Flooftibule (catfinition) – a cubby where cats like to sit to survey situations.
In use: “Samson settled on top of the fence corner as his flooftibule at the new house, making the space his own, as long as weather permitted.”
Our Twinkling Star
We’ve lost our twinkling star. It came (at last, we thought with some relief even as we mourned, because the last few years were so difficult for her and her family), but it came at last, a few weeks short of her hundred and first birthday.
We think and talk about the amazing person we knew, and all the things she did in the thirteen years that we’ve known her. She’d wanted to be a comedian when she was in her teens — that would have been around 1935 — and loved hamming it up for us, and we loved her for that humor.
She also loved ice cream, and family. If you wanted to fire up that twinkle in her eyes, just ask her if she’d like to have some ice cream.
She marched in parades for social justice and equality. She put her name on petitions for change. We thought about all the change and upheaval she saw in her hundred years, the wars that she witnessed, and the others that she lost through death, and wondered if upheaval isn’t our natural state.
She was such a cool, friendly, and happy person, but this is life. You meet people, and eventually one of you goes away, leaving the other to remember and wonder.
Tuesday’s Theme Music
This one came from a cat incident last night.
I’d settled in to read and watch television. I wanted to read, but I was tired, so I had the television on. The book, Lincoln in the Bardo, is an interesting and easy read.
Naturally two cats were staking me out, awaiting me to settle so they could leap up onto my lap and read with me. After they established territory and settled, one announced they were going to refund some cat food (and probably fur) with ominous upchucking sounds. Responding with swift panic, I shooed the little feline off my lap and sought something to put under him to catch his discharge. Once all the drama was over, I told him, “You almost dropped a bomb on me, buddy.”
That triggered memories of The Gap Band and their 1982 technofunk offering, “You Dropped A Bomb On Me”.
Catversation
Catversation (catfinition) – an informal conversation between a cat and one or more other cats, humans, birds, or other animals.
In use: “The feline struck up a catversation with the kittens on the screen, sniffing as he spoke, and looking behind the laptop to see if they were there.”
The Loops
The characters have become weary and cynical near the end of the Incomplete States series. I wonder how much they influence me and the converse. It’s an interesting loop on its own.
But of course I taste what they feel. It’s necessary. Regardless of my process, whether it’s all deeply in me and I’m mining the story, or it’s being fed to me or channeled through me from some other existence, as it sometimes feels (thanks to the power of focus and imagination), I taste the words, and they affect me.
Balancing the scales, writing and progress continues, and I’m enjoying it. It’s an empowering experience. (The end is nigh!) Thinking about it, it’s almost the opposite of the Doom Loop. It’s the Success Loop. (Weird that as long as I’ve heard of the Doom Loop, I’ve never thought about the Success Loop. I looked it up, confirming, yes, such a creature exists – of course.)
Like the Doom Loop, the Success Loop is a spiral. But where the Doom Loop takes you down (because you expect less, so you try less, etc.), the Success Loop lifts you up. You’re building on what you’ve achieved, adding success. As success is added, success is expected, so you work harder for that success. You learn to know and love the taste and feel of success, and the power and confidence that it generates.
The Success Loop is often a strong but fragile thing in a writer. Like a spider web, it has impressive strength for what it is, but like a web, it’s easily broken. If I’m an average writer and others are like me, we worry about not having enough talent, skill, luck, drive, energy, or time to be the writer that we think we can be, that we want to be. We’re always worried that we’ll fall short.
That’s not bad. Those worries anger and inflame me, often encouraging me, try harder, work harder, and do not give up.
The characters have become grittier as I come to the end. “I want to reach the end,” they tell themselves and one another. “This must be ended.” And they push, and push, thinking that they can succeed.
In this case, I know more than them. I know the ending. It’s been written. All of this action is the final bridge to what will be, what already is. What they do now will not affect their ending.
I think that with such confidence, knowing how I’m tricking myself. These are written words. They’re subject to change. Especially once editing and revising begins.
As a final loop, I wonder, has my ending been written? Is what I’m trying to write and achieve all for nothing because my destiny is established and sealed, and nothing will change it?
Maybe, but perhaps not. Perhaps there multiple loops.
Maybe I’ll leap onto one of those.
It’s been a good day of writing like crazy, once again. I’m hungry, the coffee is gone, and, man, my butt feels sore.
Time to go on to other things.
For now.
Something Else J.K. Said
A good sentiment for writers in America as we approach Independence Day. It’s like our Declaration of Independence.
An Inconclusive Dream
First, my sister-in-law was visiting my wife and me. She was upset and came to talk to us.
I can’t describe where we were at. My observations were limited to a very close personal point-of-view. There seemed to be a place in black and white, and seemed like it was night, but we were inside, so I’m not certain of much beyond those basics.
I don’t know what upset my sister-in-law, either, nor why she came to us. All of that is hazy. My wife and I were tired and got into bed to go to sleep, and my sister-in-law got into bed, too.
None of us could sleep. First, one of my cats (the ginger fellow) came in, walked up to my head and looked at my face. I tried pulling my covers over my head so that I could sleep.
Then, I heard voices. After listening and failing to identify who it was or where they originated, I got up and started talking about them. My wife said that she heard them, too. I went to find the source and discovered my nephew. He’s my wife’s other sister’s son. Sitting cross-legged on a bed, he was engaged in a noisy phone conversation on speaker.
I went back and reported that and then left for downstairs. Downstairs was daylight. Part of it was a gas station, but there was also a junk yard, and other things that I couldn’t make out. The gas station owner turned out to be my lawyer. I was being tried for something. I don’t know the charges. He and I walked around, supposedly to talk about the case, but neither of us were interested in it. He thought I was going to be convicted, and I unconcerned. Strolling around, we were under lights, but outside, but remained daylight. Others were there. They distracted the gas station owner/lawyer, a big old white male with short brown hair dressed in blue overalls. He drifted off to talk to them.
Sitting down, I gazed around the pile of junk. It was mostly old cars, tires, pieces of fencing, and a few appliances. Across the way, I saw a Studebaker Hawk. Rusted and faded, it had lost its side windows and wheels, but was otherwise intact. When the lawyer/GSO returned, I pointed it out for confirmation that’s what I was seeing. Yes, he answered, and then launched into a meandering story about how it came there that I couldn’t hear or understand.
He went away ago. Turning, I discovered a red Ferrari Testarossa Spyder go-cart. I wanted to know if it ran, and what it used for an engine, whether it was electric or gas-powered. I put these questions to the lawyer/GSO when he came back.
“Sure,” he said, with a good ol’ boy laugh while scratching himself. “It runs.”
“Can we start it?” I asked.
The laywer/GSO looked around and said (I think), “Let me see if I can find him.”
My wife came down. I told her about the Studebaker and the Ferrari, showing her the latter, telling her that I was waiting to see if it can be started.
The dream ended on that note.
Floofematics
Floofematics (catfinition) – the abstract science of trying to balance what you do for your cat(s) and what they do for you.
In use: “Tired of cleaning up hairballs, answering summons to give them treats and catnip, and cleaning potatoes out of the litter box, he sat down with a glass of wine to review the floofematics of the arrangement.”
Michael Seidel, writer 