Floofpyracy (catfinition) – an act of criminal mischief or robbery by one cat perpetrated upon another.
Herding Cats
You ever have a morning where it feels like you’ve been herding cats, and the cats just don’t want to be herded?
Yeah. More coffee, please.
Friday’s Theme Music
George Benson had taken us with earlier albums and hits, but his take of “On Broadway” always enlivened the scene when it played. Released in nineteen seventy-eight, when it came on, everyone jumped up, dancing and singing along with it, and trying to scat with Benson.
Good song for a chilly Friday.
Pole Position
It’s like pole day at Indy out there.
Drivers are trying to cut corners to shave milliseconds off their errands, their mind on their lists as they try to save time while doing the things needed for them to enjoy the holidays.
Thursday’s Theme Music
Today’s theme music is a courtesy of Don Henley and Mike Campbell. The song is, “The Boys of Summer.”
This song, with lyrics like, “I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac,” about looking back and change, and coping with it. I’m a person that looks back a great deal. I’m not obsessed with it, but looking back helps me re-imagine where I’m going. It’s one of those arrows of time. Looking back helps me keep straight.
A little voice inside my head said, “Don’t look back. You can never look back.”
I thought I knew what love was,
What did I know?
Those days are gone forever,
I should just let them go, but-
Today’s technology encourages looking back. I can watch movies that star actors that died, leading me to wonder, are they still alive? I can check a friend’s post, even though he died a few years ago, and replay movies, television shows, and interviews from the past, and pretend that past is today, or yesterday, although it was created decades ago.
It’s nostalgia, isn’t it? It is for me. Television, pop and rock music, and movies were part of my scenes as I grew up. Songs come on and take me back to a happier moment, as do smells, and touches. I like going back there; I like feeling happy.
There are fewer happier moments today. Experiences temper my expectations, and I’ve become jaded. It could be from looking back, or simply being cursed with too much ability to recall times and events. It’s part of who I am, so I don’t decry it.
Well, maybe I decry it a little, because that’s who I am, as well.
Skipped
Has your mind ever skipped a day, so that you think it’s the next day, and you’re trying to do your activities based on the wrong day?
Yeah, that blows, doesn’t it? I never feel properly synchronized when that happens.
Flooflified
Flooflified (catfinition) – to modify or change the form or qualities of something so that it suits a cat; changes a cat makes to make itself more comfortable and contented.
Misread
Don’t you hate it when you misread something? I misread a blurb tonight as, “Plant emails isotope.” Really baffled. Was it Robert Plant? Why was Plant emailing an isotope? Hell, how would someone email an isotope? Totally baffling until my mind made the correction: “Plant emits isotope.”
Makes more sense, but it’s a bit more worrisome, unless Plant was emailing the isotope to me. That’d be an interesting conversation. “Got an email from Robert Plant.” “The guy from Led Zeppelin?” “I guess. He sent me an isotope.” “Wait, what?”
Boxes
Empty wine boxes littered the floor. It was a sign of the times.
It dismayed him. Where were the boxes of beer and boxes of coffee drinks?
Inspiration seized them. He would create them. And he’d sell them in his own establishment. He’d call it Boxes. It would look like a boxcar on the outside. The chairs and tables would resemble boxes.
People would come in and order boxes of food and drink. He imagined the orders. “Give me a box of onion rings, with a box of soda pop.” His burgers would be square, so they’d look like boxes, and be named for boxes. “Give me a Boxtop with a box of IPA.” His place would be decorated with takes on boxes – like a pair of sixes on dice. “Boxcars!” Boxing Day would be celebrated with big discounts.
Excitement growing, he turned to rush out. His feet tangled with several empty wine boxes. Tripping, he slammed his head into the door frame. Passed out, he bled out on the cold floor before anyone found him.
The young paramedic who responded to the call said, “He’s done. Let’s box him.”
It was crude, but he would have approved.
Arrows & Cut-ups
After writing and editing yesterday, I came across an article about the book, “The Naked Lunch”. It’d been decades since I read it, so I researched it to refresh my recollections. And I was curious about how the Beat Generation came to have that name, so I looked it up.
Before that, I’d been thinking about how my “Incomplete States” trilogy reminds me of “The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant,” mostly on a reflection of the complexity and patience required to read through and develop the plot. Then, reading about Burroughs, I found descriptions of the “cut-up technique,” and that struck home with my trilogy’s structure. I don’t use a full cut-up technique of slicing two separate pages and combining them down the middle, but the vignettes – “routines,” as Burroughs called them when discussing “The Naked Lunch” – works as a beginning to explain my trilogy’s structure. My trilogy is a cut-up of lives and routines.
And of course, there’s a little bit of “The Chronicles of Amber” in here, too, and some “Foundation.”
After that thinking, as I wound down for the day, I played with my arrows of time again, creating and labeling new diagrams based on the original diagrams. That was a reassuring exercise, reminding me about time’s fluid nature, and the basic assumptions I used as the trilogy’s concept. The reassurance was needed because I’d veered toward panic about some decisions made when finishing the first novel. I want to be true to my vision, and not mislead readers, and I was afraid that I’d gone astray.
In the end, I felt satisfied that I hadn’t. Maybe I was just rationalizing that to myself. More likely, the stab of anxiety is a natural reflection of the challenge of coping with the trilogy’s complexity.
Onward. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.