Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Someone asks for the time. You look at a timepiece. It’s 10:28. Do you say, “It’s almost ten thirty,” “It’s ten twenty-eight,” “It’s about half-past ten,” or “It’s about ten thirty?”
Or do you say, “Zulu or local?”
Today’s theme owes its presence in my stream to Burt Bacharach, Hal David, Dionne Warwick, and Helix.
It stayed in my stream because it had a presence in my life. “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” was a hit for that impressive singer/songwriter trio way back when I was twelve years old, so I grew up with it. Living on the Peninsula in Mountain View and Sunnyvale between San Francisco and San Jose, we naturally joked about the way to San Jose. Then, watching Helix on Netflix the other night, the song was used to help create the pilot’s surreal opening scenes.
Here we go, then. It’s a mellow, jaunty vehicle for singing along, so feel free to indulge yourself.
“Mew,” he said in his soft, sweet, voice. “Mew.” He rubbed his furry body against my calf and looked up with dark, imploring eyes. “Mew.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll open another can for you. Please eat it this time.”
I opened the can and spooned contents into a bowl. As I did, the cat celebrated with low purring and sharper, louder mews. I put the bowl down on the floor. “Here you go,” I said.
The cat stepped up to the bowl, but stopped several inches short of it. Leaning forward, he sniffed, and then he looked up at me with hurt sadness.
Turning away from me and the bowl of food, he made three strokes with one front paw, miming covering the food like he was burying his scat. As he did, he gave me a side-glance that whispered, “You are so disappointing.”
Then, bushy tail high and waving like a flag in a light breeze, he trotted away.
I sat down to write and poured out a paragraph.
Then I stopped to regard what I wrote.
Yech, I said. It was as appealing as a dirty cat litter box.
I don’t wanna write, I whispered in my inner vault, aware of the blasphemy that I was uttering.
Nor did I want to walk. I’d completed two and a half miles. The thought of another step depressed me.
I wanted to be on the beach, basking in sunshine as I listened to the waves and watched them crash on the shore.
I wanted to be reading a book, sitting at a restaurant, enjoying food that I don’t allow myself to eat because it’s not healthy. I wanted to be listening to music and laughing with friends. I wanted to be flying away, driving away, buzzing away.
I didn’t want to be writing, walking, doing yardwork, cleaning the house, or eating healthy.
Just like that, I knew I was into one of my dark moods. It was overtaking me like a terrifying storm.
Nuts, I said. Nuts.
I returned to writing. Every word felt like a struggle. I kept pushing, looking for a carrot to use, urging myself, just finish this paragraph, and then doing it again. I really needed a club. It’s a day like this when I could use a personal training urging me to push myself. Without one, I had to do it alone.
It was a gritty session. I actually counted the words. When it was nine hundred fifty, I said, good enough, and shut down. Then I grit my teeth and braced myself to walk. I wanted at least two more miles before going home.
I know the words that I wrote today will not seem any different from my usual output. It’s just the mood that’s affecting me. Sometimes I don’t need a carrot or a club. I just sit down and write. And then there are days like today, when neither a carrot nor a club seem like enough.
It was a terrible day of struggling to write like crazy, but tomorrow is another day.
Floofstorm (catfinition) – a violent disturbance caused by cats, usually with yowling, growling, hissing, and running.
In use: “A floofstorm disturbed the warm, quiet night. Leaping up to find the search, the couple found their little black cat, Crystal, stalking a large tom by the garage. Yowling, growling, and spitting, he was searching for a way out, but the silent little queen refused to let him get away.”
I’d planned a two-mile walk yesterday evening. Starting I’d end up at the pizza place where my friends and I meet for beers and conversation once a week. Then I’d walk home, giving me a nice, round three-mile walk, a pleasant cap to the day.
A brief thunderstorm had passed through right before I started out. The temperature remained about eighty-five, but thunderstorms still haunted the mountains around our valley, and the humidity had climbed. I heard thunder as I went up the hills, planning to climb high and then descend. As I walked, the temperature dropped about twelve degrees. Rain ratcheted down on me and then stopped. Thunder boomed. Calling an audible, I descended and set on a path to meet with my friends.
Somewhere in all of this, I’d been thinking about plans and priorities. From that, I started streaming Metallica, “Nothing Else Matters”. Now it’s stuck on a loop so I’m putting it out there to release myself.
Enjoy.
Michael Seidel, writer 