the slats, on your backyard.” She seemed embarrassed. “I saw a black cat, along with an orange cat in your backyard. I thought it might be him.”
“I have a black cat,” I said. “So it’s probably him. I’ll check.” Yes, my black cat and my orange cat were in the backyard. I told her. “Sorry.”
She answered with comments about worry. “He means everything to me.” It’d been an hour. Bear never went out. I completely understood. Once one of our cats went missing for four days. I walked around by the hour, calling her. Strangers later would ask me if she returned, because they saw and heard me hunting for her. (She returned one night, in fine shape. We never knew what had happened.)
I got her details and Bear’s description, and told her I would watch out for Bear, and wished her luck.
After she left, I related the story to my wife.
“She should put her cat’s litter box out,” she said. My wife is a smart person. She reminded me of a story we’d read about that. Cats can smell their own litter box from over a mile away. Putting it outside the front door gives them help finding their way home.
I trotted out after the woman. Finding her up the street, I told her about the litter box trick.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll try it.” She continued up the street calling her cat.
The days and nights passed with cold rain and tepid sunshine. I wondered about Bear. I worried about Bear. It might not show on my blog posts, but I like animals, and cats and I share a special affinity. I thought about walking to her apartment to ask, but, while cats and I get along great, I’m not a people person.
Going out to feed the neighbor’s cat on our front porch this morning (we don’t know what’s going on with Pepper, but she practically lives on our front porch, and begs us to be fed), I found a note. It was written in purple ink.
The note said,
Hi –
Thanks for your helpful tip.
Put litter box out.
Bear arrive home minutes later.
Ruby
I appreciate the note.
Michael Seidel, writer 